Motherhood
When I found out your mother
died, I thought back to five
summers ago. We were sitting
by the tabernacle. I was looking
at the pews, sturdy oak and
conviction, and my palms were
sweating. You were chewing
spearmint gum, smacking it against
your braces (you shouldn't have
chewed gum with braces). Our hair and
faces were much lighter then.
I thought about how young your mother
was when you were born, the same age as
you that summer. You were more reserved
than her, too timid to dip your toes in
my cyan pools as you gazed at me. Not even the
slightest touch because you would stir
ripples, and I would scamper away like a
whitetail on an early November morning.
I was timid, too.
On occasion, I think of your family. Adoptive
father, two blond little sisters, and a baby
boy whom I have never seen. I even feel sorry
for you, once blossoming, now thrust into a
tormenting motherhood. Your petals have wilted
with circumstance. Your father cries over
your mother's grave, and you are unsure of
what to do next.
But most of all, I think of how you have
lost your timidness, and I still have mine.
I wear it as a necklace that reaches down to
my chest, tucked underneath my shirt, cold
despite the warmth of my body. You buried
yours beside that tabernacle, and it's
still there.
fuck. yes.
ReplyDeletevery good, friend.