I feel so bogged down. By heavy books, by layers of clothes, by the exigencies of rain. By chores, by meetings, by res-pon-si-bi-li-ties. By friends, by friends, by friends and alcohol. By food. By grammar.
And it's only Monday.
(Monday!)
It's so cold.
My mother. My mother'll be moving in with me soon. Like November-soon. Seriously? I shoud be gagged. With something rusty. And blunt. Something rusty and blunt. I love my mother, I do. But she drives me crazy. Her emails annoy me, her contemplative looks make me want to barf. I hate how she stares at people, I hate how she speaks Filipino, I hate how condescending she is toward our helpers. I hate the books she reads, I hate how she's so helpless, I hate how she seems so diminished. I hate her attempts at stilted affection, I hate her second-thought affectations. That's my mother. But that's my mother.
How bad can it be? She's my mother. She's endearing. I'm such a troll. She's endearing, she's my mother. She's not cute like my father though. I miss Papa. I remember how I sat in the backseat of our car, concentrating so hard on my father's profile to keep from crying. I remember how the gray light danced on his cheek, the way shadows fanned across the slivers of his face. Like slender soldiers (in sparkly sarongs) warring on a bone-weary plane. I remember how his barong felt like pressed against my cheek as we hugged goodbye. I remember the smell of his cologne, Dolce & Gabbana, I think, and the warmth of his neck. I remember how that sticky feeling of threatening tears made me choke (slightly) when I realized he was coming along to bring me to the airport. I remember how small I felt when I couldn't find him in his bedroom and thought he wasn't. His hair's turning silver, my Pa. They always seem so sinister to me, his tufts of silver hair.
My mother. My mother'll be moving in with me soon.
And it's only Monday.
(Monday!)
It's so cold.
My mother. My mother'll be moving in with me soon. Like November-soon. Seriously? I shoud be gagged. With something rusty. And blunt. Something rusty and blunt. I love my mother, I do. But she drives me crazy. Her emails annoy me, her contemplative looks make me want to barf. I hate how she stares at people, I hate how she speaks Filipino, I hate how condescending she is toward our helpers. I hate the books she reads, I hate how she's so helpless, I hate how she seems so diminished. I hate her attempts at stilted affection, I hate her second-thought affectations. That's my mother. But that's my mother.
How bad can it be? She's my mother. She's endearing. I'm such a troll. She's endearing, she's my mother. She's not cute like my father though. I miss Papa. I remember how I sat in the backseat of our car, concentrating so hard on my father's profile to keep from crying. I remember how the gray light danced on his cheek, the way shadows fanned across the slivers of his face. Like slender soldiers (in sparkly sarongs) warring on a bone-weary plane. I remember how his barong felt like pressed against my cheek as we hugged goodbye. I remember the smell of his cologne, Dolce & Gabbana, I think, and the warmth of his neck. I remember how that sticky feeling of threatening tears made me choke (slightly) when I realized he was coming along to bring me to the airport. I remember how small I felt when I couldn't find him in his bedroom and thought he wasn't. His hair's turning silver, my Pa. They always seem so sinister to me, his tufts of silver hair.
My mother. My mother'll be moving in with me soon.
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