I am in the studio; my Ipod has long since silenced its limited play list. Sanding a most difficult hard wood table to be refinished my thoughts begin to wander away from the mundane task at hand, and the confusing emotions of the past few days. The table belongs to my mother. From that single thought bud bloomed time, the non-linear memories take over with the dull scratch of the sandpaper a fertilizer to my mind wandering. I remember my grandmother and think of how I never let myself grieve, unless this is what grief is. I’m not sure I will ever know. I tried to understand grief just then within my rhythmic motion. What is grief, what is grief? All I can feel is stress building and climbing. My dust mask is not doing its job, and the particles itch my nose, just as if the stimulation of the irritating particles settled on certain neural pathways a blinding emotional pain swept over me. I do not understand grief- that is irrelevant- no human ever really does. I am, however, stunned by the concept of family. I have no recollection of any family member helping me through a hard time. I Wrack my brain as if it will spontaneously come up with even the smallest moment where I can feel comforted by family- by their warmth. Passed hamsters, friends, family, jobs, time, and places. I see no emotional support system in my past and suddenly the repetition of my arm removing layers of time from this table is more than I can bear. Winter cold is definite, still, and quiet. I feel no hurt, something like sorrow and loneliness perches on the peripheries of my dust-covered body. Somewhere in this I understand my terror of the future and my insecurity in the present.
