You stayed up late in your bed, so eager to tell me every last detail while I was away. This is what it will be like years from now, I think. I won't always know first hand what you experience, I'll just hear it through your eyes, and feel it in your words. I felt estranged not being there, for all this seeing and doing. I always have been. I've always wanted to be. It was new, achey, and beautiful in the selfless sense. Your enthusiasm pushed warm tears down my cheeks. This enthusiasm is your marrow and my luster. It's us.
I held on to your every last detail, like a tight rope walker, managing her space between the highest of stakes. They often feel this high. Life or death. “I don't want to mess this up,” i whisper under my breath. You are everything that is good.
You didn't need me today, but still, you wanted me. Still, you waited for me. And on your pillow was a picture of me at your age, in my favorite red dress, thick brown locks, blue eyes that lingered. You've kept it near, all this time. I walked in and you placed my picture on your infamously sticker stuck window siIl. I was back home now, the distant thought of me came closer and suddenly, tangible was my flesh, not a moment captured, preserved through two decades and a few loose years.
I could hardly accept your seasoned body language, and that honest, innocent dialogue that is so uniquely you. Oh what I would give to hear this voice for all the days of my life. It’s still right here and now, but somehow I already miss it. Nostalgia has always usurped my joy. But i love nostalgia, and i live for love.
It’s complicated, but i thrive on simplicity.
Oh Octave. There is no conclusion to my heart cry, there is only this. A mama’s immaculate intention, and her batty, messy love. My love. So.much. love.