As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from the poem “The panther”
Translation by Stephen Mitchell
Eyes open and I see her.
A cloudy haze drifts through the room, painting it anew each time her hair falls like a curtain and conquers my field of view. Then her scent fades, and everything turns gray. A wall must be facing me—what else could it be? Not that I care, but I’d bet it’s a wall. Now, who would wager with a flesh-made scarecrow… that’s another story.
Her shadow is tall. She bends over me with such care, as if one abrupt move might kill me. I like that she thinks so. She doesn’t know I can hear her. With others she speaks loudly, always commanding—like a wild summer—about pills, oxygen masks, food, and my decay. But on the phone, her voice softens like a silken thread dancing in the air. Sometimes she closes the door, sits in the opposite and cries—and I, who never once cried in my life, beg God to let me keep her company.
Those are the moments I try my hardest, mustering all I have, pleading with my nerves to call a truce with my muscles. I constantly pray they’ll grant me the favor of a single outburst, a twitch, a hint that I share her pain, that I still do something—anything.
In vain.
If only I could speak to her.
She speaks to me. Sometimes she reads novels or poetry, but I’ve never liked them. I crave newspapers—if only I could show her. I want to know what’s happening out there. She puts on her glasses and crosses her legs. She doesn’t do it out of duty—I can tell, because her voice takes on color whenever faces rise out of the text. She doesn’t always succeed, but I don’t care.
I see her little, feel her much—the warmth she leaves on my eyelids when she touches me. If only she knew.
Eyes closed, and strange shapes take the stage. Old people with old objects, in old landscapes, dance awkwardly for a moment, then die—one by one, in order—so the next can come. Consciousness and dream wrestle to steal some glory from reason—from the smug reality that mocks my irreversible dystrophy. Then she comes—but I can’t tell if my eyes are open or shut. She’s something else entirely. I don’t care what. As long as she comes.
