Her skin is soft, petal thin, folded from years in the sun, receding to showcase her cornflower blue eyes and jutting cheekbones. She was my mother, for awhile. My brother's sister. She tells me I was the best thing to happen to him. And argues when I take the can from her warped hands to open it smoothly.
I’ve just realized that she loves me not because she has to, but because of who I am. This petite spitfire dressed in pastels and khaki, zooming about on her motorized scooter, shocking me with her humor, love, and acceptance.
She is always cold, and I am always warm. I wish I could cup my hand, scoop out some of my heat and leave it with her. I wish I could stay and keep walking her dog, and helping her fold sheets. I wish I could fall into the fields and the wide sky and leave the city behind. Just move the arm of the phonograph but keep the record spinning, no music just the whoosh-whoosh of time passing.
I left. I cried when the dog sulked by the door at the sight of suitcases. I went into airports I'd travelled through so many times before. I carried bags too heavy and breathed air over used. Now I am home wanting to be held and feeling all alone, stroking a wound freshly healed.
2 comments:
Reading what you write is just awe-inspiring. You are full of talent when it comes to writing that just has me dropping my jaw constantly.
I am humbled by your praise. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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