Evening

Three separate jumbled piles of my stuff attest to the fast-paced week.  I wander from room to room.  I move a bag to the cupboard; I shift through a basket of clothes.  On the computer, I stare at e-mail, mind numb, fingers still.  I eat an orange and throw away the peels.

A friend complimented me today for my continued quest to improve myself.  I admire that about you.  I was driving, talking hands-free, and I laughed into the open air of the car.  The microphone carried my peal of derision over the airwaves to where he sat at his desk, still working.  Why do you laugh? he asked, though I think he knew.

I softly admitted that I’ve been chastised for trying to be my best self, like it’s an ignoble goal. Forget that old lie, he scolded.  I fell silent but he persisted. Let it go,  he urged. it’s a good thing, trying to be your best self.  Whoever chided you for that, don’t let them control you anymore.  I gasped, unable to reply, bile rising in my throat.  He asked, What’s wrong?

I am tired.  I’m not sleeping well, since I came back from California.  I’ve realized that I sleep better by the ocean, with salt-kissed air drifting through an open window.

I admitted this to my friend, as my car sped forward, closer and closer to  home. I think you’re a California girl, he told me.

He might be right.  I remember a poem that I wrote, a long time ago.  I struggle to pull the words from memory.  I rummage through the books on my built-in shelves, looking for my old poetry journal with its broken spine.  I stand on my tippy-toes, barely snagging it from the top shelf, between some old Winnie the Pooh books and an empty photo album.

I turn the worn pages until I find the very poem. . .

“On the Back”

I won’t say I love you
Probably never will
But still –
Your life in mine
Gives me shells
That I never found
In my oceanless childhood.

CCorley
14 Feb 79

It’s the evening of the eleventh day of the twenty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  The green-eyed monster looms outside my window, droning a litany of everything that life denies me.  I sequester myself behind the wooden slatted blinds, old sash windows bolted against the demons.

Tomorrow I attend the funeral of a beautiful twenty-three year old girl.  My own offspring, a year or so older, walks, breathes, stresses, writes, calls, laughs, and worries, far from here, in a garden apartment in Evanston, Illinois.  I dare not complain, so long as life, with all its lumps, continues.

Conchiglie_Seashells_01

3 thoughts on “Evening

  1. Nicole Thibodeau

    I am also on the quest to be my best self. Your wonderful words and poetry helps let me know I am not alone 🙂

    Reply
  2. Nicole Thibodeau

    I am also on the quest to be my best self. Your wonderful words and poetry helps me remember I am not alone 🙂

    Reply

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