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Show Moon - 84 reminded you of what you'd lost, and then I hardened my heart against the worry. I wanted to look anywhere but at you for a vision of my life. The week before my sixteenth birthday you had a hysterectomy. Something about fibroids, too much bleeding. You told me much later that you never recovered from this operation. The doctors didn't think about hormones then, you said. It was as if they'd left you alone in the desert, and you had no idea where you were or how to protect yourself against the sudden whirlwinds of feeling and the astonishing sense of loss, like water vanished into sand. It seemed you were always seeing one doctor or another. You spoke vaguely of weak ankles, unsteadiness. James shook his head, made light of your worries. How I wish I'd been different, but I was inclined to see it his way. It was easier than trying to make sense of what you were saying, easier than facing my terror of what it seemed to mean to be a woman. James didn't seem to realize I was growing up. He kept trying to pull me onto his lap, and when I hung back, he said I didn't love him. He stood up with dragon fire in his eyes every time I had a date and jabbed questions like fists at the embarrassed boy: Where are you going? And then where? What time? And then? How long? I blamed you for this, Mother. I wanted you strong enough to protect me from his possessive and bewildering love. I would not walk beside you when we went to the store, but hurried ahead. I could not stand your slowness, could not abide the feel of my own body unless it was in constant motion. You didn't seem to notice, only hummed to yourself and kept that maddening calm smile. Perhaps you understood what I understand now, that I was terrified of walking in your shoes. |
