Left Unsaid

Sometimes, what we don't talk about is just as important, if not moreso, than what we do say. I found out that my aunt's cancer has (surprise surprise) made yet another return visit. What was surprising is that I didn't find out from her. She has always been open and honest about her breast cancer. For her to refrain from speaking about it means, well. You tell me what it means if someone suddenly won't talk about something they've always been willing to talk about.

She has lived with this for over ten years now. In a perverse way, at this point, she is like Schrödinger's cat at this point, both alive and dead, at least to me. I've had over ten years to prepare for her passing, and it's still not enough. At the same time, I don't prepare because, well, she's still alive. This superposition of states, this gentle reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, this questioning, all of it because her body betrays her, as science attempts to sustain her.

I cannot now recall ever asking her about her cancer. I know that we must have. I know that we must have. Strangely, I just remember the good conversations. Not the words themselves, but just the general feeling of happiness. In a way, that's what we never talked about, if I don't remember. What does that say, my selective recall, about what I will and won't say?

As I think about it, this is how I've come to remember people. The ones that I love, I recall nothing but the good times (for the most part. My parents are special, and I recall a lot of the good and bad, but I still love them. I think). The ones that I can't stand, I recall nothing but the negative conversations. It's as if what I cannot recall never happened, went unsaid. What does that silence, what I can't or won't recall saying, tell you?