If my mother thought about a third child before I was born, it wasn’t me she thought about. She liked to reminded me of this point in her less than beautiful moments as she slouched in her recliner, gathering the front of her bathrobe while taking a long draw on her cigarette. Ash peppered the front of her robe like tiny flecks of star-dust.
I knew the drill, so I waited for her to exhale like a dragon, smoke curling out of her nose and mouth, and I braced myself.
“You,” she shouted. “You girl, you.” I stood before her in my school uniform waiting. “You’re nothing but a product of your father’s drunken folly and my tortured indiscretion.” Then she would swing her arms around like a whirl-a-gig, wobbling a bit before falling back into the recliner, “God help me,” she would whisper. That was my cue to head for the kitchen to find some food. With three kids in four years, it was an uneven number for an uneven time in my mother’s life.
My mother was a widow less than six months to a husband nobody ever found on a military exercise still closed to the public before she mixed it up with my dad. Once, out of curiosity, my brother did a freedom of information act on his father only to receive a report in the mail with all the information he wanted to read blacked out. We don’t dwell on the topic for my mother’s sake. Nor do we talk about my father. We don’t talk anymore. Not now.
Doctor Brothers suggested I keep a journal to pass the time before my trial begins. I think it’s a good idea.
Sometimes I think I’d like to grow a garden. It’s the most beautiful thing you can do. I would take my daughter there and show her how to blow on a globe of dandelion seeds and together we would watch the seed sail away.
Week 64–The Trifecta challenge~The word this week is DWELL: a : to keep the attention directed —used with on or upon<tried not to dwell on my fears> b : to speak or write insistently —used with on or upon<reporters dwelling on the recent scandal> LINK UP HERE