Dim sun-checkered path through the forest, the perishing limbs loose
their leaves; were they mine I would gladly let go all my gold leaves to
carpet the ground her feet walk on, though she merely frown, forget I
lived, and hurry on, for she must not be late; for reasons not at present
time if ever known she can’t be late. She hurries on. She only knows
that they are waiting. They are waiting. They are longing for her at this
very moment. All year long they have been pining for her, waiting and
listening, listening through sleep for the steps they know, the little
knock, the child she was they most intently listen for and wait. The child
she never was but will be now, if somewhat tall, the instant the front
door starts opening as though by itself and the option to enter is offered,
apparently. They rejoice, at mere sound of her steps were already
rejoicing, though no one will say so; no one knows how that is done,
how to make the appropriate face even. They wish in their way to delight
at the sight of her, even if it is all they can do to grunt something in
greeting, so great is their happiness that she has come, is standing there
in person. But for her they have little to live for. It’s dying they live for
in fact, and tv. Somebody hands the remote to her, this honor is done
her, and gestures sit down. Want a coke, want a cookie, they mutter, it
sounds like that, eyes still intent on the set with the sound off, familiar
room otherwise dark, curtains drawn. There in its light they all sit:
Father Blind, Mother Monster, now her, the faculty of speech regressed
already to that of a nine-year-old irreparably shy with terror, sick with
hope. She can’t say she is comfortable yet with being seated in this vast
armchair, her feet barely touching the floor; or with the prospect of
having to sleep in a bed half her length, in her old room, or with lying
there in utter darkness frozen, unable to move when they enter, tongue
drawn back into her throat. But then she will be dreaming won’t she?
The visit itself may be some kind of dream, that is still vaguely possible, a
hope entertained, resorted to when necessary, when painful and
unheard-of things were occurring to her body, for example, no cessation
of them yet in sight, in previous years, those unending years of actually
living there, possessing in fact no memory whatsoever of ever having
woken up anywhere else. For the time being though she is still
sitting here, right next to Mother the fixed smiling glare and her husband
the mumbled joke nobody gets, they appear to be sleeping, reclined in
their chairs, all year long they’ve been sleeping, sleeping as snow fell,
blowing all around the house, spring branches tapping at windows, each
alone in their rooms, summer fields white for harvest, then leaves, golden
leaves falling, leaves of my dying, dying to see his eyes, hear his voice
saying my name, once again he has come here to save me, to buy me
things, teach me how monsters have monsters, that’s right, the
tormented torment, the abandoned abandon, charismatically numb,
cold, surviving, the last ones left standing, and how shall they warm
someone else so very much themselves in need of one to come and save
them from that arctic horror they have been crossing on foot all their
lives, the last companion eaten, the graves of my footprints erased long
ago, dying of loneliness there in my cubicle, waiting for someone to
resuce me, someone to rescue, it comes to the same thing. Save me . . . I
miss you . . . All the while they were sleeping, they slept as the seasons
were changing around them, waiting for this day, Mother Beat You
Daily Into Speechless Deafness, Father Blind To It All, I’m sorry dear
we just don’t have the money for a hearing aid right now, blue soundless
tv, and look: there’s Brother Rapist, unnoted, unmentioned, the
originless weeping ignored, ignored knock at the back door, the knocking
that goes on and on, forwarding address unknown; and Sister Silent is
sitting here too in the bad light, the perpetually downcast gaze, the
amputated tongue, forever nodding yes yes yes as she’s mouthing the
words of the miniature Bible she carries at all times, never getting
beyond the first page, from under her pillow it slowly recites itself, such a
kind voice saying everything’s fine, everything is going to be all right
abruptly followed by a stream of loudly whispered accusations, each one
true! But he didn’t really mean it, my peace, my beloved, while we’re
waiting for her to turn up, it seems like all we ever do, poor little
elder sister still so far and maybe lost awhile but on the straight road
once again, surely, and she shall wear gold, golden leaves to adorn her, to
guide her here, nodding, now and then slapping herself in the face, hard,
trying to shake off the dream she keeps falling into, earth opening under
her, the dream of walking someplace else, anywhere, I must wake up
now she’s saying, yes, she is so close, I can already hear her, but here in
Kindertotenwald the way is long, the roads unnamed, etiquette strange,
changing from day to day, minute to minute, for example: is it correct to
comment admiringly on a family friend’s shiny new fang dentures?
There I can’t help you. The house must be close by now. So what does
one say this time, what does one do, when the sardonic greetings cease?
You’re asking me? Cringing hugs, possibly. Shake a chill and weightless
hand. Kiss a cheek smelling faintly of stale lilac and rotting meat. Take
an axe to them all, shrieking, exalted, hunting them from room to room,
screaming the scream that will never be over? Beats me. And how did
they manage it do you imagine all those years keeping their true lives
concealed from the neighbors and look at them now in their ultimate
cunning somehow they have totally changed their appearance I mean
past recognition you feel who are these shrunken frail elderly people
who’ve taken the place of our parents and where did they bury them old
people no one would ever suspect victims now think of that and
abandoned nobody to care for them here in their long dusty nap with the
grass growing up to the windows the household falling down around
them all on account of this one thankless child Miss big city fake blonde
and self-centered daughter. Who cannot be bothered. Yet here she is
again. And why? Why? Why do we still go on phoning them visiting
feted and fed by our torturerers why did we not at eighteen leave and
never look back and completely forget them, I know, the need from time
to time the need to prove they’re really there you can see them have
proof that they actually lived are even living still at a listed address and
not just in your head and besides. Where else did you ever fit in, tell the
truth, and where else is a monster to turn, so close now, what else can
you do turn around and go home, and what home would that be? Turn
around and go back to that arduously perfected impersonation of one of
the normal, fuck the normal, where were they when we needed them,
and how could they know, how comprehend this poor sorrow, the guilt,
the humiliating and undisobeyable hunger to somewhere belong, just to
rest for a day, and be for once this crippled child and how much she has
loved.