This is the thing about mothers.
They’re a blanket for so long. They make the best pumpkin bread and they do your hair too poofy and littlekiddish and they’re the ones you should avoid when you want to ask for something like going back outside after dinner or getting Reeses in the checkout line at the car wash. They teach you the harmonies to stuff like You Are My Sunshine and Amy Grant and they have the prettiest voices that sound like falling asleep with the window open. They’re M-O-M and that’s the only title, that’s it, so Mary or Baby or Somebody’s Ex or Daughter or Crazy seem foreign and wrong wrong wrong. You want to correct the speaker- Her name is MOM.
Then that day happens- you both give a real, genuine belly laugh at something. The same something. It’s startling and you like it but you hate it sometimes. Because you laugh more and more, and soon you’re getting Cranberry Limeades after the 8th grade play practice together everyday like best buds and she starts saying kind of bad words (like ****** and **** that sound like she swallowed something wrong or they tasted bad (at least to you), and it reminds you of when you used to play “who can go the highest on the swingset,” and you tried to be brave but you had that feeling one day someone would accidentally go all the way over. And you keep on tripping over all these laughs that keep bumping you closer to her age and it’s like she’s coming closer to yours, too. And then some of those names people always called them start to maybe make a little more sense. Maybe they do look a little like a Mary, a little, only when they’re telling a story.
See, be careful though, because this is where things get tricky. Mary and Mom live inside the same body, and separating them out is dangerous because you’ll start to run out of room. When they go from Mrs. to Miss, for example, and their last name changes and is different from yours- you have to make sure you can still fit Miss inside that one little body. And worse, when the others start to use words like Crazy or Lost, who aren’t allowed in the same zip code much less body as names like Mom and Hunny pretty soon you’ll forget who you’re talking to and when you’re talking to Mary about your “first time” then Mom steps in the whole dynamic shifts and Daughter speaks up to say too much about Grammy’s drinking and Crazy leaves dad and stops making sense altogether with words like “new” and “change” and
“own person”.
So when they call to ask if you got the Valentines flowers, tell her they were beautiful and tell her you miss her, cause Mom sent those. And if you keep them on the line long enough and they talk about their fight with their sister or some thick, sticky gossip they overheard, it’s Mary, so respond accordingly. But they aim their fakesmilevoice at you (that’s just for the phone and church) and talk about “trying something new” or feeling like you’re the only one they can “bounce ideas off of”, clench your jaw and “mhm” and lay down so the tears don’t fall out. Cause sometimes Crazy just needs to wear herself out so that M-O-M can say she loves you, she’s so, so sorry and she misses you dearly. And that we’re gonna get through this, baby, we’re strong.
When you hang up, you’re allowed to cry some. That’s fine. Then you write a letter you don’t send (don’t dare, it’d **** her) and ask a few of them, gently, to move out.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
I’m laying here thinking, writing,
Face half-buried in a pillow you hugged earlier and the spicy, wild, human smell of your deodorant is getting me drunk and drowsy,
Seeping in, stirring wilderness into my blood,
Moving,
Vibrating my bones.
My eyelids are falling; it’s 4 at least.
You look back again, smile and kiss air and mouth, “Go to sleep.”
I’ve never cared for big muscles,
But your shoulders are changing my mind, shrug by shrug.
It’s the valley between them, I think, at the base of your neck,
The neck that brings me back to the trunk of the trees I used to climb back home.
Like the old days.
And you’re still the new days,
Even after all this time. You’re still something new.
The warm, yellow glow of the desk lamp melts waves down your back as the keyboard clicks and clicks against silence and I breathe in again, deep, and sleep.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
I think she sings. I think that’s how she does it. We’ve never heard it, but there’s a feeling you can almost hear as the sun comes, a buzz maybe, a current. She might be singing, that might be her.
I think she knows him, I think they’ve had lunch a time or two, or she might stop by his place from time to time. Like Bridge friends, but maybe deeper, because he wasn’t there when it all went down, so it might be a guilt thing. Maybe if he had pushed ahead, been there to see, maybe they would’ve stopped. Because it would be a different story if it didn’t storm. I don’t know if they’d have done it on a sunny Friday afternoon.
I think that’s it, I think he owes her one. I think he has to shine because he didn’t once when it mattered, and maybe she asked, begged him, screamed, but maybe he couldn’t, because it is what it is. So maybe he owes her one, or a thousand ones, and I think he might feel terrible, because it’s been so long but there she stands.
I think she doesn’t sing, now that I think of it. I think she cries. I think the buzz is the tear he comes to dry.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
See here: I’ve been to Arkansas, and New Orleans at Mardi Gras. I’ve traveled south of Panama, did Dublin, Thames, and Wichita, I went, I saw, though full of awe, I couldn’t help but find such flaw in everything and all. An outlaw in my old rickshaw I draw my paths and highways, y’all, and always come back home. I’ve seen the summer, felt the fall, I love the fields and hate the mall I rob from Peter, pay back Paul and haven’t found the wherewithal to turn **** in on time. I do recall a cell phone call, and built up walls to break the fall, lose a little, lose it all, the breaking down, the overhaul, now take me up to Montreal, I’ll see you in the spring.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Home is now debatable.
Is it the nest? Is it what you know
You knew? And is it through
Or do we keep it alive?
Is it the 4 or 5 that stayed
That wait
For those that went away?
Or the phone calls every day
Or every other?
Is it the time since last month’s break,
Or the countdown til next summer?
How many minutes does it take
Before the phone lines start to break
And the miles start to ache
And take
Our minds to where we’ve traveled?
And is the traveling in the staying here,
Even through weeks and months and years?
Are we “away” in day to day living?
Or is the vacation part Thanksgiving?
When going back becomes a trip,
We pack to go, and “home” might slip
And every shock makes it harder to admit
We’re becoming comfortable.
Look, I’m not saying that I’m letting go.
It’s just debatable,
You know?
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
swollen eyes and heavy hearts
rearview mirrors only go so far
and at this rate it's fading fast
that dead end sign we blew right by
took faces, places, sobered nights
took polaroids of us
"don't shake too fast, that's all a myth,"
like thinking that a tighter grip
could take laugh lines and my film strips
could make what was, what is
and if what was is what will be
then what's with all the sympathy?
distance is the greatest time
between 2 thoughts or just 2 minds
or something else along those lines
what if what happens next defines
rather than what happened last?
and what if breaks don't intertwine?
the 3rd, 14th? cause i'm the 9th
but where does that leave this?
swollen hearts and heavy eyes
one beer, 2 beers, guitars don't lie
that basement shook with "us" that night
i felt that, feel it still
that was then and this is now,
but then's still in my now somehow.
just don't lose was when making your new is.
so if what was is what will be
then what's with all the sympathy?
find that niche and make it yours
draw the walls and write the floors
add, fight, fix up windows and doors
and make you more of you
cause more of you brings us much more
more heartbeat in that basement floor
more fire, more to love you for
you're making me so proud
swollen eyes and heavy hearts
we're drunk on was and miles apart
we'll be alright, this part's just hard
what was is what will be.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
I.
You have to taste the words
like salt or earth
And chew them up and let them grind between your teeth
Let them crumble, coagulate.
II.
Know them, then introduce yourself.
Court them and waltz them and spoon under moons
and breathe in their air;
their atmosphere.
III.
Comb your fingers through them
and braid them and pinch them;
Let them drip sticky down to your elbows,
Let them stain and run, away even.
IV.
Leave them when it’s too much.
And kick them, and scream
And scream
Until you’re hoarse and the tears stop,
Until you know they know,
Until you can both take a deep breath and sleep through the night.
Then tomorrow:
Spit them out.
Sit them down.
Whisper a secret,
and watch.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC