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Show Motherlunge a novel 247 Dorothy was there at the wedding, beaming impersonally at me from the front row. Walter was there too, next to her. Xavier was there wearing his Elmo watch upside-down on his wrist and clutching his penis through his dress pants. Jack was beside him with his arm across the back of the pew. Only your aunt Pavia was missing. She was sick that day. Her illness-stuck inside her like a lyric, repeating and melic, specific and far too interesting-prevented her attendance. Oh my daughter, my little simile! I'm sorry for the chromosomes that I gave to you. But it's only half the story, isn't it? Maybe less than half? And in any case, perhaps like anything that's handed down intentionally, they'll bring a kind of luck. Yesterday Eli and I were walking in the fields behind the school. The wind brushed through the long grasses by the water; they sighed and turned over, the blades twisting around each other like the arms of a spiral staircase before splitting apart again. The undersides were paler green, unfinished. You rolled and flexed against your father's hand pressed into my side, then settled down again exactly as before. Madam, I'm Adam. Sometimes, when two people love each other very much, they want to get closer. I'm ready. So now, my girl: come closer. |