cynthiawhamill

Day 40: Laundry Day

Gladys looks forward to laundry day. She likes the fresh-startness of it, the sunny smell of detergent, the bag of clothespins clink-clunking against her hip as she walks to the clothesline.

She hums to herself as she fishes her secret happiness out of the hamper. It’s Tom’s blue button-up shirt, mixed in with the sheets and day-dresses. She pins it to the line by the shoulders, then runs her hand over the breast pocket, where he kept his peppermints. As she watches, the sleeves billow and fill with wind, rising as if to embrace her, coming alive with his ghost.

Day 39: Present

Your birthday is coming up.
I think you should get me something.
I think it should be an impossible gift.
I think you should get me a do-over
That’s years long and a whole state wide.
I think I won’t rest until you present it to me,
Negative space, pressed into a wrinkle in the
Space-time continuum, stretching out
All four of the dimensions, poised to
Erase and remake each unbidden memory.
I think it should be wrapped,
Not with newsprint or comics,
But airtight, so not one bit
Of the old way we were with one another
Can escape.

Day 38: Nape

Mark’s asleep, curled up on his side and snoring. Justin rolls over gently, so not to wake him, and because his limbs feel like lead and his head is pounding.

Fuck high school reunions, honestly. Fuck cheap hotel rooms with droopy mattresses. And fuck margaritas for the way they unearth shit no matter how deeply it’s buried.

Justin studies the back of Mark’s head, his brown curls glossy in the dawn light. His neck looks graceful, tender, and Justin wants to touch the dark, downy whorl under Mark’s ear. Fuck broken hearts, he thinks, burrowing deeper under the thin sheet.

Day 37: Birthday

My sweet baby, there should be no tears on your birthday. You should have only presents, smiles from your friends, and notes of love that remind you of everything wonderful growing another year older means.

I lean over you, holding your cold hand in mine, and your sobs break my heart. I feel your world-weariness, even as young as you are, heavy like a stone in your chest. Growing up means a driver’s permit, freedom, independence. It also means showing a face to the world that has swallowed its tears, at the head of its own table, licking the icing.

Day 36: Pulpit

When you asked for volunteers for the “Worship Leader” position,
The child inside my mind saw
The nun at the end of the hall,
Pale as chalk, lips like a bird’s beak,
Who called us “dearie” instead of learning our names.
The priest striding through the parking lot,
Black-clad and stalking his way into my bicycle dreams.
The child saw a rosary, fought over,
And a candy cane thief.
The child heard a voice without identity,
Habited, enraged,
Cutting down one who called them by name.
“Let me know if you can help.”
The child, watchful, lets the beads scatter.

Day 35: Shoebox

I helped my daughter clean out her bedroom closet today.

We cooed over old Halloween costumes and counted seven crocheted baby blankets. I found a pair of angel wings, the kind made of wire and white pantyhose. She put them on, along with the gold mortarboard she wore for her graduation from kindergarten. Our dog ate some feathers from a pink boa, and I cleaned out purses with goldfish crackers hidden in their pockets.

I opened a small orange box, and inside was a pair of leather infant shoes. “I’m keeping those,” she said, and put them on her bookshelf.

Day 34: Forgiveness

For my college degree, I had to take Studio Art classes. My Life Drawing professor gave us explicit instructions to never throw failed art works away. “Even if it’s terrible. Even if it’s experimental, and failed horribly. I need to see all of your work. I’ll be kind,” she said.

Of course, I didn’t do what she asked.

Self-portrait, in the garbage. Awful action pose using cross-hatching, tossed away.

For some reason, words work differently. I don’t throw away what doesn’t work, or what’s been abandoned, or what’s been crossed out in confusion. It’s easier, with words, to be kind.

Day 33: Freestyle

We learned to swim together at the community pool, the summer before first grade. I mostly remember the polka-dot suit I wore. It had ruffles, and I thought it was something a princess would wear.

We swam in high school together, too. It wasn’t about suits anymore; it was about split times, conditioning, and drives with our hair still wet, one hand on the wheel and the other hand in hers.

Now our swimming happens only in my dreams. We race strong, the time no matter. When she wins, I twist a lock of her wet hair around my finger.

Day 32: Promised 2/?

We promised. Actually looked into each other’s eyes and swore it.

We’d keep our hands off. No more kissing.

It was fine, for a while. He volunteered to post watch with Stan, the new guy; I switched to days so we’d be on opposite ends of the field.

Thing is, that means we cross paths at oh-six hundred, when I’m waking up and he’s heading in. My chest feels hot. I turn and he’s there, rumpled and smelling of grass and moonlight. I stop myself from reaching out for his hand as he brushes by. I don’t forget our promise.

Day 31: Promised 1/?

We made each other a promise. We tied ribbons around our fingers and swore it.

We vowed we would never kiss again.

Though how can I resist, when the rose blooms so high in her cheeks? Surely she doesn’t blush from the exertion of pulling my corset ties, as that was nigh on an hour ago. She has since dressed me, buttoning my dress, smoothing my stockings, lacing my shoes.

Jewels are saved for last. She brings the necklace the viscount gifted me. He’ll be waiting, pacing among the guests.

“Let him wait,” I whisper, pushing it from her hands.