I’m 38.
At this age, one should have a career, perhaps a family, a husband, some savings.
I have managed an office job, some plants, a beautiful husband, and a dwindling savings account.
I think about death too much. My face resembles overgrown jungles and my body, a volcano. Bubbling, erupting, dormant.
I wasn’t made right.
There are bits of me that need a fresh coat of paint.
Yellowstone has been active and the geological layers are weakening. This eruption is overdue and honestly I’m ready. I’ve found the love of a lifetime and everything else, even my writing career, seems frivolous. The temperature would plummet and we, as Californians, would die.
We are not equipped for cold.
I am however, used to it. Mostly from my mother and my father. They are experts at being cold. They’re good people, if good means making sure I had food and a roof. But cold cold, like a harsh Chicago winter that my husband often describes, I wouldn’t know about those kinds of winters because I am ignorant to real cold. I just know the coldness of home.
I am not alone.
It’s a shame really.
That they didn’t get to know me.
I’m fun.
Funny.
A good conversationalist.
Witty.
Passionate.
Engaging.
They missed out on me.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
It’s the only way I can deal. How does one deal with neglect? With the lack of motherly love?
I must sound like a baby that never got breast fed.
I’m everything but.
I indulged on the tit.
Sucked on it, till it deflated.
Tried to be a good daughter, always.
Failed.
Never good enough.
Never.
So my adequacies are just, at least in my mind.
I keep moving on.
Always moving.
Always slow.
Always steady.
