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Show Moon - 53 pasture. This is what I've always wanted. I wish my sleep were not so heavy that it presses me awake at three a.m. saying, "You don't deserve this." I wish I could grab my misgivings by the scruff, shake them a little, say firmly, "Don't give me a hard time. I'm home." There's another thing. I didn't want to mention it, but I suppose I must. I'm frightened by my body. When I wake up at three a.m. I'm drenched in sweat. Heat rises to my face like shame and I move away from Josh, unable to bear his touch. What frightens me most is the fact that I'm bleeding too much- during and sometimes between. I cannot, will not, endure your operation, or the thought of worse. And this gets all tangled up with the lure of the Three Sisters, the snow. I worry that everything will now appear in the light of distasteful womanish concerns. All I can say is that such concerns are a part of history, the unwritten one of water and blood of birth and love and everyday death. I wish I could paint a grand, sweeping scene-a great war, perhaps, a revolution, political intrigue. Instead, I give you a handful of water from the river in which the seeds of history are carried. I am trusting you to be fair, Mother, to see through the differences between us, to that bond that we are held in common by like fish in the net of the ocean. The stories of broken waters and nests of blood embrace us like particles of light, fundamental and silent as the air. "You're scaring me," Josh says, when I want to talk about such things. He lays down his graph paper and pencil, fingers his golden beard with worried fingers, and I don't know what to do with this part of myself that disturbs him |