It's just a phase, the Moon says to her, when she tells him she can't sleep. Up again, at 6 a.m., tossing and turning through fitful dreams. The sort of dreams that say, You can still have this, if you want this. Weeks of them again now. They are not unpleasant, especially if she can wake herself up fast when she realises where she is. Before she sees his face. She has taken to arming herself with protection. She conjures up her older brother's face and he brings along his wife. They stand beside her and help wake her up. "But if you don't want to," her brother says, leaves the offer on the plate, "I can kill him instead." But I disagree. He doesn't want to die. And that's such a shame.
It is the end of winter now. It holds on like the cat who doesn't want to be picked up. The hateful sort of cat; the kind who would spit at you instead of nuzzle. And that makes it hard. Not to want This. She has said nothing to him, that she hasn't said to others. This is just a been there, done that and she doesn't feel like raising up another motherfucker. She's seen a lot of bullshit. Read a lot of bullshit. Never so much all at once though.
And her dreams are no exception. His lips only provide a false sense of security.
This is the worst, I tell the Moon.
He doesn't agree or disagree. He might be going back to sleep himself. Happy the Sun is putting in more hours.
She struggles with the clasp on her tea steeper, as the cat rubs around and between her legs. He likes to nuzzle, especially when he wants something. "Feed me," he says, though his bowl is still half full. She pours him some water from the kettle before she puts it on the stove, and the cat begs for a few of her tea leaves, so she complies. He is most fond of the green and will eat them fresh, but likes them soggy best, after she has made her drink. He can get into every steeper, even the pot. He eats the leaves offered now fast and then jumps up on the kitchen table. Deciding he wants more already, he tries to fish her tea ball out of her glass. She realises, not for the first time that he is a motherfucker too. She gently pushes this one off the table though, instead of swiping him away. "Not nice," he meows at her. "You should share."
He has the shiniest coat of fur that she has ever seen on an animal.
And I could. I could share my Tea Haus. The delightful afternoon pear. I could head down to the Post for my daily walk and put my best finds, just a few cups each, into a small box and mail them on their way. I know which would make your lips curl, I can see them, hear the way you would say, "Mmmmm". The tiny lilt at the end. It was the best sound you made.
I could also be an asshole and send the dandelion tea too.
In the yellow box. That would make me laugh for days.
"I want to go," says the glass boy. The blue and white one that sits abandoned on the floor in corner. It doesn't have a home here. "You know I would make an excellent birthday present," he prods her again, as he does every time she notices him. "Go on. Just send me."
But that would make her a bigger asshole. Two Grandmothers in one house.
If it makes her want to cackle like a witch, she will never do it.
I talk back to the 11 a.m Crow. He is making his rounds, staking his springtime claim. "Don't be a motherfucker," I caw back to another motherfucker. The cat sits by the window, crouched low to be unseen, but watchful, at this time of the Everyday. He is still young, but he knows the bird is danger. "I won't let him get you," I say to him, as I do every day. But the cat turns his head towards me and blinks one eye. That's how he eye rolls. He is not stupid enough to jump outside when that bird is flying around. "Also, I am almost big enough to kill him, if I have to, so you don't worry," the cat says to me. We have devised a plan together these last few days. The cat and I. We are going to start feeding the Crow.
Here comes the sun now. And she pays a few more bills with a few more words. Nothing she particularly wants to say. The safety net grows wider. It's almost too easy. So she smiles and she forgets completely, until he tries to wake her up again.
It is the end of winter now. It holds on like the cat who doesn't want to be picked up. The hateful sort of cat; the kind who would spit at you instead of nuzzle. And that makes it hard. Not to want This. She has said nothing to him, that she hasn't said to others. This is just a been there, done that and she doesn't feel like raising up another motherfucker. She's seen a lot of bullshit. Read a lot of bullshit. Never so much all at once though.
And her dreams are no exception. His lips only provide a false sense of security.
This is the worst, I tell the Moon.
He doesn't agree or disagree. He might be going back to sleep himself. Happy the Sun is putting in more hours.
She struggles with the clasp on her tea steeper, as the cat rubs around and between her legs. He likes to nuzzle, especially when he wants something. "Feed me," he says, though his bowl is still half full. She pours him some water from the kettle before she puts it on the stove, and the cat begs for a few of her tea leaves, so she complies. He is most fond of the green and will eat them fresh, but likes them soggy best, after she has made her drink. He can get into every steeper, even the pot. He eats the leaves offered now fast and then jumps up on the kitchen table. Deciding he wants more already, he tries to fish her tea ball out of her glass. She realises, not for the first time that he is a motherfucker too. She gently pushes this one off the table though, instead of swiping him away. "Not nice," he meows at her. "You should share."
He has the shiniest coat of fur that she has ever seen on an animal.
And I could. I could share my Tea Haus. The delightful afternoon pear. I could head down to the Post for my daily walk and put my best finds, just a few cups each, into a small box and mail them on their way. I know which would make your lips curl, I can see them, hear the way you would say, "Mmmmm". The tiny lilt at the end. It was the best sound you made.
I could also be an asshole and send the dandelion tea too.
In the yellow box. That would make me laugh for days.
"I want to go," says the glass boy. The blue and white one that sits abandoned on the floor in corner. It doesn't have a home here. "You know I would make an excellent birthday present," he prods her again, as he does every time she notices him. "Go on. Just send me."
But that would make her a bigger asshole. Two Grandmothers in one house.
If it makes her want to cackle like a witch, she will never do it.
I talk back to the 11 a.m Crow. He is making his rounds, staking his springtime claim. "Don't be a motherfucker," I caw back to another motherfucker. The cat sits by the window, crouched low to be unseen, but watchful, at this time of the Everyday. He is still young, but he knows the bird is danger. "I won't let him get you," I say to him, as I do every day. But the cat turns his head towards me and blinks one eye. That's how he eye rolls. He is not stupid enough to jump outside when that bird is flying around. "Also, I am almost big enough to kill him, if I have to, so you don't worry," the cat says to me. We have devised a plan together these last few days. The cat and I. We are going to start feeding the Crow.
Here comes the sun now. And she pays a few more bills with a few more words. Nothing she particularly wants to say. The safety net grows wider. It's almost too easy. So she smiles and she forgets completely, until he tries to wake her up again.
Comments