No One Knows the Day or Hour

Sitting, in a chair. Watching him. Watching his hands. They don’t look like hands anymore. Not really.
Thin membrane holding blood and goo and bones and puss and ligaments and nerves and tissue and
all together. The membrane, getting thinner. Thin curtains on a sunny morning. Sunday. Vibrations,
making ripples in the fluids that lie under his skin, under the thin membrane that is holding everything
in place, together. Holding him. The threads running from his being into the ends of his fingers have
started to abrade. The trembling in your knees when you walk over a rope bridge, over a canyon, over
the abyss, and you can see the wear and tear of the wooden boards beneath your feet, the sounds of
the tension in the rope with each step. Your knees start shaking, involuntarily, it only adds to the

sounds and the tension and the fear and the shaking and all.
Losing control of my eyes. Can’t help but watch him, watch him vibrate. Vibrate through motions. My
eyes fluttering, the tremors transferring over to me through spectatorship. We tremble together. Him,
still vibrating. My eyes, finding his rhythm. The tremors, sneaking into my peripheral. Getting closer to
the center of my vision. Him. Smiling. Like a child, unaware of his surroundings, unaware of himself
within space. The space around him quivering. My peripheral vibrates violently. The center of my
focus, still. He doesn’t shake anymore. Everything else is a noise. Driving me mad. I look for the
source. Coming from within. I close my eyes. I feel it spreading. Moving slowly through the top of my
head, down through the back of my neck and into my spine, where it starts to spread into every inch
of my body. Asserting itself. Burrowing. I take a deep breath. It does nothing. I open my eyes again
and he is smiling at me, standing there. Still. Still not still. Still vibrating.
Smiling, he says something. It passes through me. I nod. Scared that my voice might tremble. Afraid
of becoming the tremor, like he has. The tremor is a part of him now, taking over, little by little.
Everyday the frequency gets higher, everyday the cup clanks a little louder in the saucer he brings
me. Walking towards me, gleefully. The sound is a sensory nightmare, overwhelming. He isn’t getting
any closer, still it gets louder with every step he doesn’t take. Why doesn’t he move forward? He is
trying. Is he? Is he losing his reception? Two bars left and counting. Please restart the router. I close
my eyes again.
He’s here. There. His destination. I smile back, reach out. Taking the saucer out of his hands, into
mine. Can’t bear that porcelain tremor anymore. The cup keeps shaking in the saucer, continuing its
noise, continuing its vibration. My hands pulsating on the brim of the saucer, pulsating with effort,
trying to silence the cup, silence myself. I shake with longing. Longing for placidity. The table. How do
I move this object to the table? Quickly? Steadily? No, steadily I cannot. I rule it out. Do I drop it?
Watch it shatter on this dark brown hardwood flooring, watch the force of the cup meet the strength
and stillness of the mahogany. Is it mahogany? How long have I been holding this saucer? Object.
Not long. I think. Holding my breath, it starts moving, as by miracle, with force, intention, convulsion.
What was I thinking about? Dropping it? No.
The saucer lands on the surface of the table. Almost slipping. It spills, just a little. As though it wanted
something, wanted to be dropped, wanted to break as much as I wanted to break it. I watch my hand.
still vibrating. Still not still. It moves up my elbow and into my shoulder, up my neck and into my head,
returning down into my eyes where they start to flutter. Flutter with the rhythm of my fingers. I close
them again. Breathing out a trembling sigh. Feeling my fingers regaining composure. Moving over
me, like warmth. I open my eyes and look at him. He’s still now. Still trembling. I pick up the cup again
and remove it from the saucer, just in case. In case what? I don’t want to think about it. His eyes
closed.