Lucille

I found myself pissed at her today.  There is the hint of a possible reason to be hopeful about a job prospect that would mean a lot by way of stability in my life.  It is the kind of thing I would have called to share with her.  And she would have half listened, more thinking through what she was going to talk about when I paused than really hearing what was going on with me.  She would have taken the first opportunity to interject and then run away with whatever compliment shed last received from a colleague or authority figure, more to remind herself that she was essential where she was than to meet any particular need of mine.

My sisters and I rolled our eyes at her, long distance.  But it was what we did, her and I, finding a sliver common ground in career decisions.  Meeting on the telephone line in an unspoken agreement whereby I called with news and she took over the conversation.

What it lacked in depth, it made up in longevity.

And she wasn’t there for the ritual, damn her.  My sister suggested I start from scratch with one of the lovely women who have offered their maternal urges as a substitute for the mother I was born to.  But the explanations required.  The idea of having to explain why the one sentence relates to stuff that happened 10 years ago, what it means under the surface, and how it fits in to everything else.

I was the weirdo on the subway with my sunglasses on after dark, crying.  Quietly.  They warned me that I would find myself crying at the oddest times, entirely unexpectedly.

All I hear is Anthony Hamilton singing “you picked a fine time to leave me Lucille…”

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Lucille

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