Any and All Reflective Surfaces

Everything shows on my skin, bruises bloom like evil little flowers all over my legs, my arms are frequently covered with them, so much that some people mistake them for tattoos, of which I have none. I hurt myself so often and in such odd ways that I am not so silently mocked by the people who paint my nails black at the local nail salon-- You fall again? accompanied with loud, barking laughs. Domestic abuse, I suppose, being the joke we can't get enough of, the kind of cruel thing we deserve because we're so stupid, much like repeated viewings of Weekend at Bernie's because we're too lazy to change the channel. At any rate, I still like to look at my bruises, so vivid at times that they seem fake and so muted at times that they seem like shadows.

Bruises are almost my only adornment. I haven't had much else done to change my body -- my ears are pierced, twice each, the first time when I was a pre-teen. My mother took me to the mall, and I can still remember the pain and antiseptic smell and looking in any and all reflective surfaces to see the tiny gold studs that I'd have to wear for six weeks. The year my mother died, I went back to another mall with my friend Angela and had my ears pierced again and the experience was so similiar, down to the bottle of cleaning fluid that accompanied me out of the store that I was shocked that so little had changed. As we drove out into the snowy night, I kept looking at what I had done. The snow came down hard and my windshield wiper didn't work. Angela drove (she always drives, thank God!), and I kept trying to catch a glimpse of my new self in the rearview mirror, those still-burning holes in the bleak cold night.

Michelle's Spell of the Day

"It seemed to her that on the tip of her tongue was something it had taken her forty years to learn, something wise or brave or beautiful that she could finally say." Larry McMurtry

Mirror, Mirror

1 part gin
1 part lemon juice
1 part lime juice

Serve over lots of ice.

Benedictions and Maledictions

Mornings Are A Disappointment

My dad returned last night, told me
he hadn’t really died, that he’d been
in Holland, but he was fine -- couldn’t
I see for myself? And I could! I forgave
everything and threw my arms around
him like a little girl. Then I remembered
my friend Hank told me he’d faked his
death. Bastard! I yelled and drew him close.
Don’t wake up, I told myself, but I did. You
have to eventually. Mornings are all weak
light, getting dressed for work ever so slowly.