Archive for November, 2012|Monthly archive page

The Inevitable Fall From Grace

The darkness has come again, and I am lost in it,
out of tune,
Uninvited tears flood as I struggle to ask a friend to take Bonhomme for the afternoon.
“She’s not fit to be a mother.”
“Look at her, falling apart.”
“What’s she crying about? Because someone else needs to mother her son for her? Because she has to ask? Because she has the gall to?”
“Not fit.”
These are the whispers of my heart music, discordant, insistent, endless.
I cry without reason, without warning, without relief.
I beg.
Make it go away.
Let this period of my life be over.
Please make this song end, let me move on.
There is no rhyme or rhythm, just this pathetic, soaked-pillow begging.
I am too lost to look up,
to look up from my bed,
from my feet.
I stare at them, deadened, and watch my feet take one stumbling step, and then another.
I have no idea where they are going –
I have only the bleak knowledge that they must go.
This is the only answer my prayers get:
no matter the music,
time still marches on.


The Outer Critic

“I like Daddy’s singing better.”
A moment of silence, as we cuddle in the bed.
This is due, I know, to the fact that Daddy sings The Penguin Song, and The Turtle Song, and The Penguin And Turtle Song, wherein Bonhomme’s stuffed turtle and various penguin family members bob and weave and tickle and sing along to the ever-changing storyline.
And due to the fact that Mommy sings lullabies. In French. And hums classics like Ode To Joy and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. And is often too tired, after 14 hours with Bonhomme, to make more shit up.
And so, Daddy scores.
There go thirty years of choral training, lost to the popular vote of the five-year-old demographic.