it is a sunday morning, you are late for church. again. you tell me to record you, off.
i don’t ask why, but you say, “i just want to watch my progress”, your hand swerving up in a steep gradient to reinstate your point, and as you watch your own trembling fingers attempt to curve upwards, just like the way you used to smile, we both know. we both know that by progress, you really meant for the dyskinesia-ed sides of your palm to swoop downwards.
i tell you about how i’m using you as a concept for choreography next year, man vs sickness. i’m not sure whether i’ll be revealing too much of you, too much of myself. i’m still contemplating, i say. honestly, i think i’m set on it. you look like you’re balancing on demi-pointe, weight forward or back? left or right? i’m afraid, what if this is too personal to you? to our family? and i’m wondering when the time comes next year, where will you be? still here, sitting? mumbling to me, periodic shouts in frustration to the way your words refuse to dance off your tongue? will i still be brave enough to compare your human vulnerability to this repulsive disease?
i imagine your fingers falling to rest on the corner of the table, cureless hope sliding off our laps, analogous to the speed of my frequent tears. we both know your heavy hand was attempting dishonest optimism, either that, or you were plotting a graph of debilitation against time.
either way, i continue filming your struggle to move. i pray the hands on the camera continue its stability for the years to come.
your daughter, ever so afraid