All the late-night adventure stories, turning herself into the hero of each. Love stories she whispered of the sweetest: the first love, when each touch was an embrace, each slap a display of affection. Should she have explained the wisdom which comes only with age. The knowledge that love doesn’t hurt, that possession and desire needn’t go hand in hand, that those we love would not shut us out from those who love us. A child’s understanding of love, and she allowed it to thrive in her daughter’s heart.
These stories she had convinced herself were fairy tales, for her own sake, for her husband’s, her daughter’s. She had told them over and over, had laughed at parts she now realized were full of dread, of deadly terror, of DEATH. Now she saw her stripped innocence and her daughter’s same loss.
This return–unchanged, seemingly un-aged–to steal away her child. This guilt, heavy and pulling, because mingled with the fear and desperate longing for her daughter was a jealous rage, all that she had left behind and her own failure to be taken again. Should she have expected him to seek for her: strands of gray, a new sagginess to every part of her body. Knowing she could be so easily replaced by her own daughter. It was two kidnappings: the child, and the dream-child she once was.
Her husband’s hands, which had taught her, daily, the truth of love, the gentleness of desire, sought to give comfort that was unavailable. They spoke with the authorities who would no more find their child than she could. And she kept quiet, knowing that to tell the truth would make him fly just as far to escape her wickedness.
Okay, here I am again. There are issues. Of course, but when you’re only taking 30 minutes/1 hour, you’re going to have that. Daily. Can we say daily? If I grab time during the TV time I have with the husband I don’t want to feel like I’m cheating, and I don’t pay attention to that.
But I made the mistake of telling a few people that I’m doing this … okay, so that was the point. Tell people and then I feel like I’m failing if I don’t have something done.
…the blue looks a lot more blue here… I should probably try to find something better than my iPhone.
Tomorrow restart the index cards? I loved those. I miss them, but it’s amazing how hard it is to fit little pieces of art into my day when I have no free time from the children. You’d think “hey, children love art, this should be easy.” No. No, it is not easy. It is difficult. Art likes flow. At least, for me it likes flow. And I’ve heard other people say the same. And flow does not work when little fingers reach for things. Or little voices ask for a snack. Or for your help in removing Legos. From things.
But, what are you going to do. They don’t like it when you sit in chairs and cry. Baby steps.
I would like to start a larger project. I wouldn’t even mind just taking this photo (from two years ago?) and making it a longer project. I think that would be wishing for too much. I had one really nice piece going, but I lost it. I think a child stole it. It probably has crayon all over it. Which, would be fun, but it does make it harder to convince myself to start again.