I walk outside for the low fog, the glass beads in the long grass, the base perfume of dirt the day after a rain, the morning glories aching that deep hue, the kind awarded for heated-battle. They get that way vining up toward the sun. They ache in the reaching. The cars are humming, and tiny beaks sup and dip and sup at the puckered trumpet vine.
I leave one son sitting on the toilet. Reading Martha Stewart Magazine, he tells me to go away. One has found a girly pacifier behind the couch. He walks and laughs sucking. The other, lapping over a chair, sprawls long and unaware of nothing but the stalking chiggers from the yard. I tell him they’ll be gone soon – such rude bugs.
I stand on the back steps and want to close my eyes and then turn over in bed. I feel like telling my sister it’s time to get up. It feels like school will start in an hour. Need two pencils, eggs, and please some snack money. We’ll write in the driveway while waiting for the bus,
but I’ll be thirty in two weeks. Yesterday I started an Apple-Cidar-Vinegar habit with the mother. I’m the mother. I’m a good mother who reeks of it and aches of it – their only one. Again this morning, I unwrap it, and again, I try, but I don’t taste the honey. Then I turn around to go in,
but one stands on the other side of the locked door, and then the neighbors hear me yell, and then my fist bangs, and I can feel them saying “Oh crap, now we really can’t let her in.” But then they must feel me saying, “I might not really want in there.”
So they let me in. Everybody’s in trouble. We all cry, and then my lap piles high. They say, “Hold you, please.” And now we hold, lean in, and thumb suck.
This is where I remember it – why I surprisingly crave one newly born – that the honey is in the holding. In the needing and the holding and in all the softened boy-goofiness thereafter.
for more unwrappings, see Emily @ Chatting at the Sky.