simlyw

[simlyw]

pangea leg

The day before my dad passed, I crashed the moped he gave me. The concrete ripped my skin and scattered blood, patched in different areas among ant hills and cracked crete. The cut was so deep that yellow sticky slime rose beneath the red sea like an odd virulent-volcano. My hands throbbed, carpet burn holes smelling like charcoal ready to start a fire on my palms, pushed me off the ground—I swear I heard a sizzle. I bit my lip until the tears climbed back up my cheeks, a sheer shrieking wasp slapping wings against still, momentum tension ready to release needles. 

Now, I have a mark on my leg that looks like Pangea. I still have it, and it's been three years. Ironically, parts of it have faded and dismembered from the original continental mark.

It looks like weird fragments now, and as it moves, I see the reliance on time scraped into my right knee. Suppose my scar had purpose—it would almost seem to defeat grief. The "beauty" of the earth rotating, the acceptance of the world leaving him behind, healing as I move forward, but wishing I was still rushed to a blimp of vacuous, sticky, color dots, frugal in sight, delirious near damp, piss-sour grass, our old dog jumping at my face with cow shit and marinated kibble saliva on his breath.

To feel like a marathon's job while lying dead on the coarseness of crete, looking up and seeing my dad... I would exchange all the progress to be back on the ground, throbbing in pain, but still have his heart beating next to mine.