Stretched
The women in my family are all thin
No, not in the physical meaning
(yes, I see you looking at my curves and double chin)
I mean that they stretch themselves like taffy
Until they're spider web thin
Desperate to wrap arms around those in pain
Desperate to cover the scrapes and bruises
Desperate to wipe away every child and partner's tears
Desperate to take away the hurt
Until there's no more left in the household
Besides her own.
We dislocate joints and break ribs
To transform ourselves into whatever tool those we love need
Saving our own tears for the moments alone
Crying into a pint of frozen custard or a glass of wine
Like a lifeline.
A bandaid on a crack in our foundations.
My mother is a fixer. She pours love and understanding over disagreements like thick,
viscous, cough syrup, suppressing the "you don't understand"'s and the "fuck you"'s until all
that's left is long sips of the next cocktail and a feeling that you're right even though no
one actually said so.
I thought this was a magical skill. Even as a little kid no higher than the kitchen counter, I
remember peeking around the corner into the kitchen, listening to Dad to that growling
whisper he has when he's mad but doesn't want me to hear (I always heard). Her voice,
always a calm river, never a jagged, raised mountain of misplaced feelings like Dad's,
washes over him, putting out the embers before a fire can start.
She never said it in words, but I learned that fire was bad. Yelling was bad. Disagreements
were worse than holes punched in the walls because holes in walls can be fixed, emotional
bruises cannot.
It took a divorce, rehab, and one moment of anger with me to show me how cleansing that
fire, that difficult conversation can be.
I sit here now, wishing to feel her voice wash over me like a warm bath; wishing that she
could wrap her arms around me and take the pain I feel inside away.
If only for a moment.
I find myself longing for a love I know is deep
Not like an endless well
Deep like a root canal
Not painful for the dentist who needs the paycheck
Painful for the patient
Rakes groves into the armrests
While declining the novocaine until they pass out
Not wanting to burden the assistant with the process.
I long for a love that I need
But now can never ask for
Knowing the price she pays to give it
Knowing I am the next in line at the dentist
Knowing I am just as thin.
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Posted originally in the 2021 issue of Portage Lit Mag. The original version can be found here: https://portagemagazine.org/stretched/
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