It's like glass tonight. A dark mirror. Standing looking at the reflection. Looking at my reflection. Reflecting.
Reflecting on the word "metastasized."
Fuck you cancer.
How long then?
Six months. A year. Two years, mebbe if things go well.
I could come there.
No you cyant. Ya stay weh ya are, Mister Biggs. Do dat ting ya do. Work. Write. Tell ya story, Bigga. I'll read dem and it mek me feel good. But ya cyant come here! Seen?
I could feel that thing happening. I could feel everything shutting down. I could feel the drift to that place, off to the side of where feelings happen and words don't happen. She reached in with her words and pulled me back.
How ya woman, den? How da pickney?
And it felt wonderful for a moment to say that and even remembering who I was talking to and the circumstances and what she had just told me, it felt okay to say the word wonderful and feel it. Always honesty with Natalie. Always, because it is how it has always been. It's what we do and it's what we always did when we weren't doing that other thing, and then I thought about how few people there are that I've ever shared that kind of intimacy with.
Honesty = Intimacy.
Den ya cyan stay right dere, Bigga and do what you do best. Use dem words and tell ya story.
And I must've gone silent again. I must've drifted off because before I knew it she was dragging me back.
What ya thinkin' den?
I'm thinking about feelings.
Ah, Mister Biggs, I know all 'bout ya great big feelins.
And you know this how, Miss Natalie?
Cuz I read what ya write down an' I know anyway. Always I know. An' besides, I'm the only one ya write 'bout den, aren't I?
Ha! Yah, sort of...
Den go an' tell ya story, Mister Biggs. Don't worry tellin' mine. Ya got ya own.
And she's absolutely right. We all have our own stories. We tell the parts we can, and then the story tells itself and somewhere between it plays out.