At this very moment, a grandmother in South Carolina lies in an unfamiliar old folks home with the spiders of dementia weaving their way through her memories. On her table rests a hand-drawn get well card, daisies in a plastic cup. She knows who they are from, most days, but can’t for the life of her remember how long they’ve been there, or if the water needs changing. She can’t think of anyone to ask.
At this very moment, a girl in Valencia is weeping words into her pillow, siempre, siempre, siempre. Wet and red, she is trying her best to drown out the sounds her dog made earlier as it died in her arms. It is all she can hear. She chokes on her own spit.
One is too confused and the other is too young to understand why the world insists on spinning despite its losses, both great and small. Some days that feels unbearably cruel – how this earth can both dream and forget us, time and time again. But on other days, it is we who do the forgetting. Entirely by accident, we can spontaniously forget all about the ruthless caverns waiting lightless for our hearts and just…erupt with beauty. Maybe we kiss a little, laugh a lot, bite into the bright green of a cucumber straight from the garden. Maybe we suddenly discover that our hips still sway and our feet still tap to the sound of music. Life. Despite everything.
Nothing is more necessary than this: that we cover each other with love in the face of this planet’s indifference. That we stand beyond the reach of death for as long as we can stand, and then, when standing fails us, we finally lay down, hopefully in the arms of someone who has loved us well. We love so that a lonely grandmother and dying dog matter, so that their suffering becomes our own. We love so hard and so loud that love becomes its own planet – spinning the dreams and the forgetfulness of our own choosing. A place where we stubbornly, perhaps stupidly, risk everything for joy, where every tree sprout matters, where we defy all the laws that swear we are just dust on some faceless wind. Shhh. Listen. Here, even the wind has a song that carries; at this very moment it is singing through bedroom windows in Spain, Carolina, right here even, in your very own ears. Can you hear it? Well, can you?
MP3: Damion Suomi & The Minor Prophets – Let My Love