We All Want Impossible Things

by Catherine Newman

“Are you popping a pimple on your chin with the pin of an Obama badge? Mom,” she says. “My god. I don’t like to see that.”

Is this what praying is? I honestly have no idea.

It’s the anticipation I can’t handle. Loss lurks around every corner, and how do we prepare?

But really I was like a tragic squid, sending out clouds of poisonous ink and crying, Why won’t you see me? Why can’t you find me?

She’s leaving behind the shell of her human flesh, molting like an invisible butterfly, disappearing. She’s going, she’s gone. You could almost grab onto her wings and go too.

It’s occurring to me only now that the dying and the loss are actually two different burdens, and each must be borne individually, one after the other.

Fly, be free! I want to say. I want to say, Stay with me forever! Come to think of it, these are the two things I want to say to everyone I love most.