The note your ten-year-old writes you because she heard you crying in the bathtub with your husband
“Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?”
and the way she comes into the bathroom while you’re lying there in three inches of hot water, lying there after your cry; depleted, exhausted, alone, and how she tacks her little sign on to the tile on the wall across from where you lay so you can see it
“Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?”
the way your skin feels right after the bath; smooth and velvety and warm
the peace of being alone in the house because your husband has taken the children out for a bike ride and how you sit on the porch with your summer skirt on and light up that cigarette. How glad you are that you saved this little bit of tobacco for a moment like this
The big, tall, magnificent trees in your yard and the way they move in the wind. The sound of the wind
The peace of being alone and comforting yourself; everything is going to be all right, you tell yourself. You’re going to be all right
The feeling that you could fall in love with your husband again. The sense that the love you seek is right here, at home, with him
The quiet beauty of your ramshackle home at the end of the road, a home with no one inside it except you and the dog.
The way you leave the front door open for the wind. The way you need the wind to keep you moving, especially in these moments when you feel you could stop everything. Stop everything
The way how after the cry and the bath and your late afternoon glass of wine you feel capable again. Strong. Ready. Right. You can mother, you can love. You are still standing
How when your ten-year-old asks you what’s wrong and you say, “I’m just sad,” and she says, “about daddy?” and you say, “no, not exactly,” and how she asks if you’re mad at him and you say a little, but it’s not about daddy, it’s about me. And how she says she and you will talk about it later, and how you see in her eyes how excruciating it is for her to see you upset and to not understand what’s wrong
And how impossible it would be to explain everything to her
And the gratitude you have for her even though you wonder if this is good, if it’s okay for a young girl to comfort her mother like this, again, and again
And how you don’t know. You just don’t know
But you’re still standing and you can love. And that’s all you know for sure right now
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8 comments:
I know that moment. I do. I've felt it often with my father, seeing an unarticulatable pain welling in his eyes and not knowing a thing to do about it, yet seeing it there, that unknowable woundedness.
In some weird, fucked up way, it's a good thing for a child to take in. To begin the delicate, and often silent, process of unfolding yourself into the story of your parents. Into merging your complicated heart into theirs. There's a kind of beauty in that, I think. It's like nothing else really.
But you’re still standing and you can love. And that’s all you know for sure right now.
Not sure anyone can know more than that. Or needs too.
...you wonder if this is good, if it’s okay for a young girl to comfort her mother like this, again, and again.
Do be mindful of it. I did that for my mother a lot, & it does exact a price. But the connection is worth it, of course.
Wonderful post. Thank you again.
this post reminds me, though, of a cleansing ritual, of something which brings HOPE.
hello dweezila. (can i call you that?)
i found you through the superhero journals of andreascher. thank god for links. i love your latest entry. i can so relate. you write with such honesty.
there are still tears in my eyes as i write this.
honored to "meet" you. will visit often.
Light,
kat
Hello,
I also found your blog through superhero designs and I read all of your enteries throughout the day. I really connected with your honesty and your bravery to say what needs to be said. I am interested in checking out any published work that you may have. Please point me in the right direction.
Thanks again.
Carie
dweezila,
i just read your post, from out here in the wilds of wyoming. just loving you and what you bring to the world.
much love, DT
Your writing is honest and pure ~ reminds me of a place I think we have all lingered at some time or another. The silence can heal.
Be brave.
Hi. I really enjoy reading your blog. I thought I'd let you know that I'm linking you at mine. Cheers.
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