Crazy with the Freedom of the Breeze
I always wanted to have a one-sided conversation with my mother. Maybe then
there would be no finger pointing or acid-laced retorts. No hypochondria to
yank me back to her as if I were a kite, crazy with the freedom of the
Now I stand at her gravestone, begin to say something to one of my children.
"Shh," my daughter says. "I'm talking to Grandma." I know she's recounting
highlights of her recent wedding, and her sister is sharing my
granddaughters' milestones: Annie's kindergarten graduation, the ribbon
she won for riding George the Horse, Beth's first ballet recital and how she
prances everywhere in her leotard which she fondly calls her "leo."
I thought it would be easier to talk with a silenced mother, but I only find
two words. I say hello, then let my kids do the talking. Then I say
koi glint in calm ponds
afraid to bleed through water's