novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- i hope there are therapists on the airplane one. in the middle of telling her that i found two twelve-packs of diet coke for three dollars the other day, she cuts in with before they let me get my abortion i had to see two shrinks. two shrinks! this makes me think of how i randomly cut in on people -- apparently i have my mother's gift of thinking about five different things at once. directly inside this thought i feel guilt for not registering immediately that my mother just blurted out that she had an abortion, and this misstep clearly identifies me with my father. i think: i know. you told me last week, she says. i can tell she is about to further detail said abortion when my stomach starts to pinch down on my intestines. i rub my hand across my belly and cut her off before she even speaks: can we talk about this in person? as in, not on the phone? i'm gonna be down next weekend, anyhow. two shrinks! she says. but that was 1971. two. singing? singing. positively singing. i am in awe. not because she had such control and determination over her body and direction that her vocal chords chimed in their agreement, adding their two cents to the moral argument, not because she sang in public and never has in my lifetime, but because this was the missing piece that links everything i know about her life, when she was my age, together in neat chronological order. the one year of college. the parents' house. the jobs. and then my father and his ragged salesmanship, making her pull over so he could lean through the driver's side window of a car she didn't buy from him to turn the radio to a station playing "sweet virginia" by the rolling stones. three. the pregnant friend has decided to abort. a week before she goes on a business trip to new york. 9:23 pm - 10.13.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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