Tuesday, April 27, 2010


My mother wants to know if I want to look through anything else -- no, I’m done for the night; we can do more tomorrow. You’re done because of my agitation, she says. Right. It bothers you, she says. Yes, it does. It really bothers you, she says. Yes.

I’m sorry, she says. I apologize. I don’t know what to do.

I don’t say: it makes me feel like a little kid, like I want to cry. I don’t say: I’m worried that I’m still holding it all in my body, this is where everything started. But I also don’t say: it’s okay. Or: thank you for apologizing.

All we were doing was packing boxes, it could be fun and nurturing and relaxing, wrapping up beautiful things, histories, in paper towels, bubble wrap, figuring out the right fit. For a minute my mother looks lost, here on the patio. I wish I didn’t have to depend on her to help me with these simple tasks that break me; she breaks me more.

Maybe my mother is going to say something, but I break the silence: would you mind turning on those lights? She goes to take a bath, I go downstairs to breathe; I’m trying to cry. When I come back upstairs, she says: I’m more relaxed now, do you want to look at anything? No, we can do that tomorrow. But then she’s opening cabinets anyway -- these glasses, those cloth napkins, these plates. Somehow it’s fun again, and I don’t exactly know why.

My mother says: there’s so much to do, you could be here for another week. But you didn’t even want me to come this long. I know, she says, but I was wrong -- you could come for another week. You wanted me to come for three days, you told me it wasn’t possible for me to stay longer, the only reason I’m still here is that I didn’t listen to you. I know, my mother says – do you want to stay another week?

My mother goes to bed; I go back out on the patio. It’s raining again, I watch all this moisture falling into green, I listen to it dripping into dirt, onto asphalt, hitting the skylights: I only have one more day and night.


Old 333 said...

Owwwww. Popped by from the memorial video at Silliman's (for Emma Lee Bernstein). I liked that piece. Now that I've crawled out from under my rock and brandished my tiny, not particularly ragged claws at the bright skies above my hermitic art rock, I find there seem to be a lot of other writers around. I (enjoyed? it was painful, but i liked it) this, thank you for writing it.

It was really good. tags are handy - like symbols but SO easier to understand. Not that I don't like symbols. Even the word is neat - symbol. It's like a little chess figurine.

I'd like to come back and read more, and shall (unless the floor i'm to shortly mop swallows me up, unless my heart stops, unless i forget somehow). I'm allowed to read again, now that I finished up 333 (my little personal challenge-project).

I can take it, too. My pill made me stop crying about ELB (who I didn't even know, but it is very sad somehow all the same) - I can take it and run with it now! Bless that divalent sodium. Whatever inhuman monster invented the stuff for mind-control purposes, I'm super grateful.

Thanx 4 good readie treats. Talk to ya -


mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Thanks so much for stopping by!!!

I'd have more to say, by my computer won't connect to the internet where I'm staying and I need it to use voice activation software to avoid too much fibromyalgia pain, ouch...

And I will investigate 333, for sure...