Sunday, June 17, 2012

Baby Jessica Down That Well

He doesn't get a bio. I wont tell you how hard of hearing his father was, or how obese his sister is. Or how estranged his adopted siblings are from him. Or how long he was married to my fake mom, or my real mom. Or the last time I saw him. Or how he sleeps in a bra. Or how good his spaghetti is.

I don't have anything to say.

There is a white rod iron bed frame sleeping in a crawl space above a garage, in a suburb, with sprinklers, and kitchen smells. It is very small; the bed, it is a child's bed.

But, I don't have anything to say.

Every once in a while I'll get a whiff of baseball, or be really early for an appointment and kill time at a coffee shop. And I'll kind of ache. For a moment. A thin layer of brown paper around a frozen sausage, peeling, shedding like an under wire bra after ten hours of working retail.

There are a few memories that don't make me curl with nausea, and those, by default, are nice.

But, I don't have a thing to say.

Where I come from you don't ever need a father, for the same reason you don't need a pedicure. Or a Shetland pony.

I didn't have a male teacher until the 10th grade, the same year I kissed the black poet boy on the church steps.

I have always listened to girl powered folk rock. I own two dresses, and zero pairs of shorts. I am not a pretty girl.

I can remember the thrill of escaping him. I can put myself back in that long weekend away, those two nights we allotted him to get the hell out. I can remember coming home to his hurried empty closet, and the ring of grease where his set of knives used to be. I can feel my parent's fate drooping down my shoulders like an ill fitting poncho.

It really doesn't bother me these days.

I love my husband more than I could possibly ever begin to measure. With the breath and width and depth of me.

And he loves all of damaged lil' me, every quilted daddy issue.

And he's so good with our pets.

And he has a silver haired quick witted coach for a pops I adore, law or no law.

Partners till the birds hit their heads.

But, of course I don't need a soul.

My mother raised me better.

Except for those sometimes I do really need you, here, like every morning, and every night.

And when I say need, I mean thank you, and when I say thank you I mean yes, always, of course.

Full circle on the men thing,
In love, and love, and love,
Skin & Toast

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