Everything in time.
Out on the balcony, I sat for a while, looking up. I was admiring the sky, which was light and bright blue, mostly, with soft brushes of white. In the distance, two gulls floated left to right, one in front of the other. I wondered if they were mates or mother and baby, squinting my eyes to see if I could get a closer look, and laughing at myself for my effort. The flight pattern was an elegant choreography; the one trailing behind seemed to follow and match every move, and I allowed myself to get lost in the sight of them. The pair of them, together but apart. Free.
Everything in time.
And then something shifts.
All yesterday I kept saying to myself and, out loud or in text, to anyone who would listen: I just don't know what happened to me. These words were said about my appearance and my overall miserable feeling; my loneliness, my ache. I do and do not know how much I've contributed to this atmosphere of myself.
Finally being out on my own with no partner and getting my own house at the age of 45 was certainly overwhelming. When I moved into my house over two years ago I immediately decided I was not going to paint over the clouds in what had obviously been the kids room. I said I wanted to "take back my childhood" there. I didn't really know what that would entail at the time. I'm realizing now there have been a lot of things that I've done in that room that may have been spurred by my subconscious, and definitely have to do with nesting and nurturing myself.Read More
That time I slept with G last summer, it wasn’t like I’d imagined.
We had talked about it, G and me, what it would be like to see each other again after so long. “We would probably fall into each other’s arms.” He said, more than once. I grasped at those words and stapled them to my heart.
Between you and me.
There is a space of flesh just beneath my navel, to the right, and above my hip bone that holds a constellation of freckles, or beauty marks as my mother used to call them. It looks like Orion’s Belt.
Once, when I was a little girl, around eight-year’s old, or maybe it was ten, someone told me to go count them, all the freckles, all the beauty marks. Because, they said, if I had more than a hundred, I was beautiful.
So I logged onto FB this morning as I so often do, and one of my "friends" decided to say, "LGBT+ is a political fascism weapon prove me wrong". I had to stare at that for a few minutes in dumbfounded silence before my initial reaction was both disgust and overwhelming pity for his stupidity.
The man who was once a boy that raped the once girl that was me has a daughter.
I know this because Facebook told me in the language of a single frame.
As it happened, his face appeared on my timeline as one of Facebook’s helpful suggestions of people I might know, people I might want to friend. After a moment of hesitation, I clicked on his picture. Then, I read his name to myself, scanning his face, his eyes, that smile, all the same. I heard his voice in my ear threaten: If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you--as if it were yesterday and not twenty years ago. The non-linearity of our lives and our memories, and how they move and crash upon one another is beautiful and terrifying and fantastic and strange.
When my friend, David, was a wee lad, a quest of his mother’s inquired of him, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Without hesitation, he replied, “a woman.”
Raindrops cling to the underside of the balcony railing, and I’m struck: everything is fragile. Everything is in wait for that precise, perfect moment. All it takes is…
I miss the sea.
I try not to be overtly political, but these abortion bans have been weighing heavily on my mind. I hear a lot of radio silence from my Christian friends. So much so that it is alarming.Read More