6 but abt cas
things i said under the stars and in the grass
i.Ā āWhat do you think moms are like?ā None of us really romanticized what maternal love felt like. As a group, we were too collectively damaged. Colinās mom had hurt him, Ashās mom had spent the food money on makeup and drugs. Our moms didnāt want us in the first place. It was generally accepted that parents werenāt all they were cracked up to be, but in this memory Iām seven and weāre in the yard, contemplating alternate lives. I stared at the stars and pictured that my motherās eyes were darker still than my own, and that the twinkles I saw were reflections on her irises. Or perhaps the moon was an adornment in her hair, or on her headscarf. She was as far away from me as the grass from the sky anyway, so it was an apt metaphor. You said that they, like all women, are beautiful but generally bad news. I smiled. The moon became your motherās white face, and the breeze was her laugh. I felt a shiver, it was cold. That, I imagine, was also an appropriate metaphor for your mother too. I frowned at the moon, cursing her for being so far away. All the same, you continued in words Iād never forget, I hope a mom comes and finds us. I hope sheās nice. Mine found me, and she is. Sorry you never got to yourās.
ii.Ā āEyes dark as the sky, hair soft as the grass, laugh warm as the summer sun.ā Iāll forgive myself for the slip up because I never ceased to be tired when weād go for late-night walks. This is more than Iād ever said about your mother to you, and you sigh like it hurt you. I tear my gaze from the heavens to where youāre lying, taking up half the space I am for want of height. You look over and say something wordlessly that the dark muffles, but I see the crease in your brow well enough to know that I had to continue. I had to say something to make it better. Suddenly, my linguistic skills fail me and we float in silence. I sink a little more every moment that passes, and soon I worry that if I open my mouth, Iāll drown. Canāt be so nice if she left us, you save me in my silence and I pull you over in a hug. Are you my little lifejacket, or am I the anchor that weighs you? Deliberately, to give the sky new meaning in something I hope youāll remember, I say that the stars are the specks of glitter you were still finding in your hair a week after the incident at school. Itās old chalk on blackboard, itās a tatty black pillowcase, itās your favourite pair of socks. Itās ever-changing, always different. The stars arenāt your mother, theyāre brilliant fireballs a million lightyears away. Youāre the sunny spell in the middle of winter, youāre the breath of fresh air as spring rolls in. Youāre rose petals in the wind and sometimes fingernails down that chalkboard. You giggle, but I know you havenāt forgotten what I said about Adri. For your own sake, donāt think of her.
iii.I donāt say anything as I listen to you talk. Stargazing always meant something poetic to me, I avoided learning about constellations or planets, or which were satellites and which were shooting stars. I liked the mystery. But you speak of planetary exploration and your dream to sit on the moon quite unaware to how blasphemous it sounds to me. The stars have always been something quite untouchable, theyāve always been a watching guardian to support but not to aid. My daughter never took much interest in above besides astrology, and that I scorned. So through the length of my years, Iāve entertained the picture that the moon was my brotherās mother, that the stars which once resembled my mother, then resembled the equally abandoning mother of my daughter. The dazzling planets turned into freckles on your skin. How could you take the muse of so many of my silly poems and turn them into facts and numbers and science? I blame your father, but I habitually avoid speaking ill of the dead. You donāt notice me frowning, perhaps I do this a lot and youāve learnt to accept that old men frown. Old dogs donāt learn new tricks, and it doesnāt matter that Iām not yet seventy, but one ages as one becomes a grandparent. Mike never warned me about the ancient feeling;Ā that I would become a dusty grandfather clock sitting in the hall, hands motionless below the holographic clock face hovering in-front of the wall. You, little grandson, talk of learning where I waxed poetic stubborn ignorance. I say nothing here, but Iāll look through your old telescope and nod when you ask if you used a word correctly, or Iāll mutter a suggestion for a better term. Iām good for that much. Grandpa Thesaurus Rex. You donāt seem to mind. We get along well.
