Inferno

I find myself thinking of “Toy Story 3” a lot lately, and that’s not as pleasant as it might sound.

In the film, the toys enjoy shenanigans and make escapes but ultimately end up slowly sliding toward the flames of eternal fire.

Really, I’m hardly the first to hold this interpretation.

Yes, the flames are an incinerator, but what matters is how the toys react to death– more than death, annihilation– inching closer to claim them.

They hold hands.

This story is one I believe in.

My friend’s father is in the hospital. His body is all messed up, and his mind is, too. In our circle, we have three parents who are dead, and four who are alive.

This will change.

Anyway we sat in a circle.

The fire was not in the middle of us, but behind me, because even though it is fake, it is still in my real hearth.

I pulled out the jars of vodka I’ve lately infused with household this and that: basil, lemon, blueberry. A friend and I pour into my good Moroccan glasses, and drink sips.

I open a bottle of wine.

Drinking is still how we manage some things, some of the time. Some drinking, anyway.

Another friend brings cookie dough and we eat cookies.

What do you do, what do you do.

I had paced my apartment, feeling that unique restlessness that comes when you are connected to someone who might be near the veil, whether they are coming or going from our plane.

When, when, I thought, though the father did not change status, remained a sick person.

We dirtied glasses. We talked a bit about local and recent bullshit, poor conduct, fears.

My cat tolerated being picked up and snuggled.

My other cat tolerated being brushed and enjoyed some pets.

It was cold outside.

I had asked everyone to come to my place because if I didn’t have visitors I would slip into a long winter’s nap. All I want to do in December is sleep. I’ve been happy to go to sleep at 8. I make a video of some kind play on my laptop, turn my laptop screen away from me, put on my sleep mask, and exist inside the video, or in my sleep, whatever my mind prefers. Holy, holy sleep.

Big changes crack: illnesses, big steps of aging, my generation becoming, in moments, the oldest ones, in steps, in hiccups. Or it catches our attention and we look toward it. Having to look at it isn’t great.

This is why I moved back, though. I am with people. Much as I have loved some New Yorkers, I have loved my Kansas Citians longer and harder, and I believe in roots.

In a circle seems important.

At my dad’s, we gather to sing Christmas carols. We don’t know about his health. But you sing regardless. It could be anyone’s last time, or maybe time isn’t real, time may stop or unwind, or maybe in dreams we will understand more, or accept peace.

We sit on couches to watch a Christmas movie, and it’s hot because our mammal selves are all snuggled there together. There are so many of us.

I get up to turn on the ceiling fan.