I didn’t get the love notes I was hoping for. I can bring myself near to tears with anticipation, foolish anticipation.
In some ways I got more.
My list was a bust. I can’t eat gorgonzola while pregnant and really I have no idea how to find a prostitute. Didn’t make it to the beach. I did visit the newspaper but that’s it. I didn’t even buy soap.
There is a general feeling of uneasiness around me. In some cases it leans toward bitterness, in others hopelessness, and in me I can’t figure it out. I spend hours imagining what could happen, hours talking myself out of or in to what I have imagined, and hours cursing myself for hours wasted. Right now I am waiting for water to boil, which means these moments can’t be considered among them.
I have left helplessness out of the uneasiness. Please forgive the mistake.
Molly Bloom and the baby she lost, shouldn’t have buried him in the sweater she knit but what else could she do? I have a sweater started for my last and I can’t bring myself to finish it for Whomever. Can’t bring myself to take it apart. My grandmother here remembering her lost child, her youngest, named James. Two sons gone and she is left to her wine bottles. Now when she counts her children I don’t know what the number is.
My stomach is upset, it might be affected. Some things I wish I didn’t know and I know it is better I do. The truths we know but can no longer deny once given the facts. The truth being variable and the facts constant. The chart Gerrit made me is hanging by a clothespin above the computer. It reminds me of parts of myself…
My body has never been a teenage body and never will be. I can’t say why this matters but as I get closer to being a mother it feels like I am fulfilling some kind of prophecy. The decision was made by my hips and breasts before they knew to show themselves. My body is heavy and will always be heavy. My troubled mind is in my bosom and womb and I can’t seem to get my arms around it. My body feels like the vessel it is and I can’t make it feel any different.