A Found Essay

A found essay in a month of cues and responses:

Cues:

I bet now we could be friends

Islands

Other families seemed different

Grit

The passenger seat

Caves

A secret I’ve kept

Tug of war

Assembly required

At the corner of Main St. and ___

Thirteen

Why

First job

Ritual

Where I sit

First Dive

An intentional life

We’re not speaking

Free-writes

My body apologizes better than my mouth.

I love them every day, not just when other moms are watching.

I make more sense to myself on paper.

My seat is a place of privilege, a place of honesty, a place of trying for and continuing to hunt down the truth.

I can lose my way inside my head without a guide.

I struggled to fit myself into the shape of a mother.

The boy she found already dead or in the act of dying, I don’t know.

Thirteen was a pity goodbye kiss from Carl, on the golf course the night before I left, a little bit of tongue, even.

Michael worshipped her and I worshipped both of them.

Someone looks perfect out of the box, at the start; the assembly required bit shows up later in the footnotes.

Grappling for attention and affection, a desire perhaps, to fall into this week’s family and our way of loving.

There’s always some measure of secrets, isn’t there, big, little, nobody’s business secrets—is love looking the other way?

My role was game girl, up for anything, no fear.

She rests her Ugg-booted feet on the dash and owns the space.

I am attracted to things that are hard—writing and publishing, climbing mountains, staying in love.

A mom would fly in, paper bags crinkling and damp in the corners, and dinner would appear.

Belief in her exceptuality/exceptionalness  laced my formula, clung sweet to my milk teeth.

Some nights she wishes she drank herself into the dark, too, so she’d wake up with only a blistered stomach, muzzy head and the acrid taste of ephemeral regret on her mohair tongue.

Essay:

Other families seemed different. Belief in the exceptional laced my formula, clung sweet to my milk teeth.

I rode in the passenger seat. My role was game girl, up for anything, no fear.

A secret I’ve kept: thirteen was a goodbye kiss from Carl the night before I left, the golf course slick under our feet, a little taste of his tongue.

Islands can connect. We were three. Michael worshipped her and I worshipped them both.

Little rituals. I make more sense to myself on paper.

Thirteen. A mom would fly in, paper bags crinkling and damp in the corners, and dinner would appear.

What makes an intentional life? Grappling for attention and affection, a desire, perhaps, to fall into this week’s family and our way of loving.

Assembly required. She struggled to fit herself into the shape of a mother.

At the corner of Main Street and ____.  My seat is a place of privilege, a place for chasing the truth.

I bet now we could be friends. She rests her Ugg-booted feet on the dash and owns the space, and me.

First dive, deep dive. She found the boy, dead or in the act of dying, I don’t know.

Tug-of-war. Some nights she wishes she drank herself into the dark so she’d wake up with only a blistered stomach, muzzy head and the acrid ephemera of regret on her mohair tongue.

Grit can be an aftertaste. My body apologizes better than my mouth.

Why? Everyone looks perfect fresh out of the box. The assembly required bit lurks in the footnotes.

We’re not speaking. How much of love is looking the other way?

First job. I love them every day, not just when other moms are watching.

Where I sit. I can lose my way inside my head without a guide.

Caves. I am attracted to things that are hard—writing and publishing, climbing mountains, staying in love.