Wednesday, March 16, 2011
She wishes she could fashion clothing out of the warm, wet pressure of a hot shower. Because this is the only thing she wants touching her skin at all. Or if she could just be a fish for a week.
As her uterine lining prepares once more to shed itself, all sense of kindness and social conscience are shed with it. Saying nothing of patience and care at all.
There is an energy in this time that she refuses to believe cannot somehow be harnessed and harvested to some good. During this week words rush through her head like sperm to an egg. The messy energy of something trying to birth itself. It is not a good time to have children around.
Watching the four-year-old tease the nearly six-year-old sister makes her want to fling them both across the family room into the neighbor's yard. One for the teasing one for the screaming. And she could maybe do it. This is all surprise and shock to her, for she would, otherwise, die for them and their happiness.
She wants to sit in a silent room, naked, not a noise or other to interrupt the energy that burns her up inside and out.
She peels asparagus and cries. She feeds the chickens and cries. She turns inside out socks outside in and cries. She turns her inside out self outside in and cries. And for heaven's sake everybody stop trying to touch her.
Bring her only potato chips and onion dip and maybe a Spicy V8.