Went shopping, bought "driftwood"...like Mom.
My mom had this thing about buying stuff; stuff that she was never going to turn into the projects that she'd originally envisioned. I humored her until...I'm not sure when it was...she brought home driftwood. Actual driftwood. She'd paid for it and everything.
"Um...you do know that you could've gotten this for free?" I said. "Like, on any beach?"
She was not fazed by my incredulousness. "I'm going to turn it into blah-blah-blah-I-don't-remember," she said primly.
"Um, no, you're not," I replied, firmly and pointedly.
"Well, you could..." she began.
"No, I could not," I said.
"Now you're just being mean!"
From then on, I had only to point at an object and say, "Driftwood!" to get my point across. I'd say, "Driftwood!" and she'd say, "Shut-up!" It was just one example of the shorthand we developed over the course of our thirty-three years together. An entire conversation condensed and encapsulated within two words. (Is "shut-up" one word? I'm calling it one word.)
So what have I found myself doing lately? Trolling craft stores for hours and leaving with a packet of googly eyes and a handful of embroidery floss. Saving ripped jeans and pipe cleaners to turn into projects that I found on Pinterest. Someday.
Driftwood.
Turns out that Anne Sexton was right:
Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.
"Um...you do know that you could've gotten this for free?" I said. "Like, on any beach?"
She was not fazed by my incredulousness. "I'm going to turn it into blah-blah-blah-I-don't-remember," she said primly.
"Um, no, you're not," I replied, firmly and pointedly.
"Well, you could..." she began.
"No, I could not," I said.
"Now you're just being mean!"
From then on, I had only to point at an object and say, "Driftwood!" to get my point across. I'd say, "Driftwood!" and she'd say, "Shut-up!" It was just one example of the shorthand we developed over the course of our thirty-three years together. An entire conversation condensed and encapsulated within two words. (Is "shut-up" one word? I'm calling it one word.)
So what have I found myself doing lately? Trolling craft stores for hours and leaving with a packet of googly eyes and a handful of embroidery floss. Saving ripped jeans and pipe cleaners to turn into projects that I found on Pinterest. Someday.
Driftwood.
Turns out that Anne Sexton was right:
Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.
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