I am afraid. Again. An ordinary
woman with extra ordinary concerns, surely more than the average female.
The
fear comes to greet me each time a child prepares to fly-be-free. Anxiety bids
me to taste it and I obey, cannot resist though I know the flavor hasn’t
changed, has not improved one whit since the last time.
Afraid’s
mouthfeel is that of rust, peat moss, a scab slicked by a child’s tongue then
dried by the wind. Burnt Sienna Crayon flaked on a box grater. A crushed cigarette
eaten with no water to wash it down.
Is
all fear—of life, not death—like this? Suffocating, strangling? Causing one to
quake like corn kernels in a heated and covered pot, skittering frenetically in
order to avoid death by drowning in high temperature olive oil (not canola oil
as it is really RAPEseed oil).
Surely
death, or considerable damage at the very least, is inevitable if I grant my
fists permission to unfurl. Instead I clutch my balled hands in my lap,
relocate them after a time to beneath my thighs so as to prevent their becoming
manacles around her delicate wrists, the means by which I hold her here, close
to my heart, gasping for breath.
All
I want is one person to acknowledge my angst, recognize it as a higher form of
love. I need someone to watch me cup my hand over my mouth to silence my
sobs, my keening. Will someone please applaud as I murmur, “You can be
anything, accomplish whatever you set your mind to. I’m sure of it.”
For
eighteen years I’ve known this was coming, the severance of a second umbilical
cord, this one invisible—a rope of me, her, her papa, and God—encased in a
gleaming moist sheath which is love. It thrums with the possibility that each
goodbye may be the last. Unseen hands tug the strand from “gone forever” to “wildly
successful and full of joy.”
Someone
please fetch that box over there, the one lacquered almost black with open
heart pink satin lining. Inside I’ll arrange the grayed strips of paper which
when ordered correctly read: I can take better care of her than she can, He
can.
Now
I need a brick, a hammer, or a gun so I can obliterate the square in one fluid
WHAM! Next I’ll locate a sheet of diaphanous yet metallic vellum and a pen with
silver ink. At the dining room table I’ll make loops and swirls on scratch
paper to guarantee flow then I’ll form calligraphy letters big as baby fingers:
I TRUST. After I trim the statement, the affirmation, I’ll fold it again and
again till it’s the size of a vein, a whisper.
Where
is the wee velvet box my husband snapped open on a pier over the ocean two
decades plus ago? I’ll tuck my trust wisp into its white satin cleft, let the
lid bite shut then nestle it at the bottom of a fireproof chest hidden in the
secret place. Surely it, she, will be safe then . . .
