Breasts

There's me, and there's this other me
Who likes to think she's me, but
Isn't.

She sifts through drawers looking for a
Workout bra, but
Finds a corset instead.

A glitter blue and
Black leather thing she bought when she was thin.
It no longer fits.
The sports bra does, but
She can't find it.

She moves on to another drawer where
Lingerie lies side by side with
Nipple guards and nursing bras.

What folly.
A waste of time.
She looks for what she cannot find.
Her life.
Herself.
She is not me, but am I?

Who I think I am, that is?

As a babe, my daughter was not me, but
As she grows, she becomes
An approximation.

She bites her nails and touches her...
Well, you understand.


Does that make her me?
She's more like me or the

Person I wish to be.
Potentially.


She's heaven.
A heavenly body.
Innocent. Untouched. Tender.
Where I am tame.
Tamed by time and tragedy -
Or at least an approximation of it.

From freedom to girdles to garments

To bindings
To bending
To supplication
At the foot of Life's great door.
My cleaving
An opening to The world.

And what am I to do with her?
With myself?
Am I to be held responsible for
What I did not expect
But brought forth anyway?

My open drawer of folly.
Do I open it and keep looking?
Looking for what I cannot find?
Or, do I give up and move on?
Sift through bygone days of twenty-something stupidity?
Attempt to clothe myself in the bridal garb betrothed to me
Before I was gelded,
Slammed shut,
Sorted like
So many sets of white underpants?

I forgo the seeking -
Contain myself;
Restrain my breasts and breath.
Conserve my strength for
The next time I might use it;
Use THEM?

Why not wear
All of the above
At once?

Bind me up,
Consume, or
Set me free.

It makes little
Difference.

The weight of thoughts

What I love to do best is to think. To think and think. To lie in bed in the darkness with the fan blowing gently cool air on my face, buried beneath the covers, contemplating my purpose in this life, asking all my questions.

My questions are the same as all great thinkers and others who don't think as much but ask the same questions as all humans do.

'What is my purpose? Why am I here?'

In all my years of thinking, I still don't have an answer, but I don't really need one anymore.

My daughter is part of my answer. Though she's not all of it. She's enough. For now.

'Who am I? Why am I here?'

I am a mother. A daughter. A wife. A woman. A human being. A being. A body. A soul. Or perhaps a mind.

I think.

'Is that something only we can do?'

Humans, I mean. Think. That's what I mean.

'What is my purpose? To work?'

I worked, but it was not my purpose. My purpose in all my work was to think and speak to other humans, and, somehow, I touched their lives, and they remembered, and some of it meant something to them whether or not I knew it. And sometimes, they came back to tell me. Others did not, but that doesn't mean that it didn't mean anything to them, only, they didn't say so.

I remember things that others said to me, though I never told them. I'm telling you right now. You human that is reading this.

I remember a girl who said "never say 'I'm sorry.'" Say, "I apologize." They mean different things. Saying "I apologize" indicates that you have internalized the wrong you commited against another person, acknowledged that you were wrong, and decided to act differently in the future. Saying "I'm sorry" indicates that there is something wrong with you and that you are inherently wrong.

That's the difference between action and adjectives.

I work as a teacher, a counselor, a friend. I am not those things. They are my actions. They are what I have to offer.

I am a human being. That is what I am.

I think. That is what I do.

I write, but that is not what I am. I write for me. And also for you.

I create, but my creations are not me. Once you see them, they will mean something different to you. They become a part of the human race and will live as long as humans do. My body will die. My thoughts will not.

A man once wrote that thoughts have mass, that they exist. They are a scientific reality. They are a cause and their effect affects us all, but especially the speaker.

The girl who explained the difference between I'm sorry and I apologize probably doesn't realize the effect her words had on me. She may not even remember saying them. But they have become a part of me. Because they have mass. Because they exist, and because I do, and I will share them with my daughter that she will know she is not sorry and must apologize when she is wrong. Those thoughts will continue to exist long after I do and her, as well.

Intangible Possessions, and what we leave behind

Life, when you look back upon it, looks different from when you are living it.

Daily life is simply that:

Day-to-day, moment to moment,

crisp and clear or dazed and drawn.

Memories of the past, however, are either

sharp with pain or

soft and dear.

Individual moments are clearer upon remembering.

Images

Wisps of time

Actions you can recall with perfect clarity.

Other details of the day, the week, the year are hazy, so

We begin with context when we speak

“When I was a teenager,”

“When I was in college,” or

“When I lost my dad, I was….”

All references to other people are in relation to you –

to your perceptions and interpretations.

You remember them not as they were, but as you saw them or believed them to be.

You can remember the curry flavor of the saag paneer you ate on the day you decided to quit your job.

Remember the clingy, musty smell of the room in which you played as a child while your grandfather lay dying, and that, on that day, you unbraided the yellow, yarn hair of your first Cabbage Patch Kid and your mother was very cross.

Remember that there were four chairs on the front porch, two on each side, and that your mother sat in the one closest to your window and furthest from the wind while she wept

and that an owl was hooting, and

how many steps it took from your room to your mother’s bedside after you woke from another nightmare. You hoped she’d be there when you needed her.

For poignant memories, you can recall exact dates and times, what you were wearing, where you were standing, and how many other people were present.

You were sitting in the second row of the classroom when you heard that JFK was assassinated.

You were wearing a red dress and checking email when you heard the Twin Towers had fallen.

You were cooking eggs on the stove when you received the call that told you your uncle had died.

You were 15 days from your 31st birthday when your daughter came into the world; that it was an Olympic Smart Scale that recorded her birth weight of 6 lb 11 oz; and that her skin was bright red, and her thick black hair was plastered to her tiny newborn skull.

These memories force us to recall minutiae:

the feel of your feet on the floor

the fabric of the chair in which you sat

the taste of the liquor and how it burned your throat and made you think you were invincible

the hot droplets of water stinging the skin on your face and throat

the reflection in the mirror that confused you even though you knew it must be yours, but you didn’t recognize yourself

the sound of the train at 12:30 a.m. as you sat up studying for finals

whether or not the crickets were chirping on the night you lost your virginity on the grass in the park near your boyfriend’s apartment

if it was silent or people were talking

if sirens were blaring loudly nearby or fading in the distance before or after your friend’s house burned down

how bright the lemons were in your daughter's hand and how they complemented the color of the dress you'd chosen for her to wear

how a school mate smelled of perfume or body odor depending on how often they bathed or if they even had access to a shower

whether they were coming or going for the first time or the last….

These are things only you know.

Only you experienced them.

Only you.

A poet, like a TV chef, attempts to describe these details in such depth that those not present can, in fact, feel as though they were.

My advice is this:

Write in the dark.

When you are sleepy.

Don’t edit.

Don’t look back at the pages until you’ve run far enough away from them so they don’t hurt you anymore.

Share them when no one’s looking.

Your handwriting will be illegible.

These memories are your intangible possessions you will bequeath to those who outlast you; the survivors of what will come.

We all die.

What will we leave behind?

These memories, no matter how dear or despicable, painful or prudent, are your legacy.

You leave the lives you touch

The life that outlives

Your death.

We all die.

What will we leave behind?

Words on paper.

Photographs.

Pray that the survivors will understand

Can interpret what you have said and that you lived.

The marks will decompose.

Who will ever know

They were there?