|Blogs > rm_xsaturnine > between art & artifice|
Tonight I was sitting in my garden, reading about silence and listening to the music that saved me as a child
and that is the first time I have separated myself from that name, from that place, said ‘child’ and meant myself with years smoothed away.
The first time. I want to write this and have it as perfect as it is in my head, when really I know that all that matters is the way the faded light haloed around my wine glass, the way the breeze lifted my hair away from my face for just long enough, the way my fingertips are colder than they have been all year.
I think about the word ‘child’ and the word ‘woman’, think about an hourglass figure and the way I don’t hear hips and waist and breasts in that, the way I hear the slow running of time and the sand in my hair and between my hands when I press them together in prayer.
I think about my mom counting the silverware into and out of the drawer, bunching her hands around it like a precious thing, like a wild thing that’s caught and stays only as long as you can hold it still.
I think about how hard this is to write, and how easy it is to sit with my chin and nose buried in my coat, crying slowly and carefully and standing up every 10 minutes to show the garden light that yes, I’m still here and yes, I still need it.
Forgetting someone is like forgetting to turn off the light
in the backyard so it stays lit all the next day
But then it is the light that makes you remember.
- - Yehuda Amichai
Tonight I was sitting in my garden, reading about losing and being lost and listening to the wind picking fights with the trees in my neighbour’s garden
and wanting, desperately, suddenly, to fall apart.
There is a tree in their garden that looks like a lion in profile and no number of years has been able to change it, no seasons of them cutting it back and pulling out branches could change it. I think about the windows I have seen that through, the way one day I won’t be there to look or it won’t be there to be seen. I think about that for the first time.
The first time.
I bunch my hand around my glass like it’s a precious thing.