By Erica Naone (LadyFebruary@yahoo.com)
Date: 1 July 1999
Silence
My mother was a red-haired prison schoolteacher lady, divorced or almost divorced, I'm not sure which, and from the pictures I've seen, style was a word made from her smell.
My father was a convict who saw her from behind and fell in love (but in a second from behind, what could she have done but be a pile of skin?).
One of my mother's coworkers took her aside and said:
His file is a phone book, yellow pages for Hell County
My mother said, love conquers all, or, the sacrificial lamb falls willingly to the knife, take your pick
But she wised up fast and tried to leave,
Tried being the operative word when you're on an island and there's a baby (me) making you so heavy you forget how to fly.
A couple decades later, that baby's got her father's love as criscrossing white scars on her legs - she did the calligraphy, he dictated the message.
And supposedly, everything's all better, but she still takes insanity leave from time to time.
My boyfriend came to visit last night, when I hadn't said a real word all day, just opened my mouth for the dogs and the phone.
I rub my hands over my calves, though he seems to think his hands will burn away if he lays a finger on them.
And I'm glad to see him, but I didn't miss him while he was gone, not even when I got in bed alone, and now I'm enjoying that words only move at the speed of my eyes and hands, no lips or tongue involved.
I could disappear. I could take my flagship calves and go away from all the history, and maybe then I could spend a couple days alone without deciding I wanted to stay that way forever.
And my boyfriend doesn't know the kind of danger he's in,
The way that, when my mind's alone, I can't stop thinking about my mom and dad.
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