sleep apnea
Oct. 13th, 2001 09:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aslanta confusion of dreams.
i slept a long time in the attic bedroom, with the window open. my grandmother snores, a soft truffling noise.
this morning i ate sausages against my better intentions. but i never have the heart to refuse food from my grandparents, who belabor every small section of the day. i love them so much it is hard to remember the outside world, where i do not eat meat out of some, it seems, antiquated notion of markets and supply-demand and deforestation and such. it fades off when she passes me the plate in her worn hands.
this morning my grandfather tells about the time his father wallopped him for killing the neighbor's chicken, with stones. a circle of small first-generation boys (the chicken belonged to the frenchmen, says my grandfather, setting up his neighborhood for reference using the jars of jam and honeys and sauces on the table) in the toronto neighborhood. i've seen that house. it is white; his father built it. he cannot remember the year his father died but he remembers that both his parents went "cuckoo" (he says) around the same time.
each to each disappearing into their dementias. like you grandpa, i want to say. but i don't.
he woke up one morning years ago and realized he'd had a stroke. with a puff of air and a waving gesture he illustrates how many memories simply disappeared from his mind. his large mild eyes milk over with a lost look, recalling that which he does not recall. only that he can feel their absence, like a phantom limb.
i slept a long time in the attic bedroom, with the window open. my grandmother snores, a soft truffling noise.
this morning i ate sausages against my better intentions. but i never have the heart to refuse food from my grandparents, who belabor every small section of the day. i love them so much it is hard to remember the outside world, where i do not eat meat out of some, it seems, antiquated notion of markets and supply-demand and deforestation and such. it fades off when she passes me the plate in her worn hands.
this morning my grandfather tells about the time his father wallopped him for killing the neighbor's chicken, with stones. a circle of small first-generation boys (the chicken belonged to the frenchmen, says my grandfather, setting up his neighborhood for reference using the jars of jam and honeys and sauces on the table) in the toronto neighborhood. i've seen that house. it is white; his father built it. he cannot remember the year his father died but he remembers that both his parents went "cuckoo" (he says) around the same time.
each to each disappearing into their dementias. like you grandpa, i want to say. but i don't.
he woke up one morning years ago and realized he'd had a stroke. with a puff of air and a waving gesture he illustrates how many memories simply disappeared from his mind. his large mild eyes milk over with a lost look, recalling that which he does not recall. only that he can feel their absence, like a phantom limb.
