letter to you

 
PhotoCred: D. Menosky, "Sorrow"


Dorothy, a cloud is passing over the sun so I can look right at it right now. It's probably not a very good idea, but it's doable. We are so Midwestern; we don't expect this kind of mercy from September. Maybe you did at some point in your life. None of us can guess what you've been expecting.

I am remembering a blogged exchange with you about Celan, who was the subject of a seminar I eventually dropped. Nowadays, you said, you were more interested in lighter poetry. I also remember a letter you wrote me in Minneapolis, folded into a new young adult novel set in Detroit. A tweet decrying the blasphemy of "Waiting for Superman."

 Also, a few years ago, there was a surprise birthday party for you and you cried when your brother came out from hiding. I wasn't there but when my mom told me I thought, there's somebody who understands brothers.

It's killing me how comfortable I am right now, on the roof in Northern California, looking past tomatoes and cacti at the white bay. The end was not comfortable for you. I try to tell everyone about your 83 years of hella vitality and everyone tells me to remember them first but I'm not going to forget this summer, which sounded pretty fucking ghastly and scary and confusing. It was brave to not try chemo. I guess. You don't need me to tell you you're brave.

Let it not be said that you aged gracefully. You had better things to think about than grace. When I am caught up in the frantic vanity of 21, I try to think about you and my mom and an oxygen tank, an afternoon perfectly amusing. brilliant and hilarious women who know how to have fun and would rather be friends than babies.

You tore it the fuck up, Dorothy. I'll never love anyone more. Thinking on you, Super Woman.