aug 16, 2021 / christina hopp
nanny and i sit on the porch off a mountaintop. the sky is white with morning and our hands wrap around hot mugs. the moment her husband steps outside, nanny pesters him about checking his blood oxygen levels. he did it already, he swears, he's at 97. nanny raises her brows, the years numbering on her forehead. are you telling the truth? she asks and he huffs out, the number was 93...94...96… and stayed at 97, he swears this.
I look past his moving hands to the mountain overpass, and the lonely overtakes me before I can shake it off. they don't ever feel the wondering, I think, that gut drop that comes with not being chosen.
to be someone's favorite person. to bask in his silence with a coffee. to realize it's too weak and for him to jump to make another pot, the way I like it, to come outside and let me sip it first to make sure it's good, can you put it in the microwave?, make it 15 seconds, yes dear, of course dear, to kiss his neck, call him a friend, never wonder, never plead.
nanny smiles at the steam coming off the mountains, fresh rain is about to pour. this woman has known love, I think.
right there, my wants bleed until I am at peace with them, the sun rises, the mist falls. I think, I will breathe again soon enough because I don't plan on anything less than those golden hues in her eyes.
my aunt dreams on a third marriage. don't bother, she says, it is never worth it. she boasts on going anywhere she wants, and anytime, with no one keeping tabs on her. I have that now, I think, and every room is so lonely. she says she would do it again but an angel would have to swear that it's true.
aren't you supposed to just know that sort of thing? I want to ask but I'm scared of the answer. what is past the mountains, who will I sink into that I will want and want and want and not feel weighed from sitting with it? won't it be safe?
to be spoiled in those gentle ways. for the way he looks at me to turn me to stone, immortal, a connection I remember long after it's done. to feel deeply and not be ashamed of it, for someone who cares without question. the balanced adoration. to walk like I am claimed.
after dinner, daddad snuggles on the couch. he shivers, and there comes nanny with a blanket and a heating pad. you're cold, aren't you, Bob? she turns off the fan, sits beside him, wraps herself around him like he is the safest place to land...
