Sydney by Laurel Blossom
My mother was glamorous. She wore clothes she bought at The Tailored Woman. In my childhood she wore her hair in a perfect French twist.
But when she let it down at night, it went all wild and wiry, black and white and gray.
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I forget a woman’s name if it’s Katherine, Kitty, or Kate.
I only know her from the inside out.
When not defined by her motherhood, there’s a barrier. Flesh.
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But I like the dead. They’ve gone back inside, you know where to find them.
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Though tonight they walk the earth.
Though this is the night of the day she died.
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I cut my hair short.
She can’t drag me with her.
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The doctor said I’m gong to live a long time. She said I should make friends with younger women.
My sister’s age, I asked.
Your daughter’s age, she said.
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The measure of longitude (longevity) hasn’t been invented yet.
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If she sees me coming, she’ll organize an ascension.
This is the 60-yard dash.
Like lead, slow motion, running in glue.
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Meantime, on Halloween, I didn’t die.
Cooler days, the falling year, the sweet and rising air. The slowly breathing stones.
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I can go to Australia if I want to.
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I went running. I love running.
I bought a load of books, stopped for a cappuccino at the bookstore café.
Bought a pot of orange chrysanthemums. At the mall. In Florida. Eleven o’clock in the morning.
Eastern Standard Time.
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The ocean breeze tousled the palm trees.
A gaggle of yellow-breasted children waddled by.
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The sun moved West, taking me out of the purple shade into the yellow noonday sun.
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This is my life beyond her life.
To my own dark evening, my natural conclusion.
Whenever and however foregone it may be.
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When I look down, I see my mother’s hands.
