UNTITLED
M
IST SPRAYED LIGHTLY OFF the water down the coast like the sweat seeping through my temples. When I pass the orchard, I am reminded of your temporary wordless obsession with beekeeping that was almost strong enough to buy us an apiary for the backyard. I keep the picture book, the one with tiny happy bees that sing and laugh, in the bottom drawer of my desk. The drive was quiet and lingering and at times the congestion in my forehead gave me no choice but to pull over on the side of the road. I massaged the canvas of skin above my nose, underneath my right eyebrow. Every time I tried to laugh or cry, the movement transformed into a violent, unrelenting cough that made me want to feel nothing at all. When I got there – what I suppose I should call home – she wrapped her arms around me, unafraid of contracting what brought me there.
We weren’t sure how contagious it was. That was the warmth I needed three months ago when I was alone and broken and cold. Now I sweat through my clothes, though I only wear what covers nearly all of my limbs. I remember once saying that I’d rather be too hot than cold, and no one else agreed with me. I think I was thirteen then, when the world was so big but no bigger than my magnified life. Strange it is to feel like a child when you’ve had one. To have my mother kiss my forehead the way I should yours. There is nothing quite like motherly love but I’m unsure if I get to say I still have mine. Is it retainable, redeemable? It’s not quite regression but I worry that it might be, and scan parenting advice blogs on the Internet. I still have twelve of my favorites bookmarked on my phone, and I don’t even consider removing them. I know I will survive this the way you didn’t, because I am not a small child. My immune system sturdy, my body bruised and scraped and dented. My insides feel the way they did when I was seventeen and heartbroken, when I was twenty and lost. Arguably, I am weaker now than you were. So maybe I will not. In some ways I am reluctant to let it go. I want to feel better but I also want to hold on to the last thing you gave me. I sip the tea and feel nothing but heat drip down my crowded throat. Before, I did not know the privilege of taste. I did not know the privilege of a lot of things.
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