Saturn Squaring my Mercury is taking away my will to write.
As if I will be less and less understood. Mum’s the word.
Meanwhile, in another part of my life,
I have to write letter after wretched letter in legalese.
I know I know, I have allll the fun.
My father Keith died around this time of year, and it doesn’t ruin it for me,
but with the Libra Moon under fire from Uranus and Pluto,
it brings out an undertone that honestly, at this moment, is already there.
I was reminded of the summer before he died.
Keith took a trip, to visit some friends, a family reunion.
Clearly his last, (a funny word trip: to stumble, to have a psychedelic experience, to voyage.)
Doing such things as opening a window were at this point notably strenuous.
It hurt to watch him use his energy that way, to spend it, when he would never get it back.
But then, what would he save it for?
He was dying. Why not stand and open the window himself?
So I had to watch, we all watched as he did the things it was still possible to do.
His voice was not gone yet, and he sang beautifully.
Little snippits of song. Captured clear as a pinned butterfly.
We walked across the lawn, and sat outside at my mother’s house.
My mother, who had spent the last 25 years hating him.
Never a good word to say, and yet, never really considered another man,
as if all men everywhere were intrinsically beneath him, a subspecies she could not possibly admit.
Whereas he seemed to feel rather more simply that my mother was crazy, and he was a fool to have tangled with her at all. Glad to have made it out and away as fast as he did.
I remember a cautionary lecture, after he looked at my palms, the pinkies in particular,
(he was a palmist) where he warned me not to place too much emphasis on sex.
That was, Keith said, what had happened with my mother and him. They got hot, had some kids, and I should not follow suit.
So there we were, with a woman he never spoke to, his ex-wife, whom he loathed,
eating cheese and crackers on lawn chairs in bright sunlight.
I now imagine this was some kind of gift intended for my brother and I, but never received.
They say all children wish there parents back together, but some cliches are not to be believed.
We watched my mother, hugely conscious of her imaginary generosity, her clear awareness of her victory. She would outlive him.
We watched what seemed to be infinite patience that my father drew on, or was it almost a type of innocence, as he lay on her couch beside my two month old daughter, and closed his eyes.