I am drawing the curtains open, I swear. There are still a few images in the distance that inspire warmth. I will frame them with lace, never moving my gaze away. We will fetch a pail of water together, and tend to the thirsty daffodils. The comfort inside is inaudible, but that means nothing. It cannot be that every single thing has to produce noise.
I am catching my breath, I swear. I rest on four-leaf clovers. There is a young girl seeking one, and the words on my tongue can make her happy. I am not that nice yet. She has a large pocket where it would be placed, if only I would stand up. This cruelty makes me feel powerful. My shovel digs graves, where I kick in small hope. My smile is worth her disappointment.
I am saying my prayers, I swear. Oh father, oh son. If you are not doing anything with your nails, I will need them to hang my frames. And, is it true Lucifer likes it down on Hollywood Blvd., or does he find the desperation suffocating? Anyway, anyhow, it is still cold here. Lend me your sweater, and I promise it will be returned. I will even wash it, since I do need to busy myself, and it is the polite thing to do.
Long ago, when I was still in a relationship with Robert, a friend of ours named Jonathan took me for a drive. He said many things to me in between drags of his clove cigarette. He asked me to see the love he had for me, but I could not. I was faithful to my obsession for my lover.
“Elizabeth, you are hoping for Robert to notice your pain, and for that pain to have a profound effect on him. You are hoping he will have an earth-shattering epiphany. You are hoping he will run through the rain, and into your arms, promising to change for you. But that will never happen. Life is not a movie.”
I thought that I had never heard anything so stupid in my life. Of course I knew that life was not a movie. It took years for what Jonathan said to have an impact on me. I expected, I wanted, I prayed so much for exactly what he said. But now I know, I know life is not a movie.
Sister was granted full custody of her children. It is more accurate to say, that I have been granted full custody. The desire to be a mother remains far from me, but few get to decide what responsibilities they will shoulder.
Years go by, don’t they?
I once knew a boy with an antique typewriter. He would often let me borrow books. I would never read them, for fear that I would accidentally tear a page, or stain one with orange juice. Instead, I would write love letters, and place them in between chapters. Often, I wondered if he ever found them. Only recently, did I settle my doubts. Not only did he read my words, but he made his own book out of them.
The years still go by. A woman loses hope, though the visions are no less clear. Something is out there. Someone is out there. There is no name, there is no scent or trail to follow. Maybe, I have no idea of what I speak of, though I wish I did. It is all an imagined drama, a desire for a hero’s quest. Maybe there isn’t anything beyond blockbuster movies, soggy sandwiches, and cold coffee. Maybe, all one can do, is write poetry about bad sex, and find satisfaction in that. Because that is still more than most people do.