susanbg
We couldn't eat lunch in the courtyard outside, because suburban high schools weren't used to this happening where they were. I remember my mother getting in the car, waiting for the gas to pump. "I'm happy to let the fear win," she said. She didn't want to get shot at a gas station. The fear was gone in a year, and we pretended this never happened.
My ears are completely open, because to speak would unleash countless insecurities. Self-consciousness. Better to sit still and let someone else be vulnerable, I do the easy part for now, the listening. Silently listening.
Sitting on the beach, sand is everywhere. Between my toes, in my bathing suit, in my hair. I pluck a grape from the stem and eat it, and feel the grit of the sand in my mouth. Irritating, rubbing, sand. I run into the ocean, the water washes and cleanses me. I feel relieved.
Strawberries from the field. Oozing delicious in dollops of cream.
Sheets from the dryer. Snap them back and forth, floating in the air until the settle messily.
The smell of no smell.
Chemistry. Merging colors. Fluids, dynamic. Swirling at first, not taking. With a little stir from the outside, things can move together more.
writing since 2012 · 6 entries · 6 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Susan showed up.
2longest streak
6days written
0.1entries / week
the words Susan reaches for
sandcardadoutsidesmelleatlisteninggasfearpaulricepickingsundaymorningsoonmom