And that was
At my heels.
Sex or death.
Sinner or saint.
No in between.
But can’t you
It takes a lifetime
Of bad memory
To untangle our
And no amount
Of “I’m sorrys”
Will kill the story
On my heart.
Here’s what will happen:
You’ll hate me for a lifetime
And I will visit you at the church where you work or in the prison near my house.
And you will love God or learn the world according to Satan.
And maybe you will have children or know the ways of an untrained womb.
And maybe you’ll be happy on your own accord or shear every inch of yourself to wear another woman.
And you will remember all my sins and stack them up against me.
Or you will love me and let memory rot and forget the day I screamed until both our throats ran dry.
I’m a horrible mother. And a terrifically good mother. And a no nonsense mother and a spastic, nonsensical type of female who keeps parking crookedly and forgets the word for fork sometimes, and then other times I feed people my brilliance.
I don’t think any of us were meant to be good at this.
But I think that’s okay. I think for the first time ever, there’s no good mother Olympics, no gold to be won.
There are mistakes and bruises and tears and the way she looks at me like she’s known me before she was born and wishes she’d never met my face.
It’s the same way I look into the mirror sometimes.
But there are those other crystal clear moments, a love abundant, a love like Christ’s, where I can feel it all weaving together, broken skin healing and that sound she makes when she breathes.
Step one, we are alive.
Step two, start living,
Step three, write down, paper to pen.
But dear Ava,
You now know the truth.
The sharp note
Is like a sweet
Is the only
So I spoon
All the other