letter of the lamenting living
Mother of my ChildHood,
I am very well aware (with each passing hour) that if you were still alive you would be throughly ashamed of this woman i am so swiftly becoming. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of our relationship if i had known you as I grew older and more aware of the fault lines in the people surrounding me- if i would have resented your criticism and the conservative beliefs that only a reformed rebel can possess.
I know that if there is such an awareness after death, which i doubt quite gratefully, you are looking at me with disdain, disgust, and disapointment.
I, this petty common and cowardly creature so full of scandal and manipulation. Of course, I cannot blame you for these judgements- I make them myself. It is true, I am not the Woman I wish I were.
in my mind, however, i remain the wild little girl with the white blond hair coyly crumbling her bars of cheese and slyly sweeping the pieces under your tablecloth. wayward and willful and waiting for a little recognition.
In my mind, I am the impish lass painting your windows with my berry stained fingertips.
I am chasing the rainbows at the end of your yard and delighting in your pretenses of eating my carefully constructed mudpies. though perhaps tainted by the mayhem of my present, the girl who so adored you exists within me still. I feel her.
I felt her last year. my hand on boyd's trembling chest as i whispered in his ear stories of my sillyness. as i felt his heartbeat weaken under my palm. He was dying, suffering, and i wrapped your shawl around him and became again the delicate child within me holding on to your shawl and asking not to be left behind.
I feel her sometimes, watching my mother dissolve beneath the weight of reality. The little girl who exists inside of me, curled my feet- gripping animatedly to that silly stupid stuffed dog and wishing very much that she could go home to the lovely white farm house in Antrim. It is time, she reminds me, to feed the horses and hasn't it been too long since we've gone off to chase the geese?
I picture my inner child to be approx. the size and shape of your little granddaughter. Sometimes, for her sake, i wish that it were i who is missing out on you in her childhood rather then darling little Elena. Her parents are endlessly comparing little her to the feisty little monster who was little me.
But I am a selfish, greedy, wicked girl and these selfless thoughts are quickly washed away by the cool relief that i can still recall the pitches of your laughter and the softness of your whisper. I wish you had been here, for all our sakes. The injustice of illness seems so malevolent to me as i scribble out a letter that no one will ever read. I was 11 when you died, and if you met me now, this goddaughter of your own choosing, would you still love me?
the cheese crumbs are bigger these days and sexalcohollies do nothing to distill the swooshing empty places in my life.
Hillary calls. Breaks the serenity of my secret sadness and i am suddenly reminded that you are dead. been dead, will in all expectations- continue to be dead, and such confessions and memories are causeless.
I am very well aware (with each passing hour) that if you were still alive you would be throughly ashamed of this woman i am so swiftly becoming. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of our relationship if i had known you as I grew older and more aware of the fault lines in the people surrounding me- if i would have resented your criticism and the conservative beliefs that only a reformed rebel can possess.
I know that if there is such an awareness after death, which i doubt quite gratefully, you are looking at me with disdain, disgust, and disapointment.
I, this petty common and cowardly creature so full of scandal and manipulation. Of course, I cannot blame you for these judgements- I make them myself. It is true, I am not the Woman I wish I were.
in my mind, however, i remain the wild little girl with the white blond hair coyly crumbling her bars of cheese and slyly sweeping the pieces under your tablecloth. wayward and willful and waiting for a little recognition.
In my mind, I am the impish lass painting your windows with my berry stained fingertips.
I am chasing the rainbows at the end of your yard and delighting in your pretenses of eating my carefully constructed mudpies. though perhaps tainted by the mayhem of my present, the girl who so adored you exists within me still. I feel her.
I felt her last year. my hand on boyd's trembling chest as i whispered in his ear stories of my sillyness. as i felt his heartbeat weaken under my palm. He was dying, suffering, and i wrapped your shawl around him and became again the delicate child within me holding on to your shawl and asking not to be left behind.
I feel her sometimes, watching my mother dissolve beneath the weight of reality. The little girl who exists inside of me, curled my feet- gripping animatedly to that silly stupid stuffed dog and wishing very much that she could go home to the lovely white farm house in Antrim. It is time, she reminds me, to feed the horses and hasn't it been too long since we've gone off to chase the geese?
I picture my inner child to be approx. the size and shape of your little granddaughter. Sometimes, for her sake, i wish that it were i who is missing out on you in her childhood rather then darling little Elena. Her parents are endlessly comparing little her to the feisty little monster who was little me.
But I am a selfish, greedy, wicked girl and these selfless thoughts are quickly washed away by the cool relief that i can still recall the pitches of your laughter and the softness of your whisper. I wish you had been here, for all our sakes. The injustice of illness seems so malevolent to me as i scribble out a letter that no one will ever read. I was 11 when you died, and if you met me now, this goddaughter of your own choosing, would you still love me?
the cheese crumbs are bigger these days and sexalcohollies do nothing to distill the swooshing empty places in my life.
Hillary calls. Breaks the serenity of my secret sadness and i am suddenly reminded that you are dead. been dead, will in all expectations- continue to be dead, and such confessions and memories are causeless.