This Business of Untangling

I used to look forward to epiphanies that begin with “at the end of the day…” but lately, they have been escaping even before I could acknowledge them, perhaps because they are too many or perhaps because there is no “end” of the day anymore. Lately, it seems as though the conclusions of each day are reduced into a quiet dwindling— a dot, dot, dot—no longer the definitive closure brought about by a deep sigh and then, sleep.

 There is no lull inside my head, even in that thin strip between wakefulness and sleep. There is a singular forceful thought that squirms and complains, “There is too much untangling to do”. I often yield, and lie awake, for hours and hours, buried deep in this business of untangling.

There is too much untangling to do. There are too many thoughts about people, thoughts about people’s reactions, and thoughts about people’s reactions to reactions, thoughts about wrong reactions, quick reactions, fake reactions, right people, mean people, friendly people, thoughts running around, thoughts staying put, thoughts covering other thoughts, fantastic thoughts, practical thoughts, blasphemous thoughts, thoughts about lists, thoughts about lies, big lies, small lies, big brains, tiny brains, loud people, proud people, dancing people, sick people, fat people, people with shiny heads, poor people, old people, dead people, crazy people, people with diabetes, people with tangled hair, people with tangled, tangled hair, thoughts about people with too many judgments to assign, many, many, many judgments waiting for their turn, judgments raising their hands, judgments jumping up and down, me, me, pick me, ruthless judgments, people with judgments, always with judgments in spite of their tangled thoughts tangled with feelings tangled with fears tangled with insecuritiestangledwithfrustrationstangledwithsickpeoplewithtangledhair. 

 Eventually, though, I manage to tire myself out only to slip into dreaming. Once, days after we buried her, I dreamed of my dead grandma, wanting to come inside the house. She was knocking on the front door very persistently (which was very un-ghostly when you think of it). She was in her favorite white shirt and her loose black pants, and some of her hair strayed to her face as she knocked and knocked. I woke up in a fit of mirthless laughter. I found it really preposterous that I conjured her in my dream with untangled hair. When my grandma had become too sick to get out of bed, her hair became so tangled it became a stubborn solid mass of white and gray. We couldn’t undo it no matter what we did. When she died, we buried her in the lacy white dress I bought her, and her tangled hair.

 The truth is I have developed a fear of tangled things. Several weeks ago, when my mom fell ill, her hair became so tangled too. I tried for days to untangle it. It was a chore devoid of method or order, but I would do it anyway. I would pull a chair by her bed and I would patiently loosen the tangled mess. As my fingers worked in the foreign roughness, my mind would sift through the thoughts in my head.

And the business of untangling would begin again.