As simple as that

She said it was her liver, but she knew it wasn’t as simple as that.

Her health history was, frankly, ugly. Kidney disease and dialysis. Intestines wracked by Crohn’s. From A to Z, she was crippled and in pain and it wasn’t simple.

“It is what it is,” she then said. A truth laid out, stark and square as her trailer, plain as the hard scrabble ground around it. As harsh as my judgment and what I felt.

We moved her from house to ambulance to hospital, a simple sequence of kinetics that felt unadorned by any beauty or wisdom.

When truth is brutal and plain, is it beautiful?

Kazimir Malevich — Black Suprematic Square, 1915