He took her back the day after she tried to kill him.
Actually, the doctors wrote “attempted suicide” on that line in his chart, but as I get older, I realize that doctors are wrong a lot.

“Why would you attempt such a thing?” I asked. Harm himself over this outside influence that has shown to be so horrid?

He said it was dedication. Dedication to what, was the real issue. Love? How stupid he could be? How much of her torture he could withstand? But he responded to my query without hearing the follow up questions.

“Her,” he replied.

“The pills tasted worse coming up”, he said. And he never knew a hot sausage sandwich could emit shades of charred animal flesh and emerald so brilliantly; speckled and spotted with slivers of green peppers grasping the fibers of the shag carpet that his mother left behind after the cancer ate her. The acidic taste of spicy, pureed tomatoes filled his mouth briefly, he said, before their sustenance splattered upon his life. But his nearly-eternal gesture was not for the mother—no, not at least this time. No, it was another her. And in fact all of this was not done for her, but apparently for the lack of.

But he took her back when asked to. And he said that their issues were left far behind. I’ve always hated that word “issues”. I visualize glossy, over-commercialized periodicals. But once they are in print, how does one whiteout those heavy black letters from that shiny paper?

The recovering addict sniffing around his backyard didn’t affect him, ahem…them, any longer, he said. Obviously. Since all drug addicts recover quickly. The narc position she obligingly held with the local police department, had now ceased. How afraid he’d been for her safety when she aided in a drug bust, pretending to be a buyer. Or a seller. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t? A stretch for her dissimilar to that of a heroin addict’s rubbery tourniquet.

How did one garner such a position? I speculated. Not understanding the addict’s world, although it was her personal Earth. Although he insisted it was a past that they both wished to forget. Her ever-increasing rap sheet showing otherwise.

And then there was the stray that finally went away, who according to him was a source of their discontent; a disruption to their home life. His use of words amused me—home life. Two words that have no place in this story. Anyway, he used the word stray—a sad word to use for a displaced teenager who had nowhere else to live but with her and her untamed daughter—but a name he casually gave to him. After all, the stray had resided with her when she hadn’t wanted him.

So, “that was a good thing,” he said of the stray’s leaving. The stray’s parents lassoed their unwanted foal, attempting a little dedication themselves. He was glad for that. Proud of her, that she got rid of the stray. But another stray took the place. A stray he continued for which to pay. A stray born from the untamed one—one of her strays to yet another. This one entered the world wrapped in pink cotton and cooed phrases gushing with pure capital. But the shriek of overpowering dedication howled, causing rational reflection to be muffled beneath the wail. He was never a stray. The world should be neutered.

Off and on—he and this object of his dedication were—like the malignancy that had cultivated and recoiled under his dead mother’s skin when she was alive and ignoring him. When it was convenient, the object of his dedication clung white-knuckled. Like the time when she was in prison. One kid on the outside hungry. She, hangin’ with her gurls on the inside. But he was not one to join her. Of course he was not. But he waited. Took care of things. Dedication.

But then she came back. Being comfortable in the low end of her bipolar state. She, a survivor and a good one at that. He, an enabler, made all good and well. And she reminded him of the mother. And he was there for the mother as well; she who never revealed her dedication to him until just before the sheet dragged loosely over her face, snuffing out the rotten smell that reeked from below.

But one learns.

Shouldn’t they? Will they?

And prison comes at a price. For those on the outside, the lottery is needed to fork the bill.

But commitment is admirable.

“Until the day I die.” He spoke the convincing words with such assurance about his worship for the she-vessel that had psychologically clutched the capsules that nearly allowed him to find out if his Atheistic nature was correct. Such strength.

Learn, I say.

But I’ve never been to prison. And I think I live on another planet.

#

“Who’s my daddy?” he asked. Flashback to 1975. Then old enough to notice the man whose head lying next to his mom’s kept changing.

“Don’t worry about it,” commented the pre-cancerous mother, applying her pre-work make-up. A veil of concealer beneath her eyes to mask the sly shadows.

And so the questions began. Began and continued, and were never answered. And so his dedication began. Began and ended and continued. A cycle, like tires that cannot be popped. He learned. Dedication can take time. But one can learn different things.

Maybe unlearning is required.

#

“Who’s my daddy?” he asks. Flash forward. Year 2005. Tapping away devotedly at the computer keyboard on his quest for the one whose head never rested next to the mother’s.

His dedication hit the pause key for now as the bipolar one’s manic state whirls her in yet another direction. But the pause will pop off eventually and the movie will resume on play as usual.

And as personal ads also brighten his computer monitor and drive his desires, dedication remains in its quiet state of hibernation. Between pictures of Yang Lee of Trinity, Texas and a 24-year-old who likes to eat Won Ton soup after orally servicing her latest conquest, the occasional reminders of her surface. The one whom he would hope might resurface again, rather than believe that she’s gone and out of his reach for eternity; sunk to the level where her existence should remain.

Months of no response from his obsession leads his mind to flow elsewhere, filling his empty pillow and dark under-eye circles with his own new-found concealer of the female persuasion.

Unreachable, such as she…such as she.

But as time progresses, the unreachable one becomes attainable. But such goodness he cannot allow. He cannot swallow these new pills of fulfillment; medicines that neither the mother nor she had ever ingested. Happiness is not an option. It is against his nature, and Paganism is his choice. Such dedication to defeat is sweet. Masochistic behavior at its finest.

Such a fine specimen. He should be applauded.

And he will.

I know that she will be back. She will reach out once more with hands that will embrace the pills that he will so eagerly wish to consume. She will be grateful that he will fill his pillow with her head; the only head that answers his pleas.

(THIS BLOG claims no credit for any images posted on this site unless otherwise noted. Images on this blog are copyright to its respectful owners. If there is an image appearing on this blog that belongs to you and do not wish for it appear on this site, please E-mail with a link to said image and it will be promptly removed.)