A March of Marys, day three
She opened her mouth and I could almost see small children picking up litter, birds crashing into tall buildings. It is always a mirror.
Good morning! It is Day 3 of A March of Marys. I know I don’t usually post this often so I hope your inbox is not feeling overwhelmed. I am taking a chance and doing a thing and I thank you for doing it with me.
As a quick catch-up, in lieu of finding a new publisher to print a second edition, or self-publishing it on my own through print on demand, I am sharing the now out of print American Mary with you on here for free. Maybe one day I’ll print this book out on museum quality paper and hand bind some artisanal copies a la Caroline Calloway, but for now it’ll live in the digital world for anyone to stumble on.
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Your mother came to me again, all sunken dreams and smoker lines, leaning on the bell. I could smell her disappointment from the vestibule.
She followed me silently up creaking stairs, so close behind, too close, silently closely everpressing.
'Did you need something. Maybe I can help you,' Wringing my eyes and staring deeply to guess a motivation, adjusting with hands like a supplicant but she just glared, peeling linoleum.
This can’t keep happening.
I pressed back.
'You know, you should call me if you are going to come by.' I could have picked up a coffee cake. Mothers like coffee cake.
She opened her mouth and I could almost see small children picking up litter, birds crashing into tall buildings. It is always a mirror.
It’s like I don’t understand anything. Even though I shouldn’t have to, she is difficult to impress. My accomplishments mean little to her. I am not the one she wants.
Boxes empty, some unfolded. some stacked, scattered corrugated honeycombs, I can only sense the floor. She kicked at my shadow and my hand started to shake. I had to put it in my pocket. And she was starting to move her mouth, but there was no sound. Lips opened and writhed making shapes, I could feel the rush of stale air and fruit flies, but no words.
This is how we operate.
Do you feel sorry for clothes you don’t wear anymore. Do you like feeling guilty. Do you feel the room get dirtier when someone else comes inside. Do you feel like you’re always trying, always on trial.
I never know what to say.
Your mother is not a friend.
She made a beckoning motion, one I remember from stories about suspension bridges, death personified.
I turned to leave, fumbling over broken stairs and buyer’s remorse, remembering an appointment.
She followed, grabbing my bag, dioxin eyes splitting my ends.
Missed yesterday’s post? You can read it here.