And we may whisper it from our pursed lips on a rainy day while the TV plays cartoons in the background; “noise to distract us from ourselves,” only to be focused on you.
We haven’t forgotten. We assure you. We know how your strong arms can lift us beyond the stars.
We remember the tightness of your embrace. We can pinpoint the moment you raged toward “21 questions” when we brought some new date home.
You are a young girl’s first love. You are a young boy’s first hero. You are the Boogeyman’s Hitman for the little ones who cry and coo in their dark rooms.
It is imperative that you know our lips will form to shape the words, “Thank you” and our hearts will push out three others; “I love you”, as you sit back in your favorite chair to soak up the newness of another day the world nearly ignores.
But please don’t forget, we know how important you are. We aren’t afraid to show you. You are the present a child waits to open last.
a thundered-tongue man slipped his broken-hearted past into Jilly’s lap–she picked it up, pieced it back together, and swaddled it for safekeeping; she named it “silver.”
A friend of mine sent a text message on New Year’s Eve stating Betty White had died. Suddenly, it felt as though a galaxy found its way into my body and exploded. I was not prepared for something as heavy as Betty’s death to sit on my chest and pierce its way into me. Granted, I hadn’t been feeling my best — having had a booster shot pumped into my bloodstream earlier that day. No one tells you the autoimmune or invisible illness with which you’ve been saddled will shape your life in a way you never planned. They don’t tell you that an overgrown virus once thought to be efficiently combated by two doses of the vaccine of your choice is now one they could not have predicted and instead of just one booster to further ensure your health — you will also need another.
Now, with the news of four different mass-produced pharmaceutical marketed vaccine visits lumped together on my vaccination card, I can’t breathe. What an odd day to die, I thought . . . And at ninety-nine, too. When I am given information I find hard to dissect, I start reading about it — I start researching from where did it originate? You cannot pinpoint a person’s death before it occurs. And why do I think I should be able to do it?
There is the possibility that knowing a friend of mine who recently pulled up a seat to the table of my heart contracting the Coronavirus, COVID-19, is pressing me harder than I thought it would. The next day — found out her toddler and mother are both positive as well. The same week — a cousin, then another, then another, and I just . . . am so fucking tired of it all. I want to scream, but no one will hear me. I want to lash out, but at whom?
I promised myself 2022 would be different.
The week before all this insanity, I toyed with the idea of emailing a friend, not friend — a love, not love, to begin the process of us. This sounds like a business transaction — a potentially lucrative investment, doesn’t it? I’d been sitting on what I would say for years now and instead of every word being lodged deep in my throat, they were slowly creeping upward — daily; I feel nauseated. If I love this person as much as I feel I do, why is this so hard? I’ve made mistakes before — thought what I was feeling was validated, confirmed, but it was not. I have spent many years trying to understand emotions — feelings — the intensity of it all. And I am better at it than I was before, but I still worry about loss.
And loss keeps me from moving forward. However, I will be the bearer of awkward news. I own it. I won’t ever deny it. I have played paragraphs in my head, formed them without blinking, and now, all I have to do is push them from the inside out — all I have to do is load them up, review them, and send them off. And as sorted as this all may sound, there are things that can go wrong during the process. It is not a carefully constructed assembly line. There is no one to test the structure or its faults before I engage in putting my heart on the line . . . I’ll just be out there bare-assed, waiting . . . waiting for a response.
I can take it, I tell myself.
Whatever happens after I do this, I can take it, is what I am telling myself. I have been tested — I’m tried. I’m true. But I am not battery-operated, so I will feel the magnitude of this — whatever the outcome. It will be a part of me for years to come. Once you have lent your true feelings to the ether, there is no going back — no 360 turns you can take to lasso what you sent back to its birthplace. It will be. It is. And you will have to deal with it in whatever shape or form it takes.
The moment came, and I typed my feelings onto the screen. He’s aware. He knows. Just as I am aware of his — I know. One of us has to be less scared — less threatened by what could be and just jump into what might be. I pick up the weight — secure it to my shoulders — settle it evenly on my back, and type as fast as I have been taught to. I don’t miss a beat. I am mindful of the verbiage used — it’s carefully selected. I breathe. I pace myself.
You’re doing it, I say. Holy shit, you’re doing it! And as I see myself taking these steps — diving into the deep end, I notice the dog is stirring. She will need a walk soon, and I won’t be able to overlook this. It builds anxiety within me. I’m anxious to be done, but I also still want to be careful — cautious of what I say. Once I am done composing and I send it, there is no turning back.
And as I watch my words carry themselves into the depths of an ancient email account — obtained during Gmail’s beta period, I breathe a sigh of relief. I did it. I shared a burden — unpacked the heaviest pieces of my baggage, and tossed them into the waste bin of life.
years ago, when I was still wading in closeted waters, a man I loved wrote a poem for me. he had always been kind–never uttered a word of disrespect in my direction and I swam in every word of his as if they were Heaven’s bath. his poem, entitled, “porcelain doll,” stuck to my bones and hasn’t pulled its gluey residue away from me, and I hold on to his words–they calm me when times shuck the peacefulness from my mind.
we still communicate. I doubt we’ll ever break free of each other–friends, almost lovers, back to friends, almost lovers . . . it’s a cycle that has its own tune and I can hum it in seven different languages. I’m still working on my Swahili, but German and French have made a solid return. every time I see a text message from him bubble to my phone, a child of a different decade ushers in her presence. he still makes me feel like living is the best gift from God.
and it is a Tango’d web which I’ve found myself dancing on, and these days–I do not wear the best shoes for the job. here is a man so far away from me, so far away from my presence, but near in others . . . what will change? what can change? he is someone for who I’d relocate– shift life goals, and pack up all my things once more. yet, here we are . . . afraid to take the plunge.
the years pile on, aging us both in ways often hard to discern–is today a good day to broach the subject? will tomorrow be? the dog doesn’t know his face, hasn’t heard his voice, but I recall every image of him shared with me and still have to beat his voice out of my ears during the witching hours. could sleep be better alongside his body entwined with mine?
this man, for whom I carry both pain and joy–settles in the thickness of my breasts, caresses my aura. the Chakras of my body align with the presence of the Holy Spirt, and I am devout in this form of worship. I won’t label myself . . . I won’t mock my growth . . . but long ago, years before, when I was still wading in closeted waters, he wrote a poem for me. I was his “porcelain doll.”
A Cornered Gurl 
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