sweetheart redux

Being Women Together My mother and I were women together.  Well, okay, I was only her girl child for some of those years, but I quite precociously grasped one evening when I heard the plentiful and ebullient family next door having a barbecue that lasted roughly from noon until midnight the summer of my eleventh year the disquieting contrast between those noises and smells and the quiet dusk of our own kitchen. “I’m lonely.  I want more,” my sullen gaze telegraphed itself into her awareness. “I understand, one hundred percent” the squeeze she gave my hand – two short squeezes and a long one that felt particularly sincere and protective – transmitted. So – this was womanhood, was our own version of womanhood anyway – a cloud of dissatisfaction palpable as a self-separate entity, a runty bunny rabbit, white with those gruesome red eyes.

I’ve tried out the gesture of tsk-tsking a few times, When it seems it may have been appropriate. I’ve tried, Not for months now, but once upon a time, To do the type of things that level-headed people do, Like sighing at others’ reckless denial of the Shit that passes for first-world amenities – Not to humble-brag, but yesterday I spoke at length with A homeless woman whose mouth was all covered in Sores. She liked my jewelry and my dress, Commenting on it the way my dead mother would have. Anyway, this homeless woman, To whom I gave some amenities that were in the scheme Of things as paltry as offering To piss on a jellyfish bite that was sustained Months and months ago – It was nice just to be there with her. But there have been times, Yes indeed, When I tried out tsk-tsking. I’m speaking to you now, Ghost of my Mom. There was a day when I called...