She moved about the world
like a wish, existence resting upon others’ needs like a cloud of perfume living to sweeten others’ air like water, bringing cool relief while resisting rigid form that would strip her of her talent to fit wherever she was needed. She desperately twisted into unfitting spaces determined to prove she was enough to fill them while her own wishes needs, longings unfulfilled sent pulses of shame twisting her spine further until the pressure of straining paralyzed her to stillness. From the stillness she heard a voice urgent yet unworried tender yet strong that both understood her and saw beyond her she heard her name which meant “delight” given to her at birth or perhaps before. Mesmerized in stillness now a conscious decision she heard the whisper “I have already granted you the permission to fall short of others’ wildest dreams permission to have wishes all of your own and to take the form I created you for- it fits you perfectly.”
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We sat idly until
my ambling thoughts stumbled upon the idea that I could entangle my pinky finger around hers for no particular reason, and she would stay- unquestioningly. 49 cents is the cost of one carton of eggs at Aldi’s. My conscience hardly feels right buying them that cheap.
As I shopped, my Lululemon leggings clung to my legs. They’re worth the price of one hundred eggs and then some. I can’t help but wonder if my birthday-gifted sticky pants toss me into “upper-class.” When I’m not practically committing highway robbery at the grocery store, I spend most of my days working freelance at the public library. At the library, they don’t ask you to pay rent in the form of a spiced drink. The place demands nothing of me, except that I be still for a minute. Although, when I chose to, I know I can easily fit into the foliage-clad, geometrically-lettered coffee shop metropolis. You know, the one chock full of seemingly-put-together adults, adorned with understated name brands and armed with dayplanners? You know the one. Where am I supposed to sit, as a young woman more in reach of the status symbols than the actual status they imply? Do I strive to become the young professional who actually can afford the spiced latte rent, leaving the humble assortment of pages and people behind? Should I intend to be the type of person who does not need to occupy spaces where the homeless sit as unpaid greeters? What would I lose in return if I became the person who could afford 3 dollar cage-free eggs and choose to buy them somewhere other than Aldi’s? Would it cost me more than 49 cents? I reach into my bag. My fingers fumble until they wrap themselves around cold silver. The “how are you?” rattles in my brain. Silent deliberations spin- I’ll scoop from the sugar. Teaspoon to my forearm, I press the well-worn edge right into the skin. Pinch, and my freckled grains settle. I raise my small offering, “I’m doing well, just headed home from work.” Already several steps departed, we say goodbye. My grains are scattered by breeze.
I lower myself into static, warm vanilla air as I finger the fresh, vulnerable pock-mark on my arm. The passenger door opens, and my vanilla whisps coil around the creamy florals from her hair. “How was work?” My fingers locate my measuring cup. “It went well! But I’ve had a lot on my mind today.” We begin ladling from the gut- where the flour, sugar, and salt tends to mix. I try to scoop delicately around bones and vital organs, though her eyes heavy my careful hand. A peck on the forehead to say goodbye. We take heaps of each other with us, even as our vanilla and florals untangle and depart. As I lift myself out, I throw a glance at my measuring cups and spoons strewn across the passenger’s seat and close the door. As I climb the stairs, my shoulders relax. Faint notes from outside grow into full-bodied strums as I cross our threshold without needing the key. I peel off my shoes, purse, and bra like old parchment paper. I take his guitar and replace it with myself, precariously sideways. His arms soften to my form, and our giggling settles like bubbles on the pavement. “How was your day?” My fingers twitch, curling only to remember that cold silver is irrelevant here. He already holds my entire self right in his arms—indistinguishable. No boundaries, no deliberations, no teaspoons. I let my body slope over him, spilling even the bitter baking soda pockets. He holds my arms full of sugar and my shoulders where the salt gathers. |
creative writerAbigail writes to capture precious moments, important feelings, and societal musings. Having fun and overcoming perfectionism on the side. Reach out to share ideas and swap pieces! Archives
October 2019
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