whirlpooled topics unbackspaced. streams of consciousness. blurts. scribbled notes. outlined ideas. velocity waves. snatches from icloud. because self-editing is a writer’s cowardly way of preventing a reader from fucking the writer's confidence. dates don't matter. memories and moments aren't chronologically marked on the soul.
And so now the table isn’t set for meals. And the table isn’t cleared for conversations. Often I walk by and pat a name or trace a groove and I remember.
|Lane Timothy "Untitled 2020"|
I remembered Carrie today. A friend. No romance. Just friendship. Summer of 1980. I was a dishwasher. She was a waitress. She spun into the kitchen between her transportations with an irresistible laugh – a buoyantly bouncy step - and an exquisitely beautiful face. A joy. Joyfilled. Exuberance. Capricious. We spent 12 hours each evening together. Three months. In September I entered the seminary and she left for college. We wrote. We met during breaks. She married him; he didn’t like me. Thirty years passed. Facebook. We met on the eve of Thanksgiving. We reminisced. Echoes of the was. Stately. Seemly. Static specks of sparkle. Muted. Diminished. Surface chatter. As the evening passed, I evolved from man to mirror. We embraced our goodbye. She went her way; I went my away.
Her daughter owns a restaurant. Home cookin’. Biscuits. Gravy. That sort. That style. My buddy and I had the breakfast. I saw her Mother’s face inside her features. Fractured. A Modigliani’s mother. “Your mother is one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever known.” I wanted her to know her originals.
Today I reconsidered the daughter. She doesn’t know the woman I know. So many words I would have said. Words that aren’t necessary to her. I would have told her I remembered her mother before marriage murdered her trust. And before disappointment shattered her hope. I knew her mother before her soul became the frame of her children’s finger-painted scarlet alphabet. She wouldn’t have understood. She didn’t see her mother then. She doesn’t recall her mother’s was. Her mother’s girl/woman. She knows her mother’s is. Her mother’s wife/mother.
But I do. I remember Carrie’s was. All her specific moments. Imprinted on my heart, Carrie still is. To me Carrie still is.