I had this object all my life, trite, a sheet--not my baby blanket, which was stereotypically pink with elephants and balloons and other quilted things--but a ratty, old sheet that my grandmother, the one from my father's side, left at my mother's before she left for Chicago before I was born. The joke was always that I was three days late because I was waiting for her to leave for her conference so she would miss my birth, as if an unborn child was acting out of spite. My mother was waiting, no doubt. If anyone has the mental will to hold off birth. Her. She never forgave my grandmother for keeping the insurance money from my father's death--despite not being practical enough to take life insurance out on my terminally ill father, or perhaps because as a young couple they would have never been able to afford the pre-existing conditions premium, the alcoholic, the smoker, more premiums...for whatever reason, most likely because she had paid on it since my father's (intentionally vague) heart problem presented itself during his childhood, my grandmother kept the insurance money and refused to financially help my mother (then with one child, my sister, and pregnant with me) unless she moved from Florida to Illinois. As if, we, her grandchildren, were only to benefit from her if it were explicit, like visitation rights exchange. *there has always been a barter for and claim on this body, huh*
I had this object all my life, trite, a sheet--oversoft, pilling, such a faded near-white blue, for as long as I remember it. Growing up, no matter what my new set of linens were, I'd get rid of the sheet and replace it with [trite, a sheet]. So soft and fading, threadbare and I ripped through a corner when I was eight. When my grandmother, from my mother's side--great grandmother, actually, but the one I called Grandma (without adding her first name, as I always had with Jeannie) was diagnosed with (also vague enough) cancer I clung to [trite, a sheet] more. During this time my sister's OCD had finally been diagnosed, I became hyper aware of my own rituals--the things I told myself on repeat. The places I'd check three times before I could sleep. I couldn't, even tell if they were real or if I was parroting Sister. I'll still never know what is real. *we are human, we meme, we repeat* I made myself stop. The checking at least. The visible things. It hurt, it caused anxiety, in me. But what I could tell from Sister is that the apparent causes hurt-anxiety in others. I told myself if I could stop then I didn't have it too. That thing, that othering, that OCD. After a while, a nurse wasn't enough, Grandma couldn't be in our care and was taken to a long-term patient facility (more hospital than nursing home, but what do I remember?).
I had this object all my life, trite, a sheet--and every night I would tell myself that as long as my [trite, a sheet] was touching me that Grandma would stay alive. That everyone in my family would stay alive and everything would be okay. One night I woke up in the middle of the night and it was on the floor--I tried to train myself not to move so much, but that night it hadn't worked. I couldn't sleep after. I just cried all night until Mom called to check on Grandma the next morning. From then on, before going to bed, I would tie the ripped corner around my small wrist as tight as I could, double knotting it and twice waking up to a purplish hand, so that it would always be touching me even if I threw it off in my sleep. Any time I traveled I packed it. One night, after Grandma was sick for about a year, my mom did this thing she used to do before (cancer) and set up a tent and sleeping bags in the living room, rented movies, ordered pizza. A sort of slumber party. I forgot for a bit, about the (cancer), I know that was the intent. We fell asleep in the living room together, all of us: mom, sister, brother, me. I fell asleep in the living room. My [trite, a sheet] was in my room. In my bed. My Grandma died that night.
Actually, our cat ran away that night too. And the stone fell out, lost forever, from my mother's wedding ring, which she still wore, that night too. My mother said Grandma took those things with her. She tells stories too.
I had this object all my life, trite, a sheet--one night it didn't touch me and my great grandmother died (of cancer). Pure coincidence, I know. But in all tragedy, it solidified its importance in my mind. Gave weight to relics and rituals, especially those found on your own and not through some organization. I tucked [trite, a sheet] into each of my pillowcases until college. *think it, it's sad, i know, we are sad creatures* And, I had this object all my life. And, I found out an hour ago that I accidentally threw it out while cleaning my graduate school studio. *never said i wasn't pathetic* I have already had a panic attack, but I didn't hyperventilate, which is surprising and good. But, I am feeling mortality all around me always. And, I feel a bit like I've lost a limb, and that OCD-thing in me is hoping that I'm the loss, if anyone.
See me? [trite, a sheet] I might not be able to stop myself from dumpster diving to find you tomorrow morning. We'll see how well we sleep.
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