Posts tagged “life

The Saying Goes…

Posted on July 14, 2014

Years ago in my carpentry days I worked with a guy named Clay. He was from North Carolina and had the kind of drawl that authors take paragraphs to bring to life until it becomes the cadence of your very thoughts. As we would work feverishly in the scene shop at Delftree building sets for the Williamstown Theatre Festival, we’d take smoke breaks and bitch breaks. One late night walking toward the loading dock Clay said, “This whole thing makes about as much goddamn sense as going through your asshole to get to your belly button.” That saying has stayed with me because I’ve built a life on doing things the hard way. Whether it’s insisting on doing something myself, adjusting my plan to…

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Just Perfect

Posted on May 7, 2014

I had a preoccupation as a little girl that people around me would die. Actually, it wasn’t about people around me, it was my mom; I actively worried that I would lose her. There are moments when the pangs of fear that I would feel come back to me, not as fear of losing her now, but that very raw feeling of being 8 and afraid that she’d be swallowed up by something and be out of reach to me. I think it was in that time, in those moments in our house on the hill, the twists of brown and gold rug beneath my feet and the weight of fearing my mom’s death all around me, that I developed my tendency to say…

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A New Dance

Posted on April 23, 2014

  We were sitting in my living room while the girls sprinted around the house.  My mom leaned over to me and whispered, “We took care of the Easter Bunny.” My stomach dropped, I’d completely forgotten. The next sensation was embarrassment, had they handled Easter because they saw that I wasn’t? I searched her face. The “we” tickled at me, confusing me. She hadn’t been out alone with Papa to do a shop. The look on her face was foreign, a little bit of guilt, maybe excitement, and something else, a kind of sympathetic pain, maybe. “Briar,” she said it so softly. The familiar sound rocked me. Briar. I mouthed the word back to her. Briar. She nodded. “We were driving along and she said,…

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Posted on April 13, 2014

  Seventy inches, maybe 69, all mine hazel eyes, moody hair, constellations of freckles this upper lip that gets caught on a tooth skin that erupts in chills at the sound of a stretched cotton ball a throat that tightens and eyes that sting more often as the years pass, sometimes from joy other times not I’m getting better with not with not fair and not my problem not like others and not ready yet   The gift of these years is this my 70 inches, or maybe 69, finally fit I touch each one, rather than shrink from I know the outline and color my edges I can stay in the lines or bleed beyond the reflexive snarl of my twenties—still there but…

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Her Loving Arms

Posted on March 26, 2014

The other day I shared about our house and our marriage, the thing that has stayed with me in reflecting on those closest to me, is that we weren’t alone. There was a tree in our front yard, it bore the battle wounds of telephone poles and Adirondack storms. It was very nearly split down its center to accommodate the lines and from the nourishment the bugs infesting it gave the pileated woodpeckers that rat-a-tatted morning and night. Shade and music were abundant in its limbs, and time and again we tricked the workers into thinking the tree was not to go. “Ma’am, we’re here to manage the trees for National Grid. The one out around back and this one out front are on…

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