Monday, August 13, 2007

After some time she spoke

Not of what I wanted to hear but what she could no longer suppress. When reality intrudes on sailing off of stone, she falls back on her chair, without the crash but the whimper lingers longer anyway.

And never quite goes away.

But comes back at intervals when she’s playing songs that remind her of a home which has never quite been, though the illusion has still lodged itself on her lopsided brain. A slippery thread which nips at her beaten, oafish feet. Is home really what you make of it, where you find it, with whom you find it? What if you’re never in a place that feels like home, your friends are transitory five line hellos now and then, you’re always seen as different wherever you go, and your loves have expiration dates you can time with a clock. What do you do then?

In other words, the distress of wishing to be there and not here. Though there has a tendency - almost like magic - black voodoo magic if you ask me - to turn into here.

When you’re an impostor in your own skin, which still pleads for the comfort of a home, whiny little child that it is, wailing at the compromises in between. Only momentarily stultified.

She asks me, in all earnestness, what it’s all about.

Oh no. Not today, not even someday - a vault of nots for what may.

At the end I'm tired and I wish she'd shut up.

But then she has a daughter. And what do I know about daughters, except for liking the sound of them. Always a promise when you hear it, that maybe, just maybe, that's the daughter for you. Like the daughter you rode five neighborhoods thru just for a quick hello soaked with kisses if you were lucky - which you often were.

But now gray fringes a bald head she uses as an egg to check her reflection.


Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Beautiful reflections, your writing is lovely.

Madeleine said...

I appreciate that, Sue. Stop by again when the mood strikes.

LiteraryMinded said...

The awareness of there's ability to turn into here.
So true :-)