Six a.m. comes 10, 11 hours into sleep. Same spot my body laid for just a few minutes to rest up then watch Weeds big on the living room wall with him. But I don't move. There was the moment of debate around 10, should I go home. I just take my contacts out of the itch, my eyes. Squint them into the red clock numbers and let my back sink into the soft stretch of of pillow top. My legs and neck and shoulders remember comfort.
My head holds remnants of a dream.
It's this thing I wrote for my teacher's teacher but the dream isn't about kissing or even about writing about kissing. My hands open an envelope from The Journal. A flash writing contest. I'm sure the letter says thanks for entering but ... but I'm not sure because I don't all the way look at the letter. Or if I do I don't remember the outcome.
Squint red into the numbers again, 6:04, and my legs know they should get out of this bed, out of this house before his kids wake up. My body, center of me, knows somethings else. And anyway, they're not his kids, they're my kids. But they're not my kids, they're our kids.
If you hear that same sweet song again will you know why? Anyone who sings a tune so sweet is passing by.
Let my body win. Sink back down in it with him. And, I'm ok. No chest clench panic, the way it answered a couple weeks back when I tried sleeping in my bed. Next to my night stand, clock. My bed. My nightstand. My. Breath. Breathe. I can breathe.
6:43. I say I have to go right now. Fast.
You have 45 minutes he says. Hands down my back.
What! They don't get up until 7:30 here? Are you fucking kidding me? 6:44 at my house, on the nose, everyday.
I put a tooth brush on the sink counter for you, he says.
Tell me all that you know, I'll show you snow and rain.
Then the chest. Chest can't get air.
Quiet my toes to the hardwoods, too late, little girl, pre-dawn chatter from the bedroom in my ears. I smile at my small victory, say they get up at 6:44 here, too.
New stiff bristles over my teeth. Then another small victory, I read two short stories to my two small babies. Kiss noses, cheeks, ears. Tiny mouths.
And, I don't stay for breakfast.
...
more later
*Italicized lyrics from Bird Song, Robert Hunter.
You are so on the body that I have to get back in mine just to read...and then I go with you, through the openings you carve into details, and I know what you're talking about, see what you see.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the ride that you always provide. And, Holly, it's so nice to see you navigating pleasure and nourishment.
Beautiful writing, flows so well.
ReplyDeleteSo glad this is all getting easier, better. Glad for no chest clench, glad you let your body win sometimes.
Is the toothbrush blog post thing just a coincidence? Hmmm.
ReplyDeleteWonder if Josie noticed your new toothbush.
Your writing's like a magic carpet ride. We climb on the dip and dive through the scene to see and hear things most of us would otherwise miss.
ReplyDeleteDitto Prema, Jess and Jerri. You do it like no one else, Holly, you splice words and thoughts in such a profound and gorgeous way. What a gift your writing is to the world. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI need more on this...more, more more.
ReplyDeleteWow. Gorgeous writing. I can feel your comfort and relaxation and your joy. Much can be said about new toothbrushes and their symbolic value for starting over. Looking forward to reading more.
ReplyDeleteMore later? How much later, cuz I'm dying for more now. I particularly love the dichotomy between what's yours and isn't yours.
ReplyDeleteI also love the reading and kissing noses. That's my favorite part of being a mommy. Even if it does have to happen most days before 7AM.
"Quiet my toes to the hardwoods." Uf that's good!
ReplyDeletexo t
I love this so much I just read it four times:
ReplyDelete"Squint red into the numbers again, 6:04, and my legs know they should get out of this bed, out of this house before his kids wake up. My body, center of me, knows somethings else. And anyway, they're not his kids, they're my kids. But they're not my kids, they're our kids."
Absolutely gorgeous writing--such a subtle, delicate touch with such intense experiences. So elegant, so smooth, yet so raw and honest at the same time. Fantastic. More please.