xchelsemilyy
He was almost here. She was almost about to... (almostalmostalmost) what? Become a mother? Even if she was going to give up this fetus she had been hosting for nine months now? How many months, weeks, hours had passed since she'd known she couldn't - wouldn't - keep him?
No.
She may be his mother, but she won't be his parent, a loving mother there to nurture and support. She was going to hand him over to his parents, a couple she didn't even know. That's all she knew - they were a married couple. She didn't know their names, where they lived, their jobs (if they had any), their favorite TV show or their favorite ice cream. She didn't know if they already had children or if they themselves had been adopted. Did they have parents? Good parents? What would they name her son? She just didn't know.
Because she would see her son once, as they were moving him to the baby wing- all soft blankets, pastels in blues and pinks, with the sharp smell and harsh lights only hospitals have - while they stitched her back up.
There's all that sticky-sweet-sappy underneath. But how do I get it?
You're as wholesome as apple pie, I guess, as sweet and delicious. But I can't get past the crust to the sweetness within. Nothing'll work, will it?
She could feel the impatience radiating through the all the layers. "In a minute," she called down, her voice winding down the curves of the staircase. She heard a muffled call, which she took as acceptance.
Again. She looked at herself. She could do this. She whispered little mantras to herself, her words conforming to the rhythm of her heels click-clacking.
At the landing, she beamed. Fake it 'til you make it. "Hi."
If she could hear you now, if she could know, would you tell her?
Would you tell her you find someone else? Yes, she said that she wanted you to continue your life and to be happy, but did she mean this?
Your face tells the stories you've lived, the stories you've concocted, the stories you've written. I read the lines, recalling the times I was beside you in your adventures, and I can't help but smile. You've earned every bit of your face in all your years. This is the face you deserve, the face you've made. A beautiful face.
There are things you say, things you do, things you think and buy and read and sing and write and appreciate, that a year ago you'd never, no. There are things you are thankful for that, the year before, you couldn't imagine wanting nor needing. The centerpiece of the dinner table, an orchid, was something she would've never known that she would like if he had never brought it home. And so that was what her Thanksgiving speech was about- change.
One hand at my waist and another at my neck, you spin me 'round. So, so fast, I'm seeing circles. It seems I've no choice but to follow the subtle demands of your hands. My feet, my legs, my torso, my arms, my hands, my head, my heart obey.
You've got this fire- more of an ember, really, at this point- that burns inside you. Instead of warm yourself by it- you haven't figured that out quite yet, I think- you burn everything good and stable in your life up, a forest being ravaged without a second thought until all that's left is smoke and ashes.
If you slouch like that, your back will stay that way. If you make that silly face, it'll get stuck that way. Be careful of the words you think because they will become the words you speak and the actions you perform.
But my question, then, is, if I love you like this why won't it always stay the same? Why isn't the love you have for me promised for tomorrow?
The museum was filled with relics, preserved from far off ruins. Without even a touch of her fingertips upon these ancient artifacts, she could feel the lives of those previously alive and now dead wafting about her. She could feel the way they must have lived. And what had caused their deaths, was it ordinary or extraordinary? She had to know.
The museum sparked an insatiable curiosity to find out all she could about that civilization from so very long ago.
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writing since 2011 · 122 entries · 118 days shown up
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