Marked
After I pull up the carpet I try to repair the floor. The scratches buff out easily enough and aren't even deep enough for me to bother putting forth much effort on. The color is a uniform old and oiled dark brown with no hope of being lightened so I don't bother with that either. It's the paint smears that bother me. There are a few random spots that I can chip off with the edge of a blade and I find satisfaction with each white streak that scrapes away but there are also deeply ingrained smears of paint, imbedded in and impossible to remove. My few attempts leave only scratches that need to be buffed out but otherwise do nothing to remove the white streaks and smears. The floor is marked in such a way that the white is a part of the floor now, no longer a separate thing to be removed.
I crawl into bed finally and the joy of wrapping myself around the sleeping comma-curve of my daughter is actually painful. Her first night here with me is one I was so anxious about, afraid she'd feel uncomfortable, bored, angry... but instead she smiles sweetly as she sighs deeply and curls up more so it is as if she is re-tucking herself into my body - where she belongs. I lay my cheek on her shoulder, lay a kiss on the curve of her scapula and inhale the scent of shampoo that lingers in her hair, the soap she used on her skin, and the universal child-aroma of sun and grass, sugar, and something a little like God. What I think is a yawn rising from my belly becomes a sob that I choke back with all my might. A mother doesn't wake her child up by crying in the middle of the night. I turn and bury my face in my pillow and scream soundlessly until I feel her scoot up close and curl around the curve of my back seeking the warmth and connection of her momma. I fall asleep to the rhythm of her breathing with tears still streaming down my face.
I make the bed in the morning and see the stained pillowcases. Though I only slept on one last night since my daughter used the other, they are both marked beyond repair with streaks and blotches of black mascara. One from last night, the other from before. I realize that each pillow tells the story of heartbreak in it's stained and ruined cover. Each pillowcase bearing witness to a moment of grief seeking burial, they wear their marks ingrained and imbedded, irreparable, these stains no longer a separate thing to be removed.
Like paint on the floor or makeup on a pillowcase, the grief on my heart is a mark forever.
I crawl into bed finally and the joy of wrapping myself around the sleeping comma-curve of my daughter is actually painful. Her first night here with me is one I was so anxious about, afraid she'd feel uncomfortable, bored, angry... but instead she smiles sweetly as she sighs deeply and curls up more so it is as if she is re-tucking herself into my body - where she belongs. I lay my cheek on her shoulder, lay a kiss on the curve of her scapula and inhale the scent of shampoo that lingers in her hair, the soap she used on her skin, and the universal child-aroma of sun and grass, sugar, and something a little like God. What I think is a yawn rising from my belly becomes a sob that I choke back with all my might. A mother doesn't wake her child up by crying in the middle of the night. I turn and bury my face in my pillow and scream soundlessly until I feel her scoot up close and curl around the curve of my back seeking the warmth and connection of her momma. I fall asleep to the rhythm of her breathing with tears still streaming down my face.
I make the bed in the morning and see the stained pillowcases. Though I only slept on one last night since my daughter used the other, they are both marked beyond repair with streaks and blotches of black mascara. One from last night, the other from before. I realize that each pillow tells the story of heartbreak in it's stained and ruined cover. Each pillowcase bearing witness to a moment of grief seeking burial, they wear their marks ingrained and imbedded, irreparable, these stains no longer a separate thing to be removed.
Like paint on the floor or makeup on a pillowcase, the grief on my heart is a mark forever.
Posted by Dionne at June 27, 2009 
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: crying anguish child weep God heartbreak grief
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: crying anguish child weep God heartbreak grief
Oh my dear sweet friend... Hugs and more hugs to you...
I wish I could do more... I wish I could be there to give you a real hug.
xo
LBC
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