photo by Joe Mazza and Brave Lux

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Ready?

Ready?
by Jacob Juntunen

For Zocha

A: Any body
B: Any body
C: Any body

Setting:
Empty stage. A, B, and C sit in chairs.

                                                            A
I wasn’t ready to get out. Lying in the warm water was so nice.

                                                            C
I wasn’t ready to get up. The bed was so comfy. But I was starting to have those nighttime worries.

                                                            B
We moved all her stuff into my house, all these boxes—so much junk! But supposedly she had to have it. I didn’t know if I was ready to share the house.

                                                            A
My skin was getting wrinkly, but I squeezed and released my fist under the steamy water.

                                                            B
I had a ritual before bed every night.

                                                            C
You know when you lie still for so long it feels like the mattress has conformed to your body? When the blankets are like a warm bath? I should have just been concentrating on that, but I stared up at the ceiling and couldn’t turn off my brain.

                                                            A
The light was dim, and I curled up and listened to the thumping beat.

                                                            B
It was something my mom taught me.

                                                            A
I guess not everyone would find it relaxing, but I loved the beat so loud that I could feel it through the water.

                                                            C
There was the buzzing coming from beside me, letting me know it was time to get up. But I just kept thinking, “Ten more minutes.”

                                                            B
Every night, before bed, I made sure the dishwasher was running. I loved the whooshing sounds it made. It put me to sleep.

                                                            A
And the water around me had jets, too, making whooshes and massaging my whole body. Why would I want to get out?

                                                            B
But before I ran the dishwasher, I used Comet to scrub the stainless steel sink until it shined.

                                                            C
Just ten more minutes to lie there, feeling the cotton on top of me, staring straight up, and trying not to ask, “Was my life a success?”

                                                            B
I used Clorox to get every crumb off the counters.

                                                            C
Sometimes cotton feels like a soft summer breeze. But I never learned how to just feel it, to just be in the present, to stop wondering if I had accomplished enough.

                                                            B
But with her coming into the house? The kitchen was always going to be a disaster. There was no way I was going to be able to keep up the cleaning with her around.

                                                            A
I curled up fetal, then stretched out, feeling the water move around me. Wanting to fall asleep to the beat.

                                                            B
And watching whatever I wanted on TV before bed? Forget it. I’d have to sleep at the same time as her now.

                                                            C
The machine was still buzzing beside me, and I knew I had to get up. But I just wanted a few more deep breaths. To try to calm the fears about whether my life was a failure or not.

                                                            A              
Why should I leave? I fit in the water perfectly, and to get out my head was going have to get squished so it could fit into the canal.

                                                            C
I wanted to see one more dawn out the window, some piece of beauty that would make my life seem worth it.

                                                            A
The sack of water around me would have to tear and come gushing out.

                                                            B
When my husband put together the crib, I was excited about her coming—of course I was excited—but was I ready for the dirty kitchen and lack of sleep?

                                                            A
I’d have to breathe air for the first time.

                                                            C
I wanted a few more minutes of air in my lungs.

                                                            A
Seeing light with my naked eyes for the first time. How comfortable does that sound?

                                                            C
But I saw my grown child asleep in the chair next to my bed, next to the monitor making the steady buzzing instead of the staccato beeping it had been making when my heart was still beating.

                                                            B
But when my husband and I heard our first born say her first words—I realized you could never be ready for that.

                                                            A
They say you don’t remember those first traumas, squeezing between the bones of the pelvis, your first breath, the first time your eyes see light, all those firsts. How could you be ready for all that? But, of course, I had to get out. And I did.

(A stands up)

                                                            A (cont)
I came out into the light and the sound, the chaos and confusion, and my eyes could only focus about a foot away from my face. I was put on someone’s chest, and I saw a woman looking down at me, crying, a face I would remember as clearly as the trauma of leaving her. That made it worth coming out.

                                                            B
I was never ready for how much I loved her. I never got used to it. Every night, I put her in the crib and looked down on her sleeping. There’s a new light in the world, a new star in the sky, and we lit it.

(B stands up)

                                                            C
I knew I had to get up, to leave my body, but I was scared. Was my life a success? Had I done enough? But then it came to me. A realization. I shouldn’t be using adjectives to describe my life. I needed to use adverbs. Not, was my life a success, but had I lived well? Had I lived lovingly? Had I lived completely? I looked at my grown daughter, asleep in the hospital chair, next to my body. My daughter didn’t want to miss my final breaths. So I thought, Yes. I had lived completely. I think so. I think so. I’m ready.

(C stands up. Blackout.)

                                                            

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