8/24/12

Dear Papa,

It's down to hours.
I uncovered layers of
names I'd forgotten, who
peopled my world for a time.
We wander into each others lives
eyes closed, mouths open,
and then exit wordlessly,
into a blur of lost faces and
lost interest.

My walls are empty now.

Nothing is ending, you say,
it ended years ago.
you're right, of course.
These goodbyes are temporary, unnecessary,
or are voicing the otherwise
wordless exits of those
not destined to stay.

It starts in your bones,
and flows through you,
formless, random,
unrestricted by shape.
No order, no meaning, no anger;
Only the chaos that is life.

I'll wander carefully,
only half-blind.

Love,
yr daughter

8/16/12

Dear Papa,

There's still time,
you say.
Mama's counting dinners on our calender,
and I write lists, categorizing
my childhood into boxes.
Here are the figurines picked out of years of
Red Rose tea boxes;
here are teddy bears and
Russian novels and 
when I pick the sweaters off the floor,
you can see the little round marks in the wood,
a tribute to years of impractical shoes.
Here is this body that
isn't mine.

There's still time,
nothing to worry about.
you said.
I was fourteen
and Mama was
nervous when I
unbraided my long, dark hair,
and cut it into the curls that
fall down my back,
my tiny rebellion.
She found out in a phone call,
and felt betrayed.

"You look like a whore," she said,
and I hung up.

You knew better than to intervene,
and I looked at my reflection with
bitter amusement.

For a time, I thought I could own it
if I controlled it.
I found power in shape,
and sought safety in power.

There isn't any, Papa.
 
Love,
yr daughter

8/12/12

Dear Papa,

You're on to me.
You have to be.
I know you are.

I come and go through windows like your eyes,
leaving coffee cups and earrings and lipstick stains.
I'm a  phonecall away, always.
This spring, I called home late once
to lie about where I was sleeping.
Before the lie, we talked a while,
just chatter, about the mutual part
of our lives.
Then, we said goodnight, and hung up.
and I lay awake in a bed you wouldn't want me in,
until the guilt was overwhelmed by the
memory of laughter in your voice.

I never slept well there.

Now, the lies are natural.
Or I don't even bother with them.
I say I'm not coming home,
and your "Ok, goodnight" clicks while I
listen to the second of silence
that preludes
my thoughts in the night.

In two weeks, you take me to my new life.
I hope I can make one more stable than this.
I'll try not to waste our time anymore.

Love,
yr daughter