Other Side of the Blues
I watch you a lot of the time. Something you don't really notice, cause, as much as you love me, you're off on another planet. Thinking about her, probably.
Hard to let go?
It was hard for me to let go, but I know...I understand how hard it is to grow up in this business. We were living hand-to-mouth in Texas, struggling to get our next paycheck and convert it into food. Remember how long it took for us to get a steady line of credit? Five years. Way past the formative stages of the kid's life. She would have been shuttled from place to place, stuck like luggage in the back of a rented car, meeting up with people that no child should have dealings with. This business is a gross, dark place, one that can warp a mind forever.
But did you know I cried too, when we left her in the hospital? Not in front of you, barely holding on. Alone; watching her through the nursery window; mostly for you, not myself. I could feel that for you it was like leaving a chunk of you behind. God, she looked like you; with the set of your jaw and the shape of your lips. But what did she have of me to take with her?
I was the one who interviewed prospective adoptive parents, working through oceans of red tape while you stared at the maternity ward's ceiling, frozen by depression. Eddie had arranged for us to meet the last couple; mixed, like we were, but in a better financial position. You didn't want to meet them, but signed papers that absolved you of all responsibility toward our child.
Our child. I've tried hard not to think of her as that.
Per your request and the jargon in the documents, they don't contact us. But I couldn't help sending something....
On her fifth birthday, I came across something cleaning out my closet; a rosary, the one my mother gave to me when I made first communion. I'm lapsed now; but maybe she isn't. I wrapped it up and sent it away.
Never did hear back from them. Maybe...just maybe she learned how to pray, holding onto those black beads. I've forgotten how to.
So I try to forget and play pretend, because you can't. Someone needs to keep this family together, and that would be my job.
You crawl into my arms as I lie on this porch swing; we rock haphazardly, but remain as we always have been; together. You place your head on my chest and burrow against my skin, as though you could seek entrance to my body. A joke forms within my brain, then seeks expression on the outside; you hush me with the tip of your finger.
"Just do me a favor." You say, "Hold me. And breathe."
At least that's one thing I can do right.