Sometimes I look around my room and everything look new to me. Or it looks like a life I don't quite recognize. (Which I kind of love actually)
Not that the bed is in a new corner, or that I'm sleeping turned around, which it is and I do. But I wake up and I seem to forget the angst of last week. Or Hurricane Irene and going shopping with Amber for some alcohol which I never drank and some chips for Henri down the hall (who died last July). I don't remember L, or that summer of your Mom's whirlwind or what I did yesterday or the BeatlesFest last weekend of what I did for Christmas or Pricker or the story book that we created together.
I look at the green couch and the carved chest filled with your father's camping gear. The lamp and the bedstand and the built in closet and the desk with the broken leg that I will all leave behind. L helped me carry that desk in. He saw me get it from the trash right outside the courtyard. He saw me struggling and called from his window, "Do you need help?" and I said no, like I always do. And he nodded, the way he does, and said "You need help," which was so wonderful at the time. So simply wonderful, for him to swoop in and carry it gracefully inside, all the way in, to exactly my room. My first visitor. All I had to do was hold doors for him, and it was easy. (It would've been such a struggle for me to do it by myself, as everything is. When I try so hard to keep to myself and rely on myself.) He got lost, leaving the apartment. Opened up the closet in the front hall. Swung his blonde Peter Tork hair, and I thought "How amazing it is to have such gracious and handsome neighbors here,"
And that seems so long ago.
Your mother made love on her birthday. She's going through some emotional hormonal stuff, menopause and such. And there's her show this weekend. The Vagina Monologues. I donated some Mousetraps for the art gallery in the lobby. I showed you, 3D, strung on fishing wire in a tin pan, layered. You liked it. 3D.
This week for me has been all fever dreams and haze. I've been in bed since Monday (and I'm writing this on Friday night). I've been coughing and I have no sense of smell or taste. You've been waking me up every morning at 7:30, pillow in hand, wanting me to play pillow fight with you. I haven't had the energy & haven't been able to breathe. I'd go to the bathroom, I saw you seeing me in my nightgown, braless (and wonder what memories of me will stick in your mind). I fell into bed every day this week, barely conscious of anything.
I had an invite to an Anti-Valentine's Day party tonight in NJ, but I don't have the energy. Or to go to your Mom's performance. (And I've been looking forward to it for a month!) I've never had a happy valentine's day. Earlier this week, I did stumble out into the living room to see you beginning to make cards for A. And your Mom. I wouldn't have minded so much, except that you were using some papers & markers that I had given to you. (Okay, I mind. I wish that you had made me a Valentine. I would've kept it. I try to keep everything you do.)
A. threw out all her Valentine's Cards she got from her students. Tossed them all in the recycling bin. 7.
I'm moving on to a new place. Where I will be loved. And surrounded by people who support me. (I've never really relaxed into your dad's family. Although today he did let me have some chicken soup, but I had to ask)
I will tell you that this apartment is so lovely when it is so quiet. But that's part of my personality. I like the quiet above all. (Usually I like to sing when noone is around. But my voice sounds very cartoony now. Even though I'm not really talking. I cough every 5 minutes)
I see you growing up here. And there will be a baby eventually (even though I suspect, not quite yet). I wonder if you will miss my Mousetraps.
Not that the bed is in a new corner, or that I'm sleeping turned around, which it is and I do. But I wake up and I seem to forget the angst of last week. Or Hurricane Irene and going shopping with Amber for some alcohol which I never drank and some chips for Henri down the hall (who died last July). I don't remember L, or that summer of your Mom's whirlwind or what I did yesterday or the BeatlesFest last weekend of what I did for Christmas or Pricker or the story book that we created together.
I look at the green couch and the carved chest filled with your father's camping gear. The lamp and the bedstand and the built in closet and the desk with the broken leg that I will all leave behind. L helped me carry that desk in. He saw me get it from the trash right outside the courtyard. He saw me struggling and called from his window, "Do you need help?" and I said no, like I always do. And he nodded, the way he does, and said "You need help," which was so wonderful at the time. So simply wonderful, for him to swoop in and carry it gracefully inside, all the way in, to exactly my room. My first visitor. All I had to do was hold doors for him, and it was easy. (It would've been such a struggle for me to do it by myself, as everything is. When I try so hard to keep to myself and rely on myself.) He got lost, leaving the apartment. Opened up the closet in the front hall. Swung his blonde Peter Tork hair, and I thought "How amazing it is to have such gracious and handsome neighbors here,"
And that seems so long ago.
Your mother made love on her birthday. She's going through some emotional hormonal stuff, menopause and such. And there's her show this weekend. The Vagina Monologues. I donated some Mousetraps for the art gallery in the lobby. I showed you, 3D, strung on fishing wire in a tin pan, layered. You liked it. 3D.
This week for me has been all fever dreams and haze. I've been in bed since Monday (and I'm writing this on Friday night). I've been coughing and I have no sense of smell or taste. You've been waking me up every morning at 7:30, pillow in hand, wanting me to play pillow fight with you. I haven't had the energy & haven't been able to breathe. I'd go to the bathroom, I saw you seeing me in my nightgown, braless (and wonder what memories of me will stick in your mind). I fell into bed every day this week, barely conscious of anything.
I had an invite to an Anti-Valentine's Day party tonight in NJ, but I don't have the energy. Or to go to your Mom's performance. (And I've been looking forward to it for a month!) I've never had a happy valentine's day. Earlier this week, I did stumble out into the living room to see you beginning to make cards for A. And your Mom. I wouldn't have minded so much, except that you were using some papers & markers that I had given to you. (Okay, I mind. I wish that you had made me a Valentine. I would've kept it. I try to keep everything you do.)
A. threw out all her Valentine's Cards she got from her students. Tossed them all in the recycling bin. 7.
I'm moving on to a new place. Where I will be loved. And surrounded by people who support me. (I've never really relaxed into your dad's family. Although today he did let me have some chicken soup, but I had to ask)
I will tell you that this apartment is so lovely when it is so quiet. But that's part of my personality. I like the quiet above all. (Usually I like to sing when noone is around. But my voice sounds very cartoony now. Even though I'm not really talking. I cough every 5 minutes)
I see you growing up here. And there will be a baby eventually (even though I suspect, not quite yet). I wonder if you will miss my Mousetraps.
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