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Design. From the Middle French desain, desaing, desseign, meaning: fulfillment of a prearranged plan; an ultimate goal or purpose, as in: what were we supposed to learn in the course of this com- petition other than the etymology and correct spellings of words? Were there life lessons in the vocabulary, in the individual letters that comprised the language we used to communicate so that we might understand something more about ourselves and the world we inhabited by insisting on committing to memory words like irrevocable, which comes from the Latin irrevocābilis, meaning: cannot be revoked, repealed, annulled, or undone; that which is unalterable, irreversible, as in: one day the news of Uncle Joe’s cancer diagnosis would arrive in Mama’s face as she stood in the doorway to my bedroom, watching as I labored at the computer attempting to write a poem, a story, an essay, finding it difficult to process, when she said that her brother had cancer, meaning: her brother was dying.
Mama said cancer so I thought the astrological sign.
Mama said cancer so my mouth watered for a steamed feast of Alaskan King Crab Legs dipped in butter.
Mama said cancer so my skin shuddered, imagining diseases you could catch by fucking without a condom.
Mama said cancer and I knew we somehow needed to pretend that nothing had changed—dinner was still at eight, the grandchildren still needed their baths, and there were people we didn’t even know, laughing together while dancing to their favorite songs alone at home in their living rooms.
And then there was Uncle Joe’s wife, Dwen. After he died, we wondered how she was getting along without him. Was she hungry or thirsty for a glass of water, able to unwrap herself from her deceased husband’s afghan to go into the kitchen to make a sandwich, leaning against the counter in the half-dark, nibbling deliberately like a small mouse, ear cocked to every minor noise and echo as if she had only a slight chance of vanishing?
We worried she’d be overwhelmed with unannounced visitors, mostly family and friends dropping by after work with their small talk, wishing for them to leave so she could pour herself a whiskey and sit in silence while the funeral flowers wilted, desperate for water.
*
I think I might have heard the bell ring, felt the tinny reverberations, even before I said, Parochial, p-a-r-o-c-k-i-u-l, then turned away from the microphone, exiting the stage as I repeated once more, parockiul.
Mama, Granddaddy, Uncle Joe, and Dwen were already out of their seats, standing alongside the wall midway up the aisle, waiting for me.
P-a-r-o-c-h-i-a-l, Granddaddy said. Remember c-h also makes a hard k sound.