My biological father's wife is orchestrating this whole "casual get together" this week. I've been thinking dinner or something. Well, she left a message saying they could stop by at 10:30 in the morning.
10:30 in the morning while my husband is at work and my son is at school, and right before I have a meeting with the Psychologist to prep for Asperger's testing. No buffers, early in the day.
What are they fucking crazy?
My husband says this is a very very bad idea. I'm entirely spazzing out. I have to call her back and say no, but I'm not great with confrontation. I don't think I could handle it if they asked me about my mother.
West 32nd Street
The attic.
Squirrels on the glacier,
Water so close we could touch
It beyond the glass.
Seals and otters and green trees-
But we were in the attic.
You aren't paying attention.
Don't go into the water.
The water isn't real.
The chalk is real and
My mother's clothes hanging there,
Starched, black, dust shouldered.
That's real. And my ponies.
All of them. Somehow found
After being lost for years
And moves and moves-
Carefully packaged in
Proper pony containers.
My Little Ponies 3 by 3 by 2.
Pink and clear and sparkly,
Like Caboodles.
Remember Caboodles?
Are these mine too?
Clifford dogs, red and worn
And happy. All of these
Clifford dogs, big, so red.
Are they mine too?
Why are my things, my toys,
Trapped in the attic
On West 32nd Street?
I'm downstairs in the ballroom
Looking at the Bishop's chair.
It's broken in half. "Broken,"
I say, and
Penny pops up, dusting.
No, she informs me,
those are her things
And not my mothers.
But isn't the chandelier
My mother's? Isn't the sofa?
Isn't the wallpaper, tan,
Brown vined like... like.
I'm confused.
That's blue and that's in
My bedroom at my Granny's house.
But my memories are trapped
On West 32nd Street behind
Doors and doors and doors.
I hide under bone printed sheets
At night when it's dark,
Waiting for the ghosties
To take me away.
One time I was so flat,
So invisible,
My sisters couldn't see me.
It's not my sister's with me now.
And it's not my stepsister, either.
It's some new person
Who isn't Penny's daughter,
And she's telling me
To pay attention again.
They're carting things away.
Carting things away.
I left Scruffy inside
When my parents were arguing.
It was Christmas
And my mother was furious
That Penny was there.
I had to leave.
But Scruffy was inside.
I had to explain it,
And Dad was furious too.
I thought they were angry at me.
I was little.
I was tiny.
I was all in velvet.
West 32nd Street.
Where I know my things are not
But something of me is trapped.
Where I learned to be
Afraid of the dark.
Where I will die
When I do die.
Black cat. Black dog.
Demons who played with me.
I went insane there and
I dont think I've been right since.
West 32nd Street.
I didn't know my address
At Granite Pool.
I was ashamed.
I couldn't read
And Grace could.
I was fat.
My sisters weighed me.
She told me that's where he appeared.
Right there...
In the attic.
The man.
The bad man.
The scary man.
10:30 in the morning while my husband is at work and my son is at school, and right before I have a meeting with the Psychologist to prep for Asperger's testing. No buffers, early in the day.
What are they fucking crazy?
My husband says this is a very very bad idea. I'm entirely spazzing out. I have to call her back and say no, but I'm not great with confrontation. I don't think I could handle it if they asked me about my mother.
West 32nd Street
The attic.
Squirrels on the glacier,
Water so close we could touch
It beyond the glass.
Seals and otters and green trees-
But we were in the attic.
You aren't paying attention.
Don't go into the water.
The water isn't real.
The chalk is real and
My mother's clothes hanging there,
Starched, black, dust shouldered.
That's real. And my ponies.
All of them. Somehow found
After being lost for years
And moves and moves-
Carefully packaged in
Proper pony containers.
My Little Ponies 3 by 3 by 2.
Pink and clear and sparkly,
Like Caboodles.
Remember Caboodles?
Are these mine too?
Clifford dogs, red and worn
And happy. All of these
Clifford dogs, big, so red.
Are they mine too?
Why are my things, my toys,
Trapped in the attic
On West 32nd Street?
I'm downstairs in the ballroom
Looking at the Bishop's chair.
It's broken in half. "Broken,"
I say, and
Penny pops up, dusting.
No, she informs me,
those are her things
And not my mothers.
But isn't the chandelier
My mother's? Isn't the sofa?
Isn't the wallpaper, tan,
Brown vined like... like.
I'm confused.
That's blue and that's in
My bedroom at my Granny's house.
But my memories are trapped
On West 32nd Street behind
Doors and doors and doors.
I hide under bone printed sheets
At night when it's dark,
Waiting for the ghosties
To take me away.
One time I was so flat,
So invisible,
My sisters couldn't see me.
It's not my sister's with me now.
And it's not my stepsister, either.
It's some new person
Who isn't Penny's daughter,
And she's telling me
To pay attention again.
They're carting things away.
Carting things away.
I left Scruffy inside
When my parents were arguing.
It was Christmas
And my mother was furious
That Penny was there.
I had to leave.
But Scruffy was inside.
I had to explain it,
And Dad was furious too.
I thought they were angry at me.
I was little.
I was tiny.
I was all in velvet.
West 32nd Street.
Where I know my things are not
But something of me is trapped.
Where I learned to be
Afraid of the dark.
Where I will die
When I do die.
Black cat. Black dog.
Demons who played with me.
I went insane there and
I dont think I've been right since.
West 32nd Street.
I didn't know my address
At Granite Pool.
I was ashamed.
I couldn't read
And Grace could.
I was fat.
My sisters weighed me.
She told me that's where he appeared.
Right there...
In the attic.
The man.
The bad man.
The scary man.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
I agree, watching series is way better that way, I'm just too bloody curious.
Wow...that started a whole bunch of thoughts. Like, how my generation may be one of the first that really taught that people deal with all problems, especially, grieving, differently. I don't, and my friends don't, assume that the best thing to do is just come over and try to throw a party. You ask, "hey, I'm here for you. Do you need an ear?" You don't just invite yourself...
I know my grandparents don't do that. My parents only do that because I've sat them down and talked to them about it repeatedly. But those my age seem to intuitively understand.