at a desk
i remember it was raining, i was 4 years old.
my childhood yard is foggy and gray, muddy and inundated with moss and clover and bittercress. the rabbits love mustard greens and nettle and under the chipped-paint back porch. the swing-set grows lichen, rusted chains and leaf littered platforms. neighborhood kids are scared to play on it, but it remains for the squirrels. plastic windowpanes frame this view, childhood really isn't that bad. there's just a lot i actively try not to remember while experiencing it.
we painted wooden trains because of my mother. we did almost everything because of her. and it was raining, such a good activity to do when we couldn't play outside. what a wonderful problem to have, to have to paint wooden trains with those I love, because the flowers had to grow.
we painted the trains supernova colors or neat orderly lines. now dust collects on them. when are toys forgotten? is it a gradual decline, or a sudden shift one day? do they ever think it was their fault? i need to play with them, move their paint-sealed lips. so they were not created in vain, they can speak and breathe.
in the desk were muddled crayons and pencil shavings, journals i never knew what to do with. everything smelled like those pencil boxes from school, of reforested cedar. sharp and woody, how can i justify learning times tables with a reclaimed forest? shiny gray graphite rubs off on my little hands. i am little, and i am not.
around the desk were my mothers plants, some quietly hanging brass bells in the frosted chandelier. home is always full of glass, colors, rainbows, vintage mohogany and soft white cotton linens. places i want to roll around on, analyze every seam like a fine art piece. or someone in a mental asylum. a historic place, where rabbits and crows and squirrels are buried in the yard. a historic place, where grandfather dogs are sleeping under juniper bushes. i remember their cardboard shoe boxes, the chain dangling from the unfinished basement ceiling's pipes. nothing marks their graves but our memory, what is more beautiful than a mind's image? an untitled art piece?
at that time the carpet was wall-to-wall, before dad ripped it up and we saw old nail holes like constellations under the basement ceiling. the carpet was a ***** cream color i could dig my toes and fingers in. what a good problem to still have baby toys, to have parents 40 years older than me. to have time and to hold. to love other people's children because i chose to explore and make art and make mistakes. the baby toys haven't moved, a lot hasn't. crystallized or petrified, how could i be that special to another person?
the trees were growing in the yard, but you don't realize what is temporary until you outgrow it... it was a hot summer and i was sitting in an old ford 1960 green XL that smelled like old gasoline and mold, decaying basketballs and leather baking in the sun. i love everything about you, old friend. i'm sorry my education cost your life. im sorry i care and i don't make a lot of money, you sacrificed so much. gray and white and black. now we go back.
to the left of the desk, a mahogany cabinet with pinewood derby cars, preserved pink and white wedding flowers float in a glass dome, speckled glass hearts refract light quietly on the shelf, and model cars sit neatly stacked, locked away with an ornate key in the wooden bowl. like my great grandmothers books, margaret, who was my mother's most beloved second mom. i wish i knew when i was younger how much you meant to her. we climbed on your grave where your husband's ashes were hidden. i wish to cook with lots of crisco and live with my sister in a house with a white gravel driveway, alone, playing piano and painting. the shattered kitchen floor linoleum and creaky attic fans in your old kentucky house are all that i have of you. i'm sorry family politics destroyed that house you loved so much. i love it now more than i would have ever guessed.
art crafted by 4 children shimmered on the walls with pencil marks and stickers, ceramic tiles above the fireplace we seldom lit. it feels like a pool being rained on, slowly being added to while losing definition in the picture reflected back. dog fur clouded the periphery of the staircase perpetually, what a good issue to have. he overate and didnt go on enough walks and wasnt in our beds enough, where he wasn't allowed. his ashes are being buried with my mom.
if only there was more time to sit and be bored, waiting to grow. if only quality time was a commodity, not a luxury. if only i unplugged this computer and fell asleep, thinking of nothing but open green trails lined with trillium and wildflowers, being outside and having time.
i sat at my small wooden desk, facing the window where bunnies played. bored and impatient, i made a mental note to remember what it feels like to be 4 years old. i remember thinking about kangaroos, as if that was important. looking back, it really was.
i am now 25 years old. time moves like sunset colors, don't wait an instant. the lines on my face are monet's haystacks he kept going back to, the light constantly in flux. i spend my time with 4 year olds, they play and eat and sleep. i watch their faces, thinking of how old and young they seem. i draw their outlines in crayola pencil for them, soon to be scribbled over. how sweetly they annotate their likeness with my moments. how aware and unaware. i cradle them when they cry, dance with them when they're happy, read to them and sing to them. i don't feel like i'm good at my job. i care and i spend time with them, holding them and their strangeness. i ask them questions and get swept away. i follow stories and am healing. i missed a lot, i tried to fit in and be quiet. when did i start? when do i stop? with them, i can't help but be myself. i have to.
driving on the highway, my father pointed at a break in the clouds, sunlight spilling through onto a distant forested hillside. "grace!" he'd say, full of optimism. i never asked, but is grace the gap in the clouds? the light, or the land receiving the light? i want to weave my body through the ribbons of sunlight, hold them and tie a firm knot. how it feels to feel. to hold and be held, suspended, full of grace. maybe someone went to heaven, maybe someone is being blessed. hearing joy wash over my father's voice, we were definitely blessed. we were already in heaven. i'm already made of light, i come to realize. take a photo, receive it. be taken and given to. my reflection again in your eyes. yours in mine.
i want the mundanity the gory the true the real. i can't live at a desk, i have to write i have to remember i have to feel. i have to save them. i feel no joy looking at screen, tapping keyboard, clicking mouse. i watch a window, hear the pitter patter of rain, and finger-paint the same spot over and over again. tap, tap, tap.
the voices talk to me. (it's glitter paint, by the way. and sisters are singing.)
i cried when my wisdom teeth were taken out piece by piece because my mom took care of me, like i was forgiven. i need my guilt absolved. i need to be held and to cry in a woman's arms. the children fall and feel sad and lonely and call their mother's name. never once an "our father". i pick yellow flowers from the garden, put them at her place.
i am a mother and a daughter and a sister before all. i've known this lesson for quite some time, and i am strong. i have to be for them. ******* donald trump is president and i have to be. i have to be. i have to be. i have to be. for HER. FOR HER. FOR HER. FOREVER FOR HER.
wanting to quit my desk job i stayed here late to read this why