September 20, 2003
Wheeling and Screeching
I am the woman-not-so-woman of this house, so I was sweeping the floor frantically, when what it really needed was to be mopped. Does Mike own a mop? Not that I can tell. It could be stuffed away in the dungeon (the basement) somewhere, but that would only mean it were mud crusted and no use anyway.
You can't say I didn't try.
Mike's mother is flying in tonight for tomorrow's house warming party. Her idea, so surely she should be here. I'm just envious of her rights and priveleges when she enters the house. Mainly the fact that she gets to sleep in Mike's bed, which relegates the two of us to the couch. A normal person would go home to their own bed... but me? I'm still here.
Speaking of mothers, mine own called me this morning, seemingly out of the blue. She left a message on my voice mail, and, upon hearing it, I started to cry. I haven't heard her voice for so long. How can I miss someone so much, with whom I am simultaneously so furious? When I called her back (some four hours later, as I had to build up my strength and remember all those righteously angry things I was going to say), she seemed more together and real than she has in the past few months. It was just so good to talk to her, that tears came instead of shouting. She knows she can't expect anything of me, so I suppose that is a start.
I would just like her in my life.
I am so weak.
I'm sitting here waiting for him, but it won't be just him, and tonight won't be us. My eyes are aching from two days reading without my glasses, and I dare not pick up my new Goodwill acquired copy of Middlemarch by George Eliot. I could use a nap, but I dare not lay down in the bed I just made for his mother. I'd like to play Enclave but The Pretentious New Roommate is in the living room, talking to himself, and I can't bear to have his eyes on me.
I could write a poem, and it might be about autumn. I might mention the severed ring of the moon, the portends of the night sky, my constellation self wheeling and screeching.
I'm picking up my pen now.
astera at 9:29 p.m.