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My mother had no end of tragedy in her life. she would make herself get up and take a deep breath and go out and do laundry. hang up sheets.
-Patti Smith
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My Mother Had No End Of Tragedy

Patti Smith
My mother had no end of tragedy in her life. she would make herself get up and take a deep breath and go out and do laundry. hang up sheets.
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Mother Tragedy Laundry

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She didn’t understand why it was happening,” he said. “i had to tell her she would die. her social worker said i had to tell her. i had to tell her she would die, so i told her she was going to heaven. she asked if i would be there, and i said that i would not, not yet. but eventually, she said, and i promised that yes, of course, very soon. and i told her that in the meantime we had great family up there that would take care of her. and she asked me when i would be there, and i told her soon. twenty-two years ago.
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There was a warmth of fury in his last phrases. he meant she loved him more than he her. perhaps he could not love her. perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. it was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. it was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. perhaps she was deficient. like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. if it were so, she would do without him. she would never let herself want him. she would merely see.
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Perhaps i will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. if she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters ... but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing.
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And she loved a man who was made out of nothing. a few hours without him and right away she’d be missing him with her whole body, sitting in her office surrounded by polyethylene and concrete and thinking of him. and every time she’d boil water for coffee in her ground-floor office, she’d let the steam cover her face, imagining it was him stroking her cheeks, her eyelids and she’d wait for the day to be over, so she could go to her apartment building, climb the flight of stairs, turn the key in the door, and find him waiting for her, naked and still between the sheets of her empty bed.
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She smiled. she knew she was dying. but it did not matter any longer. she had known something which no human words could ever tell and she knew it now. she had been awaiting it and she felt it, as if it had been, as if she had lived it. life had been, if only because she had known it could be, and she felt it now as a hymn without sound, deep under the little whole that dripped red drops into the snow, deeper than that from which the red drops came. a moment or an eternity- did it matter? life, undefeated, existed and could exist. she smiled, her last smile, to so much that had been possible.
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She bent her finger and then straightened it. the mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when her intention took effect. it was like a wave breaking. if she could only find herself at the crest, she thought, she might find the secret of herself, that part of her that was really in charge. she brought her forefinger closer to her face and stared at it, urging it to move. it remained still because she was pretending... . and when she did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of her mind.
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