Who Are You and Whom Do You Love?
I didn’t have the kind of mother who put lemon verbena petals in my pillowcase so that this was the first thing I smelled when I woke up in the morning. But I have wanted this kind of mother, so I have become her.
The beloved who sleeps with me sleeps with me (not just beside me). It is not convenience or apathy or fear that keeps this warm body by my side, but will. And it is this will that I most love—the way the broom is held to sweep up what I have accidentally shattered; the way I am reminded that driving with tears in my eyes is not a sensible idea; the way I am coaxed to dry my eyes before I put my hands on the steering wheel.
The beloved stands in the garden and waves goodbye each time I leave the house. Neither of us knows what awaits us at the end of every road, and so we mouth, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye until we are lost from each other’s sight.