Dander of the Elderly and Other Whinings

Yesterday, someone was speaking to me, shook my hand and smelled sour—old, like Listerine and preparation H, and I smelled my hand and the smell transferred and it's the same smell that was on a pillow sham when I stayed at my in-laws house. I imagine breathing in the dead skin cells of old relatives, having the dander of the elderly wedge in the crevices of my throat and make me cough and wheeze and gulp water for life. I fashion these cells growing when nourished to look like tiny naked wrinkled men filling my esophagus, holding on, but occasionally falling into my lungs where I can't cough them up, but they strain me by trying to escape. Eventually they curl up and die to be thwarted out as saliva or stream as phlegm.

Today, I had someone turn away from me and hold her hand up and sigh. The feeling was not of one person being unhappy at one piece of communication, but the wave that washed over me was being walked out on, having frustrated someone. It felt like every time my mother has ever told me that I'd disappointed her. And it was just a split second, one turn, one breath, one moment, two tears. So I think I'm really raw right now because I'm taking in sights and sounds and gestures and they seem bigger. And when I try to breath deeply, it's like someone's got a hand on my chest, pushing it down and I'm not sure if I'm being smothered or resuscitated.

Soon it will be Thanksgiving. As a child it meant traditional dinner, as a teen it meant my parents going to the beach with friends, in my college years it meant my parents traveling for the traditional dinner with my sister's family. For at least 15 years now, it has been a holiday without family for me. Always someone else's family sending over a plate. Early on, it was me drinking at my parents' house, waiting for friends to finish dinners with their relatives. Jenny would come to the door with a boy and some turkey. Then slowly, people filtered in, and Thanksgiving weekend was a haze. In college, it was Michael's mom---always sending several plates. Michael was high by the time he came over—so he would eat again with me. And now, there are invites from friends---sincere and appreciated, but it's sitting down with someone else's family. Seeing the shadows of what I don't have, the closeness I can't remember, and what I may never be capable of creating for myself.

So maybe that's some of it, the weather, the season, the holiday—but I'm in a quiet confined space and lights are brighter, noises louder and actions echo. I think I'm ready for a nap.