memoria

Cold dog nose in my face, time to feed the Lola.

Look for pants, socks, shoes. Play through a Hanon exercise on my piano while she’s eating. Make sure to turn my wrist between each note. God this is so hard. I wish someone would ask me how I’m feeling. I’m the one that asks everyone how they’re feeling and what they need and I really need someone to ask me.

I know that only a few people at this service are going to have the permission to allow themselves to actually grieve. I know that I’m not a trained musician and I’m going to a musician friend’s funeral with the intent to play a song I wrote when I was a teenager about the despair of walking a deserted wasteland after everyone has died and gone and I wonder if anyone will truly hear it.

Who decides these things? They’ve invited his students to play a piece. That’s all I got. It’s raw and it’s awful and it’s all I got.

I don’t care if I’m late, I don’t care that it’s at a Christian church when he was very anti-Christianity. He’s dead and gone and I don’t think he’d care. I’ll wear something flashy as a giant “Fuck You” to the establishment, etc.

But mostly, I’m just there to be there with other people who are also experiencing this loss right now. I’ll bring my best because it’s all I’ve got.

I need to trim my nails. I feed the rats, where are my nail clippers? Ginger tea, hot. Paint my nails is a good idea.

So fucking hard. Put on dress, paint nails. I wore this dress to his wedding last summer. So fucking hard.

I was late for the wedding haha. I just remembered, we were speeding to get there in time, parking haphazardly somewhere and running in to take a seat and luckily they hadn’t started yet.

It was a nice wedding, small. Beautiful music.

What do any of these things matter, these moments? I wish I knew.