60 years mirrored by the moon By Catherine on 1/21/2008 09:00:00 PM
Something touching emanates from the older woman, slumped and sleeping across the table. Involuntary quakes ripple through her, unnoticed--she is quite asleep. Her pen rolls to the floor.We sit here, sixty years apart, and are the same. We work: I'm designing history papers for my students and she's writing copy for a newsletter for others whose bodied shake and shatter without permission.
We've both worked in consensus-based collectives. Her daughter's life there stands her apart from her peers, whose store-bought wheat bread pales next to her homemade loaf. My father quakes like she does. She writes and produces and publishes, while I'm too much of a bleeding heart to send anything out in seriousness.
My heart shakes like her hands; if I had half her courage I'd go on and stand next to the muses, still as a statue until they blessed me with a light. I'd have confidence to move forth and stop pretending to be tethered by some invisible blue thread.
Watching her pen roll slowly away, I'm tempted to wake her, ask her if she's like some help down the steep back stairs to her room. This woman is strong, I feel sure she'd balk at a young thing like me, offering to brew her a cup of tea. I now she'd insist on doing it for me instead, and I'd have to watch her hands betray her with an earthquake of muscle and glass.
Labels: working through the block, writing