"- don't be so quick to knock it. People don't usually part with the weird shit they personally know because they know how easy it will be to punch holes in. Now I'm tellin you somethin. It's for you to poke through the soup and find the meat." John Patrick Shanley's 'the dreamer examines his pillow'

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

2:01 am, Intimate insufficient record of time with mother

We sat on the couch and drank deep glasses of red wine – she cried, out of laughter, at Notting Hill.
And, I’m sure she cried for the same reason I did. Her soft freckled arm over my shoulders, knees all mingled together, my head resting on her chest in a spot that could only have been fashioned for me – it’s always been there. Her worn hands are beautiful. As we lay in bed, our bodies stretched out next to one another - mine longer than hers, which feels both awkward and right – there are more tears spilling out into the creases next to her eyes, little flute lullabies next to those clear green eyes…
Her hair is as short and sticking out as ever. She looks fabulous.
Her skin is so familiar … I am her.
She’s laying on the bed and I’m sitting at the end watching her laugh and smile and expect me to join as she tells about her trials at the airport, (which are given a rosy and slightly exaggerated hue by the alcohol and love and weariness running through her veins). And I feel myself in her more than I do in me – God, look at her. I don’t know whose eyes I’m seeing myself through, but there I am. Me, on the bed. Stranger looking on.
She goes to sleep, and she is a baby, dark head turned away and yellow blankets rising and falling.
Vulnerable, weak, momma. One who let the velvet part of her heart show tonight, as did I. The scary part that loves and holds so tight pain doesn’t matter. That presses hand close against my cheek so I can’t hear the movie at all and I don’t move one inch.

God! I haven’t… oh god, to feel her arms around me… to know there were no ulterior motives, to play with her hair with my fingers and kiss her worn face, oh god, and to hear her laugh all sharp and loud in my ear, and her whole body shakes and feet are suddenly off the floor and on my lap – so much! There is more than enough inside her to throw her body around when she lets it out through a laugh… God, I love her.

There she is next to me, bones and heart and flesh, and so much more than I can see. Tonight I was nothing but me so I could see her and not be distracted by my concrete wall self – I am nothing, and she birthed me, and she is nothing, and I love her.

There must be some punishment for feeling this much joy. It can’t be possible.

2 Comments:

Blogger Jennifer said...

beauty itself in a moment of writing.

12:00 PM

 
Blogger Lenny said...

Damn, girl. You can write.

11:13 PM

 

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