folding raze my calendar tells me today's the day i'm supposed to celebrate what you mean to me. so i think about how you're still alive, and i'm still alive, but we're dead to each other. which means it's just another sunday. i don't think you'd cry if you heard i was killed by cancer or a car or a poisoned goblet of wine. i don't know what i'll feel when you die. the same thing i feel when i read a stranger's obituary, i guess. because that's what we are. that's what we've been for the last twenty years and change. strangers. the thing i keep coming back to is laundry. sometimes you would fold socks and we'd watch one of your soaps. usually it was "days of our lives". someone was always pointing a gun at someone else's face and ranting about how they were going to kill them. they would still be locked in the same contrived one-way conversation at the end of the episode. there would be some kissing and some crying in there somewhere. and maybe someone would come out of a coma and find a way to age ten years in a week. that was the closest we came to bonding. i think it only worked because we didn't talk. these days i fold my own socks. i don't imagine you fold much of anything anymore, with how bad your carpal tunnel is. if i knew you now, and if you took me in your arms, it would only be because you couldn't trust your hands to do any lasting damage if they struck me. anyway. happy mother's_day. 220508 what's it to you? who go blather from