The Way You Look Tonight

Briana Winklaar

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“Yes, you’re lovely, with your smile so warm

And your cheeks so soft…”

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When I was young she used to sing. My mother. She was always singing. She would lay next to me methodically caressing my hair, enveloping me in arms that imitated a horizon and sing into my ear until slumber whisked me away. The song was always the same, The Way You Look Tonight by a man with a pompadour. I could almost see his face I was at the cusp of remembering his name, but the feed wasn’t filling in the blanks. It hadn’t been for quite some time now.

This song had yet to leave me despite all the other things that were. My mother told me her grandfather sung it to her when she was a little girl. She said that when she first saw me that song was all that she could think about. Her feed was unmasked so everyone around heard it, some people sang along.

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                                       “There is nothing for me to love but you…”               

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She has been gone some time now. Days, months, years. I can’t really remember when she left anymore. I can only remember the pain. I can only remember the longing now. I realized that it’s (almost) all over and all I really want is her. That and Titus. He’s left me too. Everything is taking its leave. The feed is parting with me and taking me with it. Piece by piece. I can’t do anything for myself. Weeks ago my left leg stopped working, then my right. And after that both my hands, my arms, then my speech. Now I can’t even blink. My eyes are always open but I can’t move them. I can see things but only whats in my immediate vision. I can still hear but I can’t see where the noise is coming from. Noise is close to the only thing that will stay with me until the end. Ever since I got the feed there has been noise.

It was quiet. Once. For seven years there was a kind of quiet. When I think back it’s hard to hear. When I think back I can’t hear it. Not really. I try to remember how it was before the noise, before the chatter. And, I almost can. I see myself outside in the bounce pods in my backyard. I’m smaller and I’m bouncing. My movements sporadic and erratic. It’s almost, almost quiet. But, in the undertones I hear it. It’s not even a whisper.

“Be impulsive. Be unpredictable. Be random. Be BOUNCE! Buy a Bounce Bounce Bounce Pod. You won’t reg…”

I was young. Five, four maybe. Years before I got the feed.  Yet in my memory , in whisper it's there. Undertones of the feed.

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                                       “And the way you look tonight…”               

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