But the walls stay, the roof remains strong and immovable, and we can only pray that if these rooms have memories, they are not ours.
Do you know what we call normal, in the medical field? Unafflicted. That is what I mean by it.
As quickly as she has lost my interest, she regains it. I have yet to decide if she deserves it, however. Nothing else in my demeanor changes. I am merely watching her again, with acute interest, with the same expression of almost-disdain. I have grown accustomed to looking down at women; I have suffered a lifetime of it. Perhaps it is an old habit. ”Unafflicted,” I repeat, quietly.
I cannot help but think life is not the medical field. That there is no one who remains “uanfflicted.” That we become afflicted from the moment of our births; with parents; with siblings; with destinies wrought for us by the decisions of others. “That only adds to my point, Ruth. No one is unafflicted.” There is a breach in my coldness, a sudden flash of compassion that is there and then gone. Has this fact not become evident throughout the course of this conversation?
I have become a contradiction before her; I find, however, that this doesn’t matter. I am already not myself in this country, in this nation. Nothing is as it should be. So that when she asks, Why, I only shake my head.
There is a pause. I am suddenly weary of this, of her. I nearly regret the decision to speak to her. I turn away, toward the distant sound of the celebration. As I walk, I cast a glance over my shoulder to say: “It is easier, I believe, to be afflicted with an illness than with yourself. You gave me an honest answer. My honest answer? If I had a choice, I would return to a time when I was young, a version of myself... unafflicted... by life."
That is the truth; or as close to it as I can come. Because even as I think of Adonai, of Solterra, of Ruth I understand I belong to none of it, and never will.
As quickly as she has lost my interest, she regains it. I have yet to decide if she deserves it, however. Nothing else in my demeanor changes. I am merely watching her again, with acute interest, with the same expression of almost-disdain. I have grown accustomed to looking down at women; I have suffered a lifetime of it. Perhaps it is an old habit. ”Unafflicted,” I repeat, quietly.
I cannot help but think life is not the medical field. That there is no one who remains “uanfflicted.” That we become afflicted from the moment of our births; with parents; with siblings; with destinies wrought for us by the decisions of others. “That only adds to my point, Ruth. No one is unafflicted.” There is a breach in my coldness, a sudden flash of compassion that is there and then gone. Has this fact not become evident throughout the course of this conversation?
I have become a contradiction before her; I find, however, that this doesn’t matter. I am already not myself in this country, in this nation. Nothing is as it should be. So that when she asks, Why, I only shake my head.
There is a pause. I am suddenly weary of this, of her. I nearly regret the decision to speak to her. I turn away, toward the distant sound of the celebration. As I walk, I cast a glance over my shoulder to say: “It is easier, I believe, to be afflicted with an illness than with yourself. You gave me an honest answer. My honest answer? If I had a choice, I would return to a time when I was young, a version of myself... unafflicted... by life."
That is the truth; or as close to it as I can come. Because even as I think of Adonai, of Solterra, of Ruth I understand I belong to none of it, and never will.
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