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Norah’s head is as heavy as a gallon of milk, held by two fingers, as she climbs
the steps with the rest of her groceries. But the cupboards are bare now. Food stamps have run out, her baby’s father has left her, all because she is clean now. Clean for her new daughter. Her heart is heavy, too. About as heavy as an empty milk jug in the face of her hungry baby. But Norah is determined. Al’s Orange Grove is hiring and she has an interview today. Norah read they hire almost anyone, including addicts in recovery. The ad also said there’s a daycare. Somewhere for Sarah, her beautiful little girl. During the interview Al warns Norah that the city only subsidizes wages for those who can stay clean. If the city isn’t helping pay her wages, then there won’t be any work for her. Norah agrees to the terms, passes the pee test, and starts work the next day. Her countenance is one of vigilance as she adorns the table with her grace; I, meanwhile, endeavor to place my heart into her keeping.
At the outset of our arrangement, I had endeavored to imbue her palms with the tangible imprint of my fictitious grace, yet she persisted in fortifying her resolve; the atmosphere remained chill and her words, measured. It was then that I discerned the import of her wily gestures and reconsidered my stance - but the motionless quality of her movements, culminating in the edge of that very table, spoke volumes of her reluctance to finalize the abandonment of her proclaimed authority in my own reality. Ah, how I needed it! Nuanced disarmament lingers in her adoration - her tongue trembles quietly, cautious in what she provides to our arrangement. With my sly command to carry on a sensation of my own autonomy in our conversation, Mother devours the strange poundage I spilled on her coat, claiming it as her own. There is nothing more excruciating than rejection. Holding your heart out on a platter, offering it
to one whose soul you see mirrored in your own, only to be told no. No, it’s not good enough. You are not good enough. You are not enough. The sting burrows its way inside, not content to settle just under the skin, but needling deep into the void where your heart used to be, before it was ripped out. That’s what I was reflecting on, anyway, when a voice interrupted my thoughts. “Is this seat taken?” The young woman, about my age, already had her hands on the empty chair across from me. For only the briefest second, I thought she wanted to sit there, but then she pulled towards herself an inch to make clear the chair was going with her. A routine — the most basic and fundamental word that drives all of our lives. The word that is in
a constant replay in our minds, the thought clinging in our souls. A routine. The basic actions that fill our day, the mornings that go along all so quietly. The same actions that we complete, the same sight we see — our life is on replay. Day after day, I wake up again, longing to see the afterlife once again, only to touch the sunlight with my hands, my pale lips that kiss the golden hour. I touch the freezing mirror that stares into my soul, showing nothing but a reflection of failure, and no more. I was once one of those children, those who pined for attention, who vied for every ounce of validation I could even scavenge from such bare-faced compliments and approving grins I so desperately needed. And of all those people, my parents’ validation was a necessity that drove my life forward, a necessity born of the desperation coursing through my veins — no, my lifeblood. And there, in the shadows, my hidden self that was never unveiled — like a black crow caged in golden wires — I attempt, with no great success, to hide my pent up anger and frustration... but I am not them anymore. I am not my past, naive self as I have learned that the only reward from that is desperation, feeling like your body is being drowned in the water as you want to reach for the hidden light in the dark depths of the pool. On the field below, the warrior falls. It’s an anticlimax, an explosion—he bleeds the same wine-red as the rest of us. Another arrow, and it’s over. Another arrow, and it has only just begun.
Atop the city walls, the archer lowers his bow. Wipes his face with the back of his hand. The god behind him laughs, a hiss like a building flame. You are not pleased? The archer does not turn to look the god in the eyes. I am pleased. Still he clutches his bow, as though it may turn to dust if he lets it go. As though it may be undone. You have brought yourself honour. The first in years, says the god. The archer feels the burning heat against his neck—still, he does not turn. Her ribs poke through her shirt,
all she can fit is size extra-small. She gets worried looks as she walks down the street and feels a sense of triumph. Another, wears testaments of her own self-hatred across her wrists. Wearing it like a badge of honor. Each struggle to showcase the highest degree of self-loathing, And I love the way that sounds. We throw the word ‘bitch’ around in a way we shouldn’t. I’m always directing her back to the shit, the cheese, the rubbish, to avoid my looming apology sticking out like darts in my face. The opposite of acupuncture. I know it wants attention and I know it hurts but Taylor, this shit, this cheese, this rubbish, it’s all so important is it not? So pressing, so urgent, so ‘like the other girls’.
Oh I can’t look at her. I fawn over pictures of her cats and ask after her family and lean in on dramatic cues but I know she’s bouncing her leg and talking in time with the clock. She knows and I know, but good apologies take time, do they not? If I take another sip of my tea my mouth will be full and I can’t help that. And if I finish a fifth biscuit then I’ll need more tea to wash it out of my teeth and my mouth will be full again. My mug keeps refilling even though I need a wee and I know what I’m here to say. |