Maggots and Piss and Shit

Her hands are so tiny. She keeps them together, like a small clump. I want to hold her hand and she always lets me. She offers her hand out and I see her smile. She has beautiful highlights for a small child. I stare into her smooth, straight, dirty blonde hair and I cannot help but touch her locks. They lay like individual lines, an intricate drawing, they part and fall with each other in symphony. "I miss my dad." Her eyes fill softly with tears and my heart aches. I know that feeling. I tell her as much. I always missed my dad, too. I yearned to hear his voice. Lay near him. Hold his hand, too. I always thought he was a gentle person, even though he was big and strong. He never appeared to be the type of man that people thought would cuddle a small child, but he did. We laid together and watched PBS at the end of the day. After a day of traveling. Wind through my dirty blonde hair. Half pink and sun beaten, but feeling chilly on and off. Big mosquito bites in weird places. My hands scraped from kittens on a farm, or a romp around the woods. But, the gentle feel of my father, it always made me miss him when I was no longer home. I understood, but failed to have enough words. The feeling is always better to know than to talk about. You feel it or you don't. And her big blue teary eyes said it all. I know that feeling. I've felt it all my life. I am glad she only felt it for one week. Not for a whole school year. So I told her as much. That she is lucky to see her dad almost every day. That she will see him soon. Her heart is so gentle, just as she is with animals. She feels everything with her whole heart. I hate to know that one day someone will break her heart. If it hasn't happened already. It starts small. She may have already felt it. With her brother, or me, or her dad, even. But, one day, her earth will shatter, her heart will break. A young kid will tear her heart to shreds. She deserves a big, innocent, sweet love, but I can only hope and dream that she gets it, too. That she will never hear the words I did. That her best friend someday won't tell her that she kissed her boyfriend and "it wasn't a big deal" then be disappointed to hear that her friend was "hoping" that would have made the boy single and ready to kiss again, guilt-free. I hope she never hears, years and years later, from a stranger that worked with his stepmom that "he was too young for all that anyways." Like young love isn't real, even though it feels so real at the time. 

I thought she was sleeping, but she wasn't. She was looking up at the sky. Look at all those stars. She said it so matter-of-fact, I didn't quite take it seriously at first. Then I remembered, we are home. I looked up and I agreed. I gasped without a question. Yes. You're right. There are so many up here. They are always up there, but I had forgotten how many you can see... until you see... Her husband thought the same after awhile, he nudged her. I had already taken my youngest inside. She had slumped into her camping chair, bundled with blankets and beaten by the wind and sun. She was softly snoring and didn't wake when I brought her inside the cabin and laid her down for bed. She didn't even wake when I removed her shoes. She kept on sleeping, with a gentle wheezing that comes with REM sleep. "No, there are just SO many stars!" Her husband replied with "Ah," perhaps realizing that she was possibly quite on with the intoxication of the splendor of the day and also, beer. Although, he looked up just the same and got quiet after that. I was invested in the movie. I already thought that I had eaten popcorn more out of habit of a ritual of an outdoor movie and not really out of necessity for sustenance, but that is the sort of thing that you do when you are on vacation. I looked back up to the stars a few times, just remembering... This is where my heart feels... Calm. I pulled my chair closer to my son. I was right behind him. After a time, I looked closer at his face and discovered it was buried into his comforter, wrapped around himself to keep the wind away. I picked him up, despite his size. Despite that he is getting close to 2/3rds my size and weight. I slipped my arms under his neck and knees and carried him inside the same as I did my daughter. I laid him into bed next to her snoring body. He was partially awake and I remember some of the last times I was tucked into bed at that age. That I just was grateful to be treated like a small child, even though I really wasn't. It felt like I was being taken care of in a way that can only happen as an adult when you are incredibly drunk, and I hope he doesn't need that for a long time. I popped off his shoes and kissed them both on the cheeks. They still look so sweet and dear, tucked into their covers, sleeping soundly, without a care in the world. I returned to my chair and finished the movie. The credits rolled. I stared at the screen for a few moments. Just taking in that I felt at home, even though I wasn't at home.

Every morning, I woke the same way. I was awake at 3am, annoyed. I would use the bathroom and try to carefully climb back into bed as if my daughter wasn't there softly snoring on her giant stuffed animal pillow. I would doze for a few hours, to be woken up sometime in the morning. Shortly after sunrise, not too far from when it is deemed you are no longer a "morning person" by the routine type people who do the same things every day; at the same time. I would brew some water in the coffee pot and prepare my coffee. The first few days were strange. I couldn't quite get the feel of the French press, but on day 3, I had understood what I had forgotten from previous years. I was sparked by a recent conquest (I suppose there is no other way to put a relationship that never turned into a relationship) to buy a small one and enjoy coffee the old-fashioned way. I pulled my coffee from the freezer and my sugar from the fridge. I was always interested in just joining in with my early bird family, not so much anything else. I had arrived and within some ships sailing by, I had been left with just my aunt. I always felt like family is complicated. You never know how people regard their families- but ours is so unconventional in such an eighties sort of way. Divorce, death, unexpected pregnancies, secrets, and painful brushing under the table abuse. You just never know how spending a few moments with your family will go. But, I intended to see it through. No matter the feelings that would potentially come up. So. I woke up when I could. As early as my body would allow me to. I would make coffee. I would sit. I would be a part of the process. That morning, just my aunt and me, I felt as though it was some of the gentlest coaxing of my feelings as I have come by in a long while. Interactions with my parents leave me feeling raw at times. My sisters can bring about some strange feelings at times, as well. I can never tell if my one sister finds me to be an absolute idiot or not. Probably she does. And she treats me like one, gentle and kind, with a sort of taunting niceness. If you've ever been mistaken for being dumb or slow- you know exactly what I mean. As if being quiet and awkward is a horrible thing to be- a lot of extroverts will make you feel as though it is either way. Not that morning though. It made me feel as though I don't think anyone quite understands my heart or how I work the way that a very select few do. The way that I felt opening up to honest, simple questions. My aunt apologized for going deep without intending to. I felt bad for being sad about it, just as much as she felt bad about asking. My eyes grew big and watery. My tears were heavy and full. They fell in quiet drips, a stream to my chin. I smiled and said, no. no. It's okay, really. and I meant it, as I swiped the tears away. My sister came back then, for her chair. She folded it up neatly, packed it away and chattered nonchalantly about time and being someplace at a certain time. She was doing her duty. Letting me know, in case I wanted to go. She was cleaning up and making neat and precise. I wiped my tears. I didn't need her to know I was feeling vulnerable. She has a way about her. A way that makes me feel raw and open and that I'm not allowed to be vulnerable; at the same time. She stopped in her tracks for a moment. Maybe unsure if I was upset or not. But, she said nothing, maybe out of politeness. Maybe because she thought, not my problem. She left and we continued talking. About power. Abuse. About healing. About being kind and gentle. Tears fell like anvils down my face, I could feel the pool of salt collecting before falling gently down the contours of my cheekbones. "I shouldn't come next year. You should be having this conversation with your mom. I am taking time away from her. From what she should be saying to you. You should be having this conversation with her." I think I laughed at that. "She wouldn't have this conversation with me." She didn't protest. My tears were a steady, silent stream, then. The truth that I feel all the time. That she never really understands how I feel. Because, it's not about me. It's not about how I feel. It's about shopping or something else. Something she is suffering through. I hadn't had the chance to say so. My mother returned and collected her chair, a whirlwind. She repeated the gist of what my sister had said. She collected her things and went about her business. She barely registered I was there. I wiped the tears on my sleeve and smiled, "yes, thank you." I cradled my empty coffee mug and folded up my chair. Only to return it to the porch. To ready myself. My children. My mind. To pretend my heart isn't always ready to burst.

Some years, I hate it. I'm angry. I'm sad. I'm angry that I'm sad. I'm sad that I'm angry. This year, I had declared it. I am ready. I wanted to enjoy the trip for what it was and celebrate the memories. I understand that the memories are tainted somewhat by whatever notions I had in mind about what my experiences were. My rose colored glasses approach to my life. Before I learned that I need to take off the glasses and see things for what they are before I make commitments. The reason I am probably still single since. Because, I have my fantasies of what life should be like, and then I have my realities, and they can coexist, but haven't found harmony with anyone willing yet. (And that I only really entrusted two people in that fantasy where I thought it could work- even though a handful has pushed and tried.) I felt as though I reflected on a lot of relationships on this trip. I thought fondly of them, even if they failed. I recalled times in the recent past that I have yearned for more. Or something different. But, that it has fallen short of what my mind can procure. Maybe, the secret is to let go all together. Forget expectations. Forget that I want to be happy with what it is I am looking for. Look for a fuck or a love or a person to make pizza with- if that is what it is. But, I yearn for someone who will come along with me and see the cumulonimbus that stretches for miles in the blue sky. The type of clouds and sky that people paint about. Why didn't I ever paint them? I wonder and I hate to think on it. On how I found a passion for painting that was cut so sharply from me, by the reaching around of a man when I was just budding into a woman. That it definitely fueled a fire for horrible relationships, a painful memory of passion and dreams, and a mixed interpretation of what "father figure" and "sexual relationship" should have been and will forever be separate, but blended into a pot of fucked up bitter sweet stew. Some day, I'll ignore all my trauma just long enough to let a really good man in, but I really doubt it. I'll just die an old crone, staring off into the St. Lawrence River long enough to feel my hair knot up from the incessant breeze, sipping the frozen glacier run off from a nearby spring. Or maybe, half on with a bottle of sickeningly sweet wine from a local vineyard. Or a crisp bottle of gin. A characteristic of a mean spirited woman with a penchant for ruining relationships on purpose for being truthful. 

I tried. I truly did. I spoke up when it was necessary. I was ignored outright. It's as if I am a child, looking to my sister or parents for a slip of approval. I often times, do not get it. In fact, they out right ignore I am there. Unless it fuels into whatever point they are willing to push. I feel small and undeserving of attention. I am but a mere construct. I have birthed these hyper active children that swarm us all with their relentless energy and only get the glare when it is truly not me, but someone else who is loud enough to mother them first. I normally feel absolutely crushed and downright baffled by everyone's ability to speak over me in a stronger, sterner, more authoritative voice, and it entirely angers me. Not your pasture, not your bullshit. I think, over and over. But. This time. I relished in the back up. In when my children ignored me and my "stern" voice. There was another, deeper voice, a voice only another mother or man can back up with- a voice that says, not today, junior! I was happy for the reprieve. Happy that it wasn't my mother being sort of harsh, when it wasn't necessary. Happy that it was a back up when I needed it. Someone who was already well versed in the business of shit head kids at poor timing moments. I felt at home to realize, a lot of people would pull me aside to say it, I remember what it was like to have kids that young, hun. You are doing a great job. Don't be discouraged. I was embarrassed, but only briefly, because, dammit, we all HAVE been there. And any mother who hasn't thought their kid was an outright asshole, is a fucking liar. Because, kids are dicks. You love them anyways, because you are asked to by birthright, instinct, by pure primal desire to continue your shitty timeline- but, all kids are assholes. All of them. I'm an asshole. I was a kid once. You were too. You probably still are an asshole. And ya know what? You owe your mom a fucking hug. And maybe your dad, too. I don't know your situation. I was born in the '80s and things were different then. The push for decent dads didn't really start until after the '90s. Basically, anyone over 21 right now probably had a mom who needs a damn hug and a dad who was like- meh at doing the hard stuff of parenting. Either way. They were assholes and that's why you turned into an asshole and why your shitty kid is one, too. And there's the truth, my dudes. There is the truth. We are all assholes. One giant planet of jerk offs and dinguses. Dingi. All of us. Welcome to the club, my tiny children. With your weirdly small fingers that feel fake because you are so small- you're also dicks. 

I write novels when I drive. I do it every year. I wrote the entire story for the novel I intend to write someday about the record shop owner with a lot of story to tell about love and hate and murder and redemption. Oh, yes. That novel got a lot of twists and turns through Scranton, my friend. This year, I wrote about this. I wrote about the small things that I remembered. It's always a bittersweet tale when I drive and zone out. I can often forget some of the specific word patterns and then I have to start over. I may forget some sequences. Forever, at times. But, I always write when I drive. I wonder sometimes what it feels like to have your eyes light up with desire, a specific spark for one passion that can carry you through your life, blissfully aware of the monotonous day-to-day like you're Willy Wonka, just singing and whistling through murdering children and chalking it up to bad eggs. What a life to lead. Having a few passions and doing these things daily. Instead, I am cursed to be called simultaneously boring and be living a thousand lives at the same time, barely recalling which things I am taking care of and harvesting at any given point. It is infuriating, enthralling, and over stimulating at times. Which thing is dying? Which fire am I to extinguish first? Oh, but there's all these real life things to take care of like bills and paperwork and- oh dear god! Am I dropping out of this class for the third time? For fucks sake! I cannot keep EVERY plant in my house alive, fix every leak, spray out every maggot infested trash can from my weekly juices and rotten potatoes while simultaneously keeping up with whatever the hell math is these days, I have fallen asleep for at least a decade and I have awaken to just absolute chaos. I open the door to my house, after extinguishing the flame of my children fighting only about eight inches apart for the last two hours- feeding them jelly beans at random times and having to confiscate snakes- and I am greeted with a stench of death and piss and shit and actual live maggots crawling on my floor while my thirteen year old cat mews incessantly. I wonder. I wonder have I gone mad? Is this what hell is? If I were to believe in hell- this would be it. I unpack. I clean. I target specific areas of my house. I pet the cat until my fingers grow thick with old fur grease. I lay in my bed and I say fuck out loud. I don't think that I felt quite like a queen coming home to her giant, beautiful, comfortable house in at least a thousand years. I fall into my bed, I switch positions to breath ANYTHING other than the death that is in the air and I sleep for at least ten years. Glad to be home. Yearning to plan the next trip home where my heart truly lives, in Jefferson County.