Shelving Mister Lench

The past two yesterdays.

Overwhelmed with a sense of dread brought on by this severe loneliness, I decided to check on an old flame. First, I would look at my last sent email to learn the status, and was surprised to discover it was still unread. Later, during the night when I could not sleep, fear gripped me and I did the unimaginable... an Internet search; and there it was, his obituary.  Been grieving ever since, been remembering ever since, been fantasizing about what could have been had he been able to accomplish his goals and then come for me... and this new grief is now mingled with the horrid season that reminds me of those I have lost: my son and dad, with the anniversary of my dad's death in just a few days.

My momma.

As previously mentioned, she loved Mister Lench's story and I created that special edition just for her. It has been awhile since we talked because it is no easy task to reach her in the nursing home, but I decided to give it another try very early in the morning, the same morning I learned Henry was dead. We talked and she sounded fairly good, except for her disturbing insistence that Dad is still alive and living in some house, somewhere unknown, with some strange other woman. This time, I bravely asked why she prefers to think ill of him instead of accepting he is gone, and I believe she paused for a split second but that split second was shortened when she once again insisted "he is not dead."

Last night, I was shocked to learn the nursing home allowed her to fall, and she has a cut on her head. She was transported to the hospital and no family member, no friend, was there. The nurse refused to give me any information about her condition, saying I was not listed as a family member so she could not respond to my very simple question: "How is my mother?"  

I did not sleep well yet again, trying with all my might not to lose my sanity while struggling with the darkness and emptiness of the small space allotted for what could be the last days of my own existence, and replaying in my mind how this is the very same hospital that allowed my son to bleed to death... the last place she saw him, embraced him, and was covered with his blood.

I do not know if she knows where she is. I do not know anything about her condition. I do not know... I do not know... I do not know. And I thoroughly detest not knowing.

Mister Lench's storybook is somewhat ready to ship to her, but now I must wait until I am permitted to know that she will be able to embrace and read it. Waiting to know... the older you become, the more painful waiting in the dark, in utter silence, becomes. And I am breaking.

So, my dear Mister Robert Lench, you will be shelved to accumulate theoretical dust as my other creations and once considered divinely-inspired works of imaginary art. Clearly, your story is not one that others can read and not put down, considering others take a peek or a taste but have no desire to complete. 

You were meant for my mother's eyes only, and so we both are forced to wait until the knowing comes that says she is okay.