I remember back more than a decade ago, my dad called me from Michigan. He always called me late at night. He always drank and I suppose he would feel lonely and call me. The very last call was on a Sunday night around 11PM. I knew as soon as the phone rang, it was him. We talked and talked for over an hour. The difference was we talked about stuff he had never mentioned before. EVER. I guess I should have known something was up. At that moment , I didn't get it.
He had a heart attack a week later and was left in a coma for nearly a year. Then, he died. I have always wondered if he knew that would be our last call.
I remember Gilda telling me about her knee surgery. She had one knee "done" just before she died. She went on to say she would have the other fixed in the summer when she was on her next teaching vacation. That vacation never came for her. I keep thinking about this all the time.
So here I am. I am wondering what will become of me, my art, and my life. I realize now, life is so fragile. We never know what is coming next. For me, I try to imagine the next year. It is so hard. I keep thinking Gilda never got her other knee fixed. My dad really didn't know for sure this was the last time we would ever talk. This is symbolic to me. We never know. We never know. So now, I need to just keep living. I will never know either. None of us will. I need to keep making art because this is my life. Yes, Gilda won't be there to comment. My dad won't be there to support.
Only I will be here to keep pushing myself to keep going until my last call.