Previously: This is going to sound terrible, so forgive me for saying it, but I envy you … you are alive, and that’s a gift. … it’s magical thinking to believe you can take someone’s pain away, or fix anyone else’s feelings … He’s going to be so surprised when he dies, your father, so surprised to find out there’s more to this world than what we can see and touch … the frightening door is always open … I can’t wait to see his eyes when he sees that there’s an afterlife.
Last Week:
Take it from the top:
fernweh (fern-way) n.
1. An ache for distant places
2. Being homesick for anywhere but home
Have I ever told you about your father’s mouth? Or his fingers? Or his cock? Or about how, if we made love in the morning, I would still feel him inside me in the early afternoon? No? That’s right. Because there are some things people don’t need to hear. You should think about that as you tell the rest of your story.
The light is doing some amazing work in this room, making all the colors more than they are. The blue hexagonal tiles are more blue, and the white ones are more white. The yellow walls are more yellow. One last colorful hurrah before the lights go out.
I’m talking about the sun going down, the end of the day, not your death. You aren’t going to die today.
I always wanted to die after one last dinner with our family. You two boys would be home visiting, families of your own in tow. I’d sit back and observe, mostly, watching you men, my men, noticing the similarities and differences, celebrating every inch of you. I’d take in your noses, your jaw lines, the way your elbows moved as you ate your dinner. I’d lose myself in the swirls of my grandchildren’s hair. After dinner, I’d tuck the grandchildren into bed, and then help your father clean the kitchen. When the last dish was dried and put away, I’d put my arms around his waist and look into those damn handsome eyes and ask him to pour me a glass of wine. Thank you, I’d say, and with one final kiss, I’d leave him and go sit out on the porch and watch the sky and drink my wine. When the glass was empty, I’d set it on the end table and that would be that.
Thank you for reading. “Mother - Part Four” will start like this:
I see light like this when I go visit Jeremiah Barger’s bedroom.