25
My body tenses. I’m afraid to go deeper, but like labor—insistent and inevitable, the feelings come anyway. And I remember...
It’s morning, four or five of us seated on
stools s Tina’s
k
y elephant
l kitab
I naked
g
h
t AGAIN.
And, oh my god, do we have to always endure this over breakfast?? She has her arms looped around Chico’s shoulders, in the middle of a squeaky cheek kiss. My spoon hovers between my mouth and the bowl—the wooden kind made up of pressed squares.
Anyway, so we’re choking down breakfast, right? My mom’s smooching my dad while he sips his coffee with a smug look and one eyebrow raised. There’s an empty milk carton on the counter and boxes of Raisin Bran and Grapenuts.
Aaaand apple juice. Because SOMEone will have to compromise. We’re out of milk again. So someone will HAVE to compromise. Compromise is normal in a family this large, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Where was I? Ah, yeah...Tina’s kiss is causing the hairs in my inner ear to rattle, which is comfy, am I right? Chana or Haydon mutters “disgusting” under their breath. And I’m thinkin, true love kinda is, ya know? I mean, am I right?
Love...
I
1/ 3 / 2 love
I/love/ you you,
Chico...she says.
I exhale at the memory. Allowing my shoulders to drop and the center of my being to unfurl, uncurl, unwind. Allowing peace to mingle with the heartache—bitter, yet sweet. Allowing gratitude for the TMI love sessions/ love lessons of Tina and Chico.
It was 25 years yesterday.
How long is too long to grieve? How long is too long to call his name and wish he’d answer? How long is too long to look for pictures of him I haven’t seen yet? How long is too long to miss someone taken too soon? HOW LONG???
I am...at a loss. I am lost. I have no compass, no direction, no anchor, no sail. But the wind... The wind brings him back to me, his ashes coating my skin.
Which is beautiful, ya know? His blood’s in my veins, flowing through my broken heart, right...? And it was almost like he came back to give me one last hug. Anyway. So yeah, it’s been 25 years. But, whatever.
It’s morning, four or five of us seated on
stools s Tina’s
k
y elephant
l kitab
I naked
g
h
t AGAIN.
And, oh my god, do we have to always endure this over breakfast?? She has her arms looped around Chico’s shoulders, in the middle of a squeaky cheek kiss. My spoon hovers between my mouth and the bowl—the wooden kind made up of pressed squares.
Anyway, so we’re choking down breakfast, right? My mom’s smooching my dad while he sips his coffee with a smug look and one eyebrow raised. There’s an empty milk carton on the counter and boxes of Raisin Bran and Grapenuts.
Aaaand apple juice. Because SOMEone will have to compromise. We’re out of milk again. So someone will HAVE to compromise. Compromise is normal in a family this large, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Where was I? Ah, yeah...Tina’s kiss is causing the hairs in my inner ear to rattle, which is comfy, am I right? Chana or Haydon mutters “disgusting” under their breath. And I’m thinkin, true love kinda is, ya know? I mean, am I right?
Love...
I
1/ 3 / 2 love
I/love/ you you,
Chico...she says.
I exhale at the memory. Allowing my shoulders to drop and the center of my being to unfurl, uncurl, unwind. Allowing peace to mingle with the heartache—bitter, yet sweet. Allowing gratitude for the TMI love sessions/ love lessons of Tina and Chico.
It was 25 years yesterday.
How long is too long to grieve? How long is too long to call his name and wish he’d answer? How long is too long to look for pictures of him I haven’t seen yet? How long is too long to miss someone taken too soon? HOW LONG???
I am...at a loss. I am lost. I have no compass, no direction, no anchor, no sail. But the wind... The wind brings him back to me, his ashes coating my skin.
Which is beautiful, ya know? His blood’s in my veins, flowing through my broken heart, right...? And it was almost like he came back to give me one last hug. Anyway. So yeah, it’s been 25 years. But, whatever.
Unless
I’m not doing flowery today, I can’t.
Unless it’s one with thorns. Unless it’s one with distorted, mottled blossoms, with veins popping and centers bulging. Unless those thorny, ugly blossoms are on twisted branches, suffocating the sun for anything that grows below. Unless those branches, with their wide reach, grow from a trunk leaking bloody sap. Unless the gnarled roots of that twisted, greedy, repulsive tree are burrowed into black bodies, those bodies becoming the soil, becoming the nourishment, becoming the very foundation the tree needs in order to stand.
I’m not doing flowery today.
Unless it’s referring to the toxic pollen of putrid blooms. Spreading on airwaves, fertilizing with acid rain. Sinking into the cores of waiting blossoms, receptors bent to follow their sun.
I’m not doing flowery today.
But maybe a fungus or a vine. One that creeps above the surface, or just below, only seen if you know where to look. One that demolishes with ravenous hunger, anything of goodness along the way. One that strangles and covers and climbs. One that wriggles into cracks and crevices, tendrils securing its grip, only to stretch further. A poisonous fungus, a poisonous vine, leaving corrosive residue behind. Tainted tongues and rabid minds the proof of its existence.
I’m not doing flowery today, unless it’s the kind that needs to be chopped down, ripped out, dug up and burned at the root.
I’m not doing flowery today.