The List:
1. An Angry Exchange
2. New, Fresh, or Unused/Unspoiled
3. Someone Fashionable
4. Something Unpleasant
5. A Well-Loved Object
6. Out of Place
7. Forgotten or Lost
8. Loving/Flirtatious
9. One-Sided Phone Call
10.Home/Hand Made
I sometimes wonder if my mother enjoys being angry. Maybe enjoys is the wrong word. But when she feels she has a reason to be angry – a right – she holds onto it with everything that she has, wearing it like a badge.
It frustrates me, but I know I can be the same way.
She came through the door, and I knew immediately that she was upset. She sighs loudly, wanting everyone to know.
"I can't get any help over there," she muttered, stomping into the kitchen.
Mimi just watches from her recliner, confusion clouding her eyes. I stand there, waiting for her to get what she came for and turn back.
"Did you ask for help?" I ask, my words more pointed than they should be.
She gives me that withering look, the one that's really asking if I'm trying to piss her off, or if I really am just that stupid and naïve.
"The couple of things I've asked him to do, he's done, but then he just sits back down."
She shakes her head and walks back out through the door, shutting it firmly behind her. Any comments about actually talking to him about caught in my throat. This drama replays itself at least once every couple of weeks, and she's not willing to take advice from her daughter. So I leave her to her closely-guarded anger and just roll my eyes.
*******************************
One of my favorite things is a blank piece of lined paper. Staring down at it, completely unspoiled, empty of any words…it's full of possible paths and plots. There's nothing I can't do on that piece of paper. I could finally start my life story. I could write that one piece that moves someone, or the story that makes something click. I could accomplish that epic fantasy novel I've always wanted to finish. Worlds and characters could be created, fleshed out, given life…all with one piece of paper.
Oddly enough, I don't feel that way about a blank Word document…
********************************
She's one of those people who can wear a t-shirt and jeans and still looking annoyingly cute. Though I'm not sure I've ever seen her in such a "comfortable" outfit.
I watch her as she stands outside my office, brown boots stopping just below the knee, and green dress stopping just above it. Somehow, the brown cardigan she's thrown on over it for warmth only completes the outfit, making her even cuter.
It makes me wonder how she hasn't found a decent guy yet.
********************************
It could have been unpleasant. The last time I had seen him was uncomfortable, to say the least, and I couldn't imagine how the conversation would go if I ran into him while I was with her.
Or maybe I could.
Painfully polite. Our faces would hurt from the strain of keeping up smiles that we didn't feel as each one of us remembered individual wounds. Empty words describing how we were doing without any actual answers being provided. I vaguely wondered if he would try to give me his number again – digits that I had become well-versed in losing.
Then again.
He might just walk past us. Pretend he never saw us. Eyes sliding past, trying to relegate us to the background with the rest of his past.
It's what I would do.
The half-second it took me to recognize him behind the steering wheel of the other car was just enough.
I was glad we were missing each other.
****************************
He spends his nights choked and hot. Trapped. There's a small light in the room, but he can't usually see it, head hidden in blankets. He's pushed, moved, rearranged. He never gets to just sleep.
And in the morning, he's on the floor, nose pressed into the carpet, every tear and hole in his fabric aching.
*****************************
It doesn't fit. There's no stressor, no underlying issue fighting to break free of its bonds. Life is getting better. Her body is finally molding itself to what she's always wanted. She's trying new things, and meeting more people, and finally becoming comfortable in her own skin.
But there are wounds she can't leave alone. She digs at them, unconsciously. And even when she does realize it, she can't stop. She just watches herself do it, telling herself to stop, but unable to make her do that.
And the longer the wounds are open, the longer they take to close.
********************
It shouldn't be this difficult. It's an email. A stupid email with a stupid fic. With the advances of keyword searching, it should pop right up.
But it doesn't.
And it's not like I haven't lost it before. I distinctly remember asking the author to send it a second time. But did I star it? Put it some place that I wouldn't lose it so that I could read it again whenever the urge hit?
No.
But then my eyes are caught by a shiny link, and of course I click…and rediscover a story I had completely forgotten existed.
It feeds the need.
For now.
************************
She's using her fake voice, the forced laugh, and I can pretty much guess who's one the other end of the line. I have my own list of people whose numbers make me cringe and contemplate not picking up. It really would be nice if we could un-list ourselves in the directory.
She laughs again. "Oh, it's no problem." We both know that it was. "Nope, I just uploaded them for you. Not sure why you're having issues."
His explanation is lengthy, and she can only get in a few noncommittal replies.
I try to block her out. I have work of my own to do, and I have a hard enough time as it is focusing on it.
"Have you tried…?"
I put my headphones on and try to get my attention back on the emails at hand. Over the music, I can hear the tones of her voice, but the words are lost, and I can finally get a few things done.
*******************
She grows. Square by square. Inch by inch. It's not always in the most logical of ways – a hand here, a piece of her dress there. There are holes in places, empty until they are filled.
Sometimes there are mistakes. A wrong color. Something too far to the left or the right. And they have to be removed. It goes smoothly sometimes, and yet others involve cutting and fraying.
But she grows. Legs, dress, face, arms, wings.
I wonder if she'll fly away.
No comments:
Post a Comment