March 8, 2004
Blossoming
This is how I want the story of my life to begin.
"Yes, this is such-and-such from the gynecology office, I was calling to see if a student had any more of her birth control prescription there?"
I squirm, picking at the edge of my Kerry for President button on my purse. It still makes me nervous to hear those two words spoken outloud.
"Yes. Black, Jillian...?"
Who is this person? This girl? I'm a folder in a filing cabinet, having been seen for severe congestion, for vaccinations, for sanity via a daily dose of estrogen and progesterone. They have me all written down. So much this says about me, my medical record.
The hours have escaped me, like beads of water on the bathroom mirror, condensed to steam and gone streaking. I wrote 'Mike, my Beloved Monster' and the words were gone before you could read them. Evaporated. Something like the morning suddenly afternoon, suddenly 5:31 p.m. and Asia Plum Green Tea and my winter hat.
It's so cold, today, I wore gloves.
I'm sure there was something I meant to say, or do, in the space between 9:47 a.m. and now, between bed sheets, my hair in knots, your eyes dim as you fumble on the nightstand for your watch. Something for then, for bare feet on the kitchen floor and my pajama-clad breasts pressed against your winter coat, zippers and pockets and double-thick down barring me from your skin.
There was something, I know.
I parked my car and got out, but I forgot my heart inside.
astera at 5:26 p.m.