I Don’t Have Words

Not the first time do I realize that I haven’t grown enough

The putting down of words has become a big part of my life, a regular habit, like bodily functions, or moving the clutter of old age from one room to another. The words I choose, were they friends, wear their hair long, dropped out of school, defied parental authority, and were dismissive of life’s shortness. As the same words matured, I did not — or, on whatever grounds, decided not to — acknowledge my limited vocabulary.

The reason — when I think about it — has to do with my father — stinking of fish, wearing a cloth cap — and the man I loved as only a child can — accepting of his mistakes — told me, never use a long word when a short word will do.

Dad was the kindest man I knew, not solely to a child — a time when most fathers are kind or should be — but he never understood long words — or chose in his way — not to think about life’s long complexities. As I became adult — facing self-recriminations — when to take a life — issues about whose life is worth less than mine — killing a stranger to keep an island — I wondered if saving an endangered species is worth the taking a human life? Should I have jam or marmalade on my toast — you know, those kinds of worldly matters. To the first question — Yes, he said, if that life is your own freely given — to the second he said — lemon curd.

I’d like to give more thought to kindness — or use a long word instead of a short one.

But certain words lose their charm, like eagerly made friends a passing fancy — sometimes once familiar words become strangers — strangers become friends — friends become style. I think about this a great deal, especially after reading beautiful poetic works — or brilliant prose — and silently in my own mind I am saddened.

I want to become a word — bones — is there another word that conjures up so well in the mind what the word is — what they look like — feel like — bones — say the word. Such a simple word. But then I want to be a stylistic word — a word that separates me from other writers — tells the reader I’m not always the boiled egg, sometimes soufflé.

In writing about my father’s life — the one he showed to me — allowed me access to — will not accept the rule. Kind — what does it mean — feel like — my father was kind — isolated — glad to lose touch — and as I write I can feel his own inarticulateness — his groping monosyllabic pain — but living with the eloquence of a man easy in his own skin — unencumbered by the stumbling force of his personality.

Regardless of what I say — I’d like to give more thought to kindness — it’s not true — not at least beyond a few days ago.

Let me tell you about her. She was in her eighties — in hospital — a result of terminal illness. Glynis was cared for in a room opposite mine. One morning she heard me complaining about the breakfast I’d been brought — I suppose I was making quite a ruckus about it — being my way about everything. I saw Glynis just once, standing at the door in a white gown. She offered me her breakfast. I have a problem with kindness shown toward me — Why? I don’t know.

Nigel — the ward nurse — encouraged me to accept her offer. She has the kindest soul — he told me — we all feel less kind whenever we tend to her needs. Having drank a gallon of water — pissed all night — meeting the required urine flow — satisfying the doctor — only to have Nigel come in before breakfast — and with quiet voice — Glynis passed early this morning, Harry.

I found it impossible to extricate myself from the assault of that news — unable to say farewell — I felt the need to become involved in a bloody good scrap — wanting to feel something more tangible — attack the news with savagery.

I know nothing of Glynis — except her kindness — her physical smallness — and yet I want to punch out — her death is in my face.

Nigel returned with written instructions of how to care for myself over the new few weeks — there were tears in his eyes — I kissed the beautiful man.