neruda
someone wrote this to me today:
“you love your daughter so much it shatters my heart, leaves me stunned, feeling humbled. It must be a wondrous thing to be loved by you.”
and it got me thinking. for the rest of the day, actually. I spent the day with you, like we normally do on our saturdays, you with your twirling and dancing, and putting your “kids” to sleep before breakfast. your favorite, of course- blueberry pancakes. with syrup. you, telling me you’re “done” when that’s really code for “please feed me”. so, i do.
this weekend is testing me. i’m really just trying to get you to pee in the damn. toilet. you keep looking at me and nodding like you understand- but i think you just don’t want to disappoint me. or you just want that “treat” i keep telling you you’ll get if you do succeed. instead, you peed all over the floor on the dirty laundry, then ran out to the kitchen telling me you were all wet and the floor was slippery. i can’t be mad because you’re so upset about it, and want to clean it up. then, you hug me.
later, like i’ve been reminding you about, we went to see our new apartment. you loved it, and tried the whole time to check out the park across the street. you wandered all over the apartment, took it all in, while i reassured you where your room is going to be, where mommy’s room will be, and how you could see the swing set from your bedroom window. you were so sweet, and quiet, and… i *think* you understood this new place was going to be ours.
all of this got me thinking about your grandma, my mother. this will likely be one of many times i write you letters about her, but they’re few and far between. i just don’t open that door very often.
i never got to ask her, but if there’s one thing i am completely certain of in my life, it’s that she loved me just as much as i love you. regardless of the endless times we fought and struggled. i know this, because every moment i’m with you, i’m sure the same things i’m feeling are similar to how she felt about me. something i just know, with no doubts.
there is this constant need to live up to what type of mother my mom was. which- is funny and unrealistic, considering she stayed home until i was almost 12 years old. however, in my head, i just must do all of those special things i remember her doing for me; all the time we spent together. going to movies, the park, taking me swimming, to dance, lessons, and gymnastics. making a home-cooked meal every single night, and lunch for me and my father. keeping a spotless home (which is where i always falter, if anywhere). i just never remember anything ever being out of place, or somehow not squeaky clean. sorry, moo, but that’s just not happening. I think the ship we run is tight enough, though.
i see myself do things for you that i don’t have to. for instance: this is trivial, and anyone that reads this who doesn’t have children will most likely cringe- but it’s the little, tiny things that matter. I know because that’s what I remember about my mom, now that i’m an adult. but you. you like your carrots and apples cut a certain way. cut thin, in uniform slices, the carrots in matchsticks. (you never eat them any other way.) so, it doesn’t matter how late i’m going to be, or how tired, etc- i will make sure i take the extra few minutes to do this.
my mom used to do this with the cereal and yogurt she’d send with me to swim practice every morning. you’d think it would be just fine if she threw some yogurt in a bag with some cornflakes in a plastic baggie and send me on my way. see, i was weird. i liked my cereal smashed up before i put it in the yogurt. so every day, i opened the bag to find a baggie of crunched up cornflakes with my yogurt. like i couldn’t do that by my damn self. but no, she did it anyway. i can still picture her smashing up the stupid cereal at 10 pm the night before, putting everything in a bag for me in the fridge-even though this was something i never saw or thought about, until now. little things, baby girl, little things.
i see her in you. so much of her, in your colorful little personality. so strong, the way you’ve barely never cried all the times you’ve fallen, hit your head, or crashed while learning to walk. just paused for a few moments and got up again. the only time i know something really hurts is when you actually stop to cry. just like your grandmother. tough as nails. the way you throw your head back when you laugh is almost eerie.. as i remember my mom on the phone with a friend… laughing loudly, throwing her head back.
a day doesn’t go by without countless things i wish she could share with you, or things i could ask her about you. most of them having to do with how she did things with me. or, just how she did it all, period. all things which are lost on my father, because unfortunately, i just don’t think he paid any attention with my mom doing most everything. so i wonder, suppose, and guess at it. and then i do what feels right. hopefully i’m not screwing you up in the process, because i’m doing the best that i can, little one.
the point is, it’s a wondrous thing to be loved by you.
love, mom
candy-coated m&ms on my mirror / cooking cattails / surprises under my pillows / dress up in green floral dresses, big white collars and little green hats with netting / wigs / hat boxes / little plastic green garbage cans / coloring smurfs / winning at bargain hunter / lipstick on my white gloves …
Glittery light seeping through scratchy eyelids, teddy bear fuzz tickling my nose.. I roll over and down the hallway can hear her- singing, stereo on. Manilow.
“C’mon Annie, we’ve got to get up, up up up!”
Padding out to the kitchen, I watch as she silences Richard Dawson mid-declaration: “Survey sa— turning off the tv.
Late afternoon, stringy clouds stretched over cotton. We sit, camped out on the ground. Pitted dust splattered on the picnic table legs from yesterday’s rain. She takes a plastic bag from her pocket, dumping a few of the chips on the bench beside us. I crunch one and try to fit the pieces in a maroon frame of chipped paint.
A few feet from us, two bushy-tailed squirrels wait, frozen, to see what our plans are with the booty. She reaches out with a chip. Whiskers twitch, and hop, hop -in one lightning fast moment, it’s gone and he scampers away silently. I want to see it again, so I hold a little chip out in front of me. The other squirrel, watching intently- darts and snaps it from my tiny fingers. I don’t let go, so the rest crumbles into the grass. She takes my hand, laughing, and we walk hand in hand towards the merry-go-round….
Thank you. Cunt is indeed a truly magnificent word. One of the prettiest in the English language.
There are no other truly empowering words for the female genitalia. ‘Pussy’ is nastily diminutive, as if every woman had a tame and purring pet between her legs, while the medical descriptor “vagina” refers only to a part of the organ, as if women’s sexuality were nothing more than a wet hole, or “sheath” in the Latin. Cunt, meanwhile, is a word for the whole thing, a wholesome word, an earthy, dank and lusty word with the merest hint of horny threat. Cunt. It’s fantastically difficult to pronounce without baring the teeth.
fuck you, fuck you..! fuck! you!
-is not what I want to be words my daughter hears at 6 am, ridiculously close to her little ears.
in a nightmare, one i haven’t had in a long time, things are twisted against me, as usual. i’m seen as a degenerate, wanton soul. i’m left screaming, at you, in particular, the other “hero’ in her life.
i never quite remember (or maybe i just don’t try hard enough) the exact situation.. i only remember how i feel at the time i wake - that familiar ugliness that made my heart heavy. made it shut down, almost eternally.
its a brand new, shiny day. the only thought of you comes fleeting, in night terrors. i can put it to sleep.
wake up, beautiful.
