Monday, February 11, 2019

This Semblance of Movement :: Creative Writing Essays

This Semblance of Movement Afraid because my walking hurts the ground. Hesitate. That at that place would be nothing left to write. there are cracks in everything weve made. That does not mean futility. Fathers faith in truth and then this stubborn repetition but what if. The moon looked paper-thin tonight. So I thought if I could sheer more softly from now on. Sifting Liquid I am peeling kill the liquid skin of a memory. Pulling stooping strings out of a silent field of dreams, sister keeps asking what shes missing in me. The sky was three shades of blue tonight, rubbish stars and frozen landscapes, caught in the pantomime of living. Time unfolds its battered wings and in that space I smile. Stealing blankets and the young girl fell. My first twenty-four hour period home from the hospital, she only wanted to play, but reaching to tug, share a piece of my soft security, she tripped, cut her chin. The first blood of our tenuous intimacy. There was a safety scissors haircu t (Mr. Rogers would have done it that way) and hours under chairs facial expression everywhere and up. Entranced by mobiles moving across distance, light, and eyes. In my crib, I would stand, arms reaching out for her, babbling. She, translating thoughts before lips knew how to form. My mother recalls a time early on when she woke in the middle of the night to noises down the hall. A four-year old and a three-year old at two in the morning, muzzleing. We had been grammatical construction a bridge of cards from her bed to mine, so that we wouldnt fall in the water between us if we wanted to hold hands. The most unlikely of stories I never thought to question. Sister, less than a year old, trickery on her mothers stomach. Head down, moving with the rhythm of familiar breath. One word. Baby. To discover, soon after, for two months their silence had been shared. I remember the ways we used to pretend. In the water, we could have been dolphins, at home different versions of Barbie and Ken. Our Barbies lost countless heads perfecting dives off sofas end and to think thats how I spent my years. Do I laugh or merely cry. When we played I think I was endlessly the boy but I dont know if that changed the way I feel.

No comments:

Post a Comment