The voice, His voice was deep. Not threatening. Not even forceful. He stated to me “Now’s the time to have some faith” because He knows I don’t have much.
Repeatedly, no matter how many people I asked, the same response was elicited: "When I'm knitting, there's nowhere else I'd rather be and nothing else I'd rather be doing."
My biggest concern, worry, fear, is that I am just going through the motions and all the stress has desensitized me over the years and I am numb and lacking emotion and passion (and I am a very passionate person when fully involved).
To touch sound I have to live inside of it for a while. Vibrate myself into existence. Womb-woven by unspoken words; origin stories and recreation myths.
I licked the blood off my finger without thinking. To taste what I was made of. My ear had left blood on my fiance’s T-shirt, and we didn’t know why. Startled, I stuck my finger in and considered the source. Every unconscious action is a self-discovery mission. Everything is a symptom of a syndrome caused by something that happened before.
We went on like this for years, him wanting to drink and fish, me nagging and complaining and yelling and slamming doors. “You stink like fish” I’d say, pulling myself from him in our bed at night. “Aww, baby” he’d mutter, “That’s the best smell in the world.”
Life is fragile, can bend and break in a moment. There was a time when I thought a home could shield us from that which we cannot control, would answer all of our hopes and wishes in one fell swoop. I was wrong, but perhaps having a home, this home, this little green house on Franklin Ave, is not our shield to the outside world, but perhaps this is our anchor.
You knew that despite all of that, it was, of course, wrong. Wrong of you to hook me in, wrong to pull me in further, wrong to cheat, wrong to let me help you cheat, wrong of me to help you cheat.
Recently, the girl came to the conclusion (after 7 years of feeling like this, and having every test available in this country done) that this must “just be” fatigue. Pure and not simple, fatigue. Ok, fine. Chronic fatigue. Yay. A name for it. Good. When there’s a label, then there’s the ability to research, seek solution, obsess. And oh hell yes, that is exactly what occurred.
My happiness has always seemed precarious and hard-won when others seem to have it abundance. Where we are right now—enjoying this exact moment in my newest kitchen, the one I never asked for but got anyway—is a victory. If my kids are listening to the lyrics I sing at all, I hope they understand I am trying to be my best self for them.
In the abstract it’s poignant, but in your presence I can be petulant. I demand corrections: Mom! I’m your daughter, the second born, the little one. You look at my words, my mouth. I have so many sisters in this house, you sigh playfully. Do you live here too?
Sometimes, we so badly want them to succeed, and have fun, and fit in, that we forget that the most important thing is for them to be themselves. We so desperately want them to jump over the void, that they often pretend that they do, to make the world look the way we want it to, but a small part of them stays there alone on the edge of the void, forgotten by all.
