it's kind of like a short story...
I sit here in the warm, dim gray between the toilet and the shower. Saline tears burn the deep cracks in my lips. What of my being so offends you? Why do my human errs lead to your rage? How do I fix myself to make you happy? What do I do?
I should not have said I wanted the brownie. Mistake number one-my selfishness. I should not have put the box back on the counter. Mistake number two-my thoughtlessness. I should have told him. Mistake number three-my loss of words. I should have just eaten the brownie. No. I should have just let him eat it in the first place. It was just a brownie.
Of these occurrences, this one in particular wounds me most deeply. A sharp pain of misunderstanding and childlike innocence matches that of the deep line in my skin. I often feign my lack of comprehension, mentally retracing a series of minor mishaps and events leading up to the grand finale. But the cause of this truly eludes me.
My mind steps back slowly one, two, twenty steps. It gropes blindly in the shadows of memory, hoping for a single hand to lead it out of this confusing tangle of gray matter. The search ends in vain, my mind caught within its own treacherous confines. I resign myself to this warm, dim gray once again.
I feel my puffy eyes beneath the sticky taughtness of my dried tears. Staring ahead, seeing nothing but the shiny tunnel of yellow through my imperfect vision, i hear your voices drift to me down the hall. You have moved on. Words of work and the hectic professional life carry the conversation. Not your work. Mom’s work. What you do with your time, I know not, yet i still read inadequacy when i read the words written in your eyes. My inadequacy. My imperfection. I wonder if Jews and cripples felt the same when they saw Hitler?
A pain shoots through my wrist, so I pause. Leaning my head against my tucked knees, I inhale the distinct smell of graphite and paper. I decipher the scent of an old perfume I once wore, mingled with a faint odor of burning wood and cigarette smoke. These pages have borne witness to me at my best and at my worst. Unfortunately, they have seen more of my worst. This has been one intense ride. And so it continues to be.
I rise from my space on the floor, feeling suddenly vulnerable and unsteady on my feet. I make a crude mental note as i notice the distinctive print my butt has left on the small rug. I stare at my reflection in the bluish light that has morphed the dim gray. Examining my body, I take in the baby fat around my tummy and thighs that I cannot seem to lose. The widening of my hips. The transition from a lean, muscular upper body to a soft, round waist. I look intently upon my face, seeing the dark circles and deep lines etched around my eyes. I notice an aged quality in their depths, weariness, perhaps, which i wonder whether others perceive. They are my father’s eyes.
Exhausted by my own image, I silently slip across the hall.
I should not have said I wanted the brownie. Mistake number one-my selfishness. I should not have put the box back on the counter. Mistake number two-my thoughtlessness. I should have told him. Mistake number three-my loss of words. I should have just eaten the brownie. No. I should have just let him eat it in the first place. It was just a brownie.
Of these occurrences, this one in particular wounds me most deeply. A sharp pain of misunderstanding and childlike innocence matches that of the deep line in my skin. I often feign my lack of comprehension, mentally retracing a series of minor mishaps and events leading up to the grand finale. But the cause of this truly eludes me.
My mind steps back slowly one, two, twenty steps. It gropes blindly in the shadows of memory, hoping for a single hand to lead it out of this confusing tangle of gray matter. The search ends in vain, my mind caught within its own treacherous confines. I resign myself to this warm, dim gray once again.
I feel my puffy eyes beneath the sticky taughtness of my dried tears. Staring ahead, seeing nothing but the shiny tunnel of yellow through my imperfect vision, i hear your voices drift to me down the hall. You have moved on. Words of work and the hectic professional life carry the conversation. Not your work. Mom’s work. What you do with your time, I know not, yet i still read inadequacy when i read the words written in your eyes. My inadequacy. My imperfection. I wonder if Jews and cripples felt the same when they saw Hitler?
A pain shoots through my wrist, so I pause. Leaning my head against my tucked knees, I inhale the distinct smell of graphite and paper. I decipher the scent of an old perfume I once wore, mingled with a faint odor of burning wood and cigarette smoke. These pages have borne witness to me at my best and at my worst. Unfortunately, they have seen more of my worst. This has been one intense ride. And so it continues to be.
I rise from my space on the floor, feeling suddenly vulnerable and unsteady on my feet. I make a crude mental note as i notice the distinctive print my butt has left on the small rug. I stare at my reflection in the bluish light that has morphed the dim gray. Examining my body, I take in the baby fat around my tummy and thighs that I cannot seem to lose. The widening of my hips. The transition from a lean, muscular upper body to a soft, round waist. I look intently upon my face, seeing the dark circles and deep lines etched around my eyes. I notice an aged quality in their depths, weariness, perhaps, which i wonder whether others perceive. They are my father’s eyes.
Exhausted by my own image, I silently slip across the hall.