Cell

This cell is Marenna's room, which has been my childhood room as well:
a high bed, bureaus with drawers, medicine cabinets, dressers, books piled
everywhere. She has had this house for over thirty years.

Everytime I think of this, my head reels. I still move every six months. I cannot
stay put. But her house--her son and daughter were both born here. Her mother died here. That a house could hold so much within it--it's almost obscene, this continuous cycle of life within one house. It is like refusing to change clothing. And yet there is so much in filth that is comforting. It is like the dream where I am peeling off my skin only to discover that we are not made of muscle or bone but firmly packed crap.

Marenna has been on my mind lately: I realize I know so little of
what moves her.

During my parting from Marenna, when I was married, I dreamt of her nearly
every night for three years. Thus, for me, it appears the imagery of dreams
comes from longing, it is the long shadow of the soul that covers the heart
of the beloved. It is only now that I realized I never actually spoke to
her for those years.

Sometimes, I dream of someone I have never met or known: I wake up crying
for their absence in my life. If they would only come, I could turn them
away; by this refusal, I would cease to be lonely.

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