Indecisiveness imbalances me.
I’ve witnessed it in my mother
When she was sitting at the kitchen table
In isolation. I thought of her and all of her books.
That other world. And I knew that the decision had been
Made a long time ago, a million times in fact:
Should I stay or should I go?
That kitchen was an arena, a place of sincerity.
A clinical violence, a mess torn from the inside out.
Movement happened there. Waiting for something
Bigger. Awaiting the right time. The walls would shout:
The right moment presented itself more than once and would
Do so in the future, it is a familiar guest. Sitting there with my
Mother, in isolation, staring at the front door, she had walked out
A million times before, never with her body but with her mind.