Andreanna Dais-Patterson
I am a book, to be thrown away once written.
Four or six pairs of eyes cast upon the scratchings that tell the story of me.
Something to pass by, not pass down.
The plot that weaves around my tapestry is a finite cluster-fuck of events without a sequel. Once at the end of the story, that full stop really is a full stop. The last branch of my family tree: the end of my genetic line.
There’s no-one with my nose, or my mad sweaty Greek hair. No-one to inherit the fuck-all of photos and findings I’ve accumulated. To pass on my wisdoms to, or the thoughts in my head.
There’s no newer naughtier version of me, hiding in an alleyway somewhere with their friends shitting a brick that I’ll catch them smoking. No-one nicking fivers from my purse, or telling me they hate me. No-one calling me up from university, begging me to tell them the secret of my special spaghetti sauce. No phone calls telling me I’m going to be a grandma. Asking me to baby-sit, to put the kids to bed, to tell the kids a story, to come to theirs for Christmas, to watching me glaze over and dribble in my dusty old chair while my teeth fall out of my mouth and my brain seeps out my arse.
No-one to give a fuck when I’ve finished being me, if I’m lucky enough to live a long time.
