yes, i said.
worse than [the guy who hit you]? she said.
yes, i said.
well, she said. he at least really took you in. this one never did.
later, my eldest goddaughter said the same thing.
i agreed both times. in the snow tonight, i walked to meet this grown woman whom i knew as a child. i was wearing a fur hat and winter white–lace, wool, pearls. Plus very red lipstick. i looked: beautiful. i knew i’d meet someone at the fancy hotel bar where we were meeting and i did. it was surprisingly easy and then i realized why. i wasn’t wriggling out of the Legend’s grasp. he had never claimed me.
but he had ignited me. and thus i was beautiful again.
in the snow, in the light of the darkness, i embraced this new other. she smelled of smoke and snow (does snow have a smell? tonight it does) and her shoulders were too narrow. it made me miss my last person, my personal Legend. but this new person also smelled of home and hope–sarcasm and cinnamon–and so i leaned into her embrace.
soon i will really move on. Venus goes direct tomorrow.
I won’t hear from my mother for months and honestly her silence is a relief. Her laundry lists of the salad bar she sampled, the vacations she took, are painful because there’s no sense of who she is writing to. Throughout my life if I have behaved as anything but her all-accepting, all-admiring audience and savior she has openly treated me as a pain in her ass.
Which is a lot of the time.
But she always manages to reach out when I’m at my rawest. She writes snailmails rather than emails or texts (she’d never call) because she does not want me to be able to easily reply. She wants to be able to say, look, I write my daughter letters, and she’s so awful she ignores them. But all she really does is write the equivalent of her name over and over in fancy cursive on the front and back side of a note card. She does not want to hear my response because my feelings about her–my feelings in general–are and have always been at best inconvenient.
I may sound cynical but that is why I don’t talk about her. Part of her brilliance is the victimhood she cultivates, even as she’s abused and neglected me in any way a parent can hurt their offspring. The bottom line: I seem strong. She seems weak. So there’s no question who the perpetrator could really be. Continue Reading →
I am making macaroni and cheese and drinking red wine and trying not to cry. The macaroni and cheese is more likely to be a successful venture. I wish I were watching a 70s crime movie with the Legend. I wish I were sharing my fattening carbs with him. I wish he loved me enough to be here. I wish I wish I wish I wish. Most of all I wish I still had the faith to believe my wishes came true. I cried all last night—cold sad loveless endless November Venus Retrograde nights have that effect on a girl—and when I woke I still couldn’t stop. From Boston Rachel said: All you have to do in the next hour is wash your face and get a coffee. The fresh air and sun on your face will make you feel better—not a lot, but a little. As always, my dear friend was right. I wish that hadn’t been the highlight of this sadsack of a day.