i wish i thought you were watching our catastrophes from up high where heaven is, but i don't. i wish i could tell them you are watching out for us little people with our sore minds and sore hearts and sore little wishes, but i don't want to say that. (your sister cries in the bath where there is lots of water, and she holds her face - i honestly do not think you see that) i wish i could get to you on a morning bright, in winter, early, when the first frost spikes the thorns and the rays of the sun melt it and the drops just hang there, diamond clear. that i may find you sitting, black hair blazing on your shoulders, angel mane covering your name, so i do not see it behind you, carved. i do not want to see it, for once. a beautiful boy with beautiful lips, sitting among the succulents, collecting leaves, collecting earthworms, collecting books; your mother collecting the dimples in your cheeks as they drop with every smile at her. you, watching us, loving our smiles at you. listening directly, looking obliquely. in that way of yours. coy and sweet. in your bitchy wisdom, tell us what we need to hear and what we do not need to hear. if the hollows of our hearts hold you now, more than at any other time, how huge you are. how much of you. too much for me only. but in this place and space we are many, cupping bits of you. is there any part of your living that is not held, loved, remembered, tasted again and again? relived again and again? if our thoughts could make you whole, how it would, how it would! you would laugh at this writing and tell me, make up your mind, woman, what is it with you, am i in heaven or in nowhere? and we would laugh about that. we would laugh and be pretty and behave like we are the queens of the earth. and of course we are. we know, we know that!
seasofme060617
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