On Finding Your Own Bones

What do writers do but parse their own lives, combing for memories to melt down into words? It can never be otherwise because we can’t escape ourselves.

So we go coaxing aside filmy dirt on our excavation sites, small brush, please.  See that jagged bone half-sticking up over to the left?  That’s mine.

images-1

But this archeology is dangerous if we’re mothers because our children’s stories are also shimmering artifacts that lure us.  After all, we reason, our kids’ lives are our lives, or used to be once.  But we know this kind of disclosure is unfair, our literary urges notwithstanding.  Especially when the children grow up, when they start to wear deodorant and talk in crackled octaves.

So we do our best to pry our eyes off their secrets, though they’re smudged with our fingerprints, and get about writing our own stories, stories where their shadows loom large, but we choose to look elsewhere.

images

So I won’t tell you what my son said last night when he saw that thieves had shattered the window of our van and stolen my purse.  I’ll only tell you that when I saw the black shards of used-to-be tinted window now glittering gorgeously under a street lamp, I felt myself floating away.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s