“Want to go outside?” he says to the dog in his sweet still little boy voice. Not so little, but it’s how he talks to the dog. And I hold onto the illusion that I could just scoop him up in my arms.
When we stand toe to toe he starts with his flat palm measuring his height and then compares it to mine. I think he cheats with that slight upward slope toward me. But there is no denying he’ll be taller me in a few months.
The lot of them. My little men. Men.
I sighed right there. Time. It passes. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just, sometimes I am surprised by how tangible it can be.
She has three fingers and one thumb on each hand — just like a cartoon. Her Maker took shortcuts with her, it seems. There are other ways she is not of us, her hair is too white; her skin, too dark. The gray eyes are some compromise of extremes.
When I need a view well outside of myself, I go to her. Nothing like an alien perspective to put things into context. I don’t think she is alien as in from another planet, but she does give that other worldly vibe. Regardless, she sees things, and I am coming to believe that I am blind. I see only what I expect to see.
Maybe I make the world each day as I imagine it. She’s outside of the imaginings, so she can say, “No, today the sky is the color of steel. You only think it is copper. It is not the time for soft metal.”
That she knows I think the sky is steel is enough to earn my respectful attention.
I was a manic pixie dream girl…
“Men grow up expecting to be the hero of their own story. Women grow up expecting to be the supporting actress in somebody else’s….”
The gut response is to argue the point. The list of what-is-not-gorgeous and possibly-downright-ugly springs to mind. That is, her mind. What she says instead is, ”Thank you.” and walks away.
A charm invests a face
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.
But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,
‘Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.
You do know that what you see is carefully edited. So much is behind the veil. So much is left out. Context. Wars, scandals, legislation. So many words. No need to report them here, right?
I know when a future me visits these words, she won’t remember what was happening in the news. All that is epic passes. Future me will still be looking into a coffee cup and wonder why it is so dark? and will it rain? Maybe, because of sheer regularity and persistence, those are the important questions.
Sometimes even a little is too much. When even some /sigh feels like a screaming complaint of first world problems it is time to turn everything off. No stream of other. No picture. No news.
What is now? It’s breathing. It’s taking a dish to the kitchen and clearing a space. If I concentrate there is warmth where my blood goes. There is the cold of that part of me that is dying just a bit.
Music and savage beasts and all that.
Stepping up scales hoping for my head to break surface. It’s closer. I can see the light. In the meantime, music. It’s a reminder of outside the self. Cool dat. The way it can play the spine, or run rills on the skin, move feet and I don’t even know I’m at it.
I’ve been in my own head. This is a decent nod to out of body sensory experience.
Never underestimate the comfort and protective shield of a blanket.
“What is this?”
“I swear, I haven’t used. Not since you caught me months ago that second time.” And I looked into his face. And I could see the boy who was mine and isn’t now. All that innocence that used to be.
“You lied to my face. I want to believe you. And you might be telling the truth, but I don’t trust you and that bums me out.”
I left the room. I am sobbing for the loss of my little boy who isn’t. My heart is broken, I just didn’t know it was. He said, “Sorry” and held me
and still I can’t stop crying.
With each step, the hallway doubles in length. Behind each door is the possibility of the man. Maybe behind each door. She can’t escape him. Turning around doesn’t seem to matter. “Am I turning at all?”
The hall recedes and disappears into a spoon in a cup.