It may take twenty years for her to see that I did fight. The best I could. Painfully silent.
I was so young. My sister's hands were fumbling around my lap, searching for the seatbelt. Not even two miles down the road - it seemed like we were in the backseat for hours. Wondering why my mother was angry with us. The three of us, small children, stood on his lawn staring at each other. His enormous dog. White with mis-shapen grey patches. I didn't know what sort of dog he was then. I didn't even know there were different sorts. Even now, I don't think I want to know. It would be easy - but I like not knowing, still. Our mothers were crying. Embracing over cardboard boxes. We didn't know what we had done to make them so sad. He had a blue baseball cap on. I never saw him again.
The ride home was quick. My mother ushered us into the house and didn't speak to us the rest of the day. She served us lunch with swollen eyes. She snapped at my father. She had lost a good friend to distance. It is grievous to say that, tonight, I know exactly.
We did nothing. The hurt of great loss (for my mother - for me) disguises itself as anger. Coldness.
And, now, I just want to be left alone.
Loss reminds you of itself. The many forms it has come to you in in the past. Reminds you that you will see it again. And over again. Until you become it.
Something seems wrong. Vitamins are making me ill. Sleep is making me tired. Ginger turns my stomach. The five o'clock sun is so fucking intrusive. I heard someone declare their love of autumn today and I didn't care. My writing has changed. I don't even mind if you understand anymore. Someone has snipped the wrong wire.
Loss. What have I already lost? The sensation of tiny elbows jabbing my womb. Six pounds of grace against my chest. Coos. The elation of first words, steps and giggles. Diapers. There's no need for them anymore. A big girl. She was just my baby - just yesterday.
And what more is there? What did I lose that morning, just days ago, when she sat on my hip and I allowed myself to be belittled - right in front of her? To be made small - so much less than she needs me to be. Will that be her telling memory of my character? Will she wonder, as she grows, why I didn't defend myself? Why I didn't fight? What did I lose that morning? But rather, what did she? And if it's nothing lost for me, but instead that someone else, it is still excruciating. To know that she has lost - already. I can play and sing and give her clean sheets. But I cannot protect her. And so I know why my mother didn't speak to us that day.
I just want to be alone. To enter Pollock's quiet nest. To smell it's lavender. To close my eyes and imagine the soft fuzz on her arms changing to feathers. At dawn Sunday morning. On a rooftop. She will flash through the hazy sky and circle our home. Claire will wait each week by her bedroom window for just a glimpse of this white bird. The one who sent her a soft, red heart. And when she sees she will return to her bed. And it will be their secret.
The ride home was quick. My mother ushered us into the house and didn't speak to us the rest of the day. She served us lunch with swollen eyes. She snapped at my father. She had lost a good friend to distance. It is grievous to say that, tonight, I know exactly.
We did nothing. The hurt of great loss (for my mother - for me) disguises itself as anger. Coldness.
And, now, I just want to be left alone.
Loss reminds you of itself. The many forms it has come to you in in the past. Reminds you that you will see it again. And over again. Until you become it.
Something seems wrong. Vitamins are making me ill. Sleep is making me tired. Ginger turns my stomach. The five o'clock sun is so fucking intrusive. I heard someone declare their love of autumn today and I didn't care. My writing has changed. I don't even mind if you understand anymore. Someone has snipped the wrong wire.
Loss. What have I already lost? The sensation of tiny elbows jabbing my womb. Six pounds of grace against my chest. Coos. The elation of first words, steps and giggles. Diapers. There's no need for them anymore. A big girl. She was just my baby - just yesterday.
And what more is there? What did I lose that morning, just days ago, when she sat on my hip and I allowed myself to be belittled - right in front of her? To be made small - so much less than she needs me to be. Will that be her telling memory of my character? Will she wonder, as she grows, why I didn't defend myself? Why I didn't fight? What did I lose that morning? But rather, what did she? And if it's nothing lost for me, but instead that someone else, it is still excruciating. To know that she has lost - already. I can play and sing and give her clean sheets. But I cannot protect her. And so I know why my mother didn't speak to us that day.
I just want to be alone. To enter Pollock's quiet nest. To smell it's lavender. To close my eyes and imagine the soft fuzz on her arms changing to feathers. At dawn Sunday morning. On a rooftop. She will flash through the hazy sky and circle our home. Claire will wait each week by her bedroom window for just a glimpse of this white bird. The one who sent her a soft, red heart. And when she sees she will return to her bed. And it will be their secret.
posted by Floge at 2:38 PM
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