I phone you back because we’re never done, especially when we say we are, which is why every goodbye’s thirty minutes long; it’s impossible to package us neatly up, like a suctioned haggis, metal ties on the end to keep fresh.
I can’t compile us like an essay collection or tea set for the charity. As a Collected Works we’d maybe make sense, and we’re not nonsensical now, only, there’s always more, especially when we out loud state there won’t be.
We plan Thanksgiving in September, though you hate celebration as much as existentialism, which you hardly hate at all, just you’re not a fan of the quivering limbo it tram seat sits you in, and you can’t get off between stops. Uncertainty’s the kicker.
You text me back when the call’s missed and the call ends more than once, and four hours feels like six minutes, and I know it’s never over: I know it never is.
She asks would I want to know? I was pre-disposed, would end up with an auto-immune inevitably, a blunt knife best at scraping the cheese slice off its plastic wrapper when it’s stuck, but never getting all.
She says, “Shouldn’t you, like, for your kids’ sake, the ones you don’t have or you do?” I tell her no but it’s not enough, like a one size fits 50 Bible verse supposed to quash doubts about all the stuff that seems alright but every voice in church says WRONG.
I explain that life’s lucky dip-ness is the only thing going for it, that without a Poundland surprise, someone buying drinks you didn’t ask for, a person changing everything, inexplicably, sort of mind-blowingly at a worst time possible, days would outright suck.
But her, she wants to know, wants the test, result, an indication upfront of what she’ll be at 40. But I’ve lived limbo. I barely loved a second. But I don’t need to know I’ll get a detrimental brain disease anymore than whether I’ll know you next week or in August. The things I picked out for your birthday? You can have them. I’ve got what I’ve got forever. And you’re an appendix.