Author's Note: This is really old. I have no idea when or under what
circumstances I wrote this, but I thought it had some merit so I'd post it.
It creeps up on him, sometimes.
That impossible self-loathing, that disgusting internal hatred that grips him fierce, like brandy, and makes him want to vomit.
And he wishes she were with him.
He wishes, but that doesn't mean he's not still grateful that she isn't. He contracts his hand convulsively with that thought. Of course he wishes she were here, that she hadn't been in Tallahassee in July, that she hadn't bled quite so much before the ambulance arrived. But he can't bring himself to wish that she'd never run for the Senate, that she'd never received the Democratic nomination, that she'd never polled better than any candidate since...
He's shocked to discover that he can't remember who. The years of self-flagellation have done what years of bad public schools leading to bad public colleges couldn't: They've taken away his intrinsic understanding of politics and his unerring memory.
Forty years later, and he still can't go out on the Fourth of July because of the paralyzing, asphyxiating fires of self hatred.
Thirty-five years ago, concerned friends had sent him to a therapist. He had expected absolution, so he could reject it, and when it hadn't come he'd been angry. He can't quite remember anymore, but he thinks he broke things in the aftermath. Now he thinks it ironic: that he wrought damage in pursuit of forgiveness that he expected, but didn't want; that he would've rejected.
He's very old now, and very tired. Sometimes he wishes that he would just die so that he doesn't have to think about the conversations they had. About urging her to run.
So that he doesn't have to hear the fireworks that exploded while she bled.
So that he doesn't have to wonder who remembers that she died. Because, of course, they stopped showing the memorial broadcasts years and years ago. He laughs, bitterly, knowing she would've been delighted in the comparison with Bobby Kennedy.
"I'd rather be Bobby than John," she joked, her voice fuzzy with the scrapings of memory.
"Except for that whole 'died before inauguration' phenomenon."
"Well, yeah. Except that."
Even now, he can't remember if they really had that conversation, or if he had made it of whole cloth sometime during his catastrophic grief. He supposes it doesn't matter, and tries to clear his mind in a futile attempt at sleep. Or maybe at grief, he can't remember anymore.
It creeps up on him, sometimes.
That impossible self-loathing, that disgusting internal hatred that grips him fierce, like brandy, and makes him want to vomit.
And he wishes she were with him.
He wishes, but that doesn't mean he's not still grateful that she isn't. He contracts his hand convulsively with that thought. Of course he wishes she were here, that she hadn't been in Tallahassee in July, that she hadn't bled quite so much before the ambulance arrived. But he can't bring himself to wish that she'd never run for the Senate, that she'd never received the Democratic nomination, that she'd never polled better than any candidate since...
He's shocked to discover that he can't remember who. The years of self-flagellation have done what years of bad public schools leading to bad public colleges couldn't: They've taken away his intrinsic understanding of politics and his unerring memory.
Forty years later, and he still can't go out on the Fourth of July because of the paralyzing, asphyxiating fires of self hatred.
Thirty-five years ago, concerned friends had sent him to a therapist. He had expected absolution, so he could reject it, and when it hadn't come he'd been angry. He can't quite remember anymore, but he thinks he broke things in the aftermath. Now he thinks it ironic: that he wrought damage in pursuit of forgiveness that he expected, but didn't want; that he would've rejected.
He's very old now, and very tired. Sometimes he wishes that he would just die so that he doesn't have to think about the conversations they had. About urging her to run.
So that he doesn't have to hear the fireworks that exploded while she bled.
So that he doesn't have to wonder who remembers that she died. Because, of course, they stopped showing the memorial broadcasts years and years ago. He laughs, bitterly, knowing she would've been delighted in the comparison with Bobby Kennedy.
"I'd rather be Bobby than John," she joked, her voice fuzzy with the scrapings of memory.
"Except for that whole 'died before inauguration' phenomenon."
"Well, yeah. Except that."
Even now, he can't remember if they really had that conversation, or if he had made it of whole cloth sometime during his catastrophic grief. He supposes it doesn't matter, and tries to clear his mind in a futile attempt at sleep. Or maybe at grief, he can't remember anymore.