Funny how we hang onto relationships, habits, things…one-sided conversations when words spoken tumble through the air and waft like a feather into un-hearing.
That’s how I feel about you. I’m hanging onto you.
I throw stray thoughts – some spoken, some unspoken – in your direction. You know what I’m talking about: the thoughts and mumblings that pop up on birthdays, holidays and the in between spaces. And you respond with annoying silence and a comforting steadiness.
I imagine the stories you could tell about the nervous first-time mother who picked you – you specifically – just because you were you.
Nearly sixty years ago, that first-time mother picked you because you didn’t have sharp corners. She’d later say you were perfect because you were just the right height to support little people who’d be liable to fall at any moment and gentle enough to break the inevitable falls without damage.
Three babies followed the first and I wonder what conversations you heard that mom having with her husband about the other babies, with the other babies…and with herself. You still bear stains from shoe polish the last baby found, and unattended for a brief moment, opened and spilled.
In your 57 years, you’ve lived at the center of four different living rooms. You’ve known family who I scrape my memory to remember or even identify from pictures. You know the sound, tenor, timbre, pitch and rasp of their voices.
Now you’re in the center of my living room, my life. I know you’ve seen the ebb and flow of life. Its losses, joy, indifference, passion and silence. I know you could probably predict the phase I’m in right now as if it’s a predictable B-movie you’ve seen a thousand times before.
Because you have seen it before at least a thousand times over. Just with different people with slightly different paths. And I’m sure you’d tell me that if you could only talk.
Doesn't matter. I'm still hanging onto you because I can't let you go.
That’s how I feel about you. I’m hanging onto you.
I throw stray thoughts – some spoken, some unspoken – in your direction. You know what I’m talking about: the thoughts and mumblings that pop up on birthdays, holidays and the in between spaces. And you respond with annoying silence and a comforting steadiness.
I imagine the stories you could tell about the nervous first-time mother who picked you – you specifically – just because you were you.
Nearly sixty years ago, that first-time mother picked you because you didn’t have sharp corners. She’d later say you were perfect because you were just the right height to support little people who’d be liable to fall at any moment and gentle enough to break the inevitable falls without damage.
Three babies followed the first and I wonder what conversations you heard that mom having with her husband about the other babies, with the other babies…and with herself. You still bear stains from shoe polish the last baby found, and unattended for a brief moment, opened and spilled.
In your 57 years, you’ve lived at the center of four different living rooms. You’ve known family who I scrape my memory to remember or even identify from pictures. You know the sound, tenor, timbre, pitch and rasp of their voices.
Now you’re in the center of my living room, my life. I know you’ve seen the ebb and flow of life. Its losses, joy, indifference, passion and silence. I know you could probably predict the phase I’m in right now as if it’s a predictable B-movie you’ve seen a thousand times before.
Because you have seen it before at least a thousand times over. Just with different people with slightly different paths. And I’m sure you’d tell me that if you could only talk.
Doesn't matter. I'm still hanging onto you because I can't let you go.
You know way too much.
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| The coffee table my mom bought 57 years ago, now in my living room with leftover Halloween goodies. |
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