drmstream[writing]

“I want you to keep your dig­nity,” I say.

You look at me. I see the con­fu­sion, the blank stare, the quiver of panic that lingers at the edge of your eyes and in the taut skin below your jaw.

“I know,” you say.

But you don’t say any­thing else. I can barely con­trol what hap­pens inside me, an ele­va­tion, a swelling that nar­rows my band of thought and makes it louder, like there’s a scream about to explode from inside.

Do you have any dig­nity, I won­der. Any pic­ture of how you want to be seen, to be remem­bered when you leave; how you want to be able to think of your­self when the time comes to take a per­sonal inven­tory of your life, your moment of judgment?

Or are you like a hen peck­ing fran­ti­cally at the bare frozen dirt in the yard in the mid­dle of Jan­u­ary, too stu­pid and con­fused to walk up the shit-stained plank to the heated coop, the grains of feed, the clean cycling water?

Am I try­ing to save the dig­nity of a tiny lit­tle hen?

That’s the rub: My dig­nity rests in mak­ing this effort, no mat­ter how frus­trated I feel, how utterly I fail. I can’t walk away, or I’m telling you to walk away too.

“All right then,” I say, tak­ing your hand in mine. “Let’s talk out how we’re going to do this while we wait.”