My first stop was the Internet café in town. The world needs more love and empathy, my mother said. I write poems about it, I hold my breath when a child snuggles their dog, my heart goes wild over a kiss on the cheek.
More than anything in this world, I adore love. It became so impossible to contain my joy that my mother would have to remove me from the ceremony so I could spin madly in circles and laugh. Weddings at the commune were the happiest days for me, because the love between the bride and groom would reach out and take hold of me. It was as though I lost my sibling, even though I didn’t have one and never met my neighbor’s sister.
My knees lost power and I howled into my pillow, trying to combat the pain. That sense of loss and regret…I could almost visualize it leaving her and entering me. She took to her bed and cried for a week.
Once our neighbor received news from Canada that her sister had passed away. When a person expressed an emotion around me, such as sadness, anger or mirth, I matched it. I don’t know if I agree with her.Īround my tenth birthday, my mother started to notice what made me different. I should have gone on a hunger strike or tried another crying jag, but my mother insisted there are people beyond the compound who will benefit from having me in their lives. The hours of reading under my favorite tree, watching the clouds drift lazily above. Why didn’t I refuse to go? Already I miss afternoon meal and the dancing that followed. Buildings that reach toward the sky, billboards advertising radio stations. My fingers fold the hem of my white, flowery skirt over and over, my eyes wide as sights I never expected to see in real life whiz past. So here I am, riding a bus south to Los Angeles, my clothes, a blanket, and a wallet containing five hundred dollars in a satchel at my feet. I never would have left it, either, except my mother decreed that my gift needed to be shared with the world. My childhood was happy and full, and I never wanted for anything. If we were either of those things, so be it. My mother, father and I lived in a small cabin on the California property we shared with several other families. My parents and the life they gave me on the compound was full of affection, selfless gestures. Those were my first encounters with love. My father making the perfect s’more and handing it to me, laughing at the inevitable marshmallow mess. Warm hugs from my mother, her nimble fingers weaving daisies through my hair. Filed to story: The Husband Sitter by Jessa Kaneįor as long as I can remember, I have been in love with love.
0 kommentar(er)
