Saturday, March 25, 2006

WoolfCamp writing exercise

(big, complex ideas flying everywhere, but I'm having a Bad Menopausal Day, and I'm having a tough time figuring things, any thing I think I'll just go with WRITING ABOUT MY MOM.)


My mother married too young, had too many children, suffered too many heartbreaks and disappointments that any day now, all of that cumulative pain would splinter her into a thousand little jagged pieces. That is, if she actually paid attention to her heart, if she twisted herself in a weird yoga pose and pressed her ear to her chest. Then she'd hear sirens, thunder and nuclear explosions. The decibel levels of all that racket? Would break her into those thousand little jagged pieces.

I nearly wrote that she doesn't have a heart, but I know she has a big fat aching one. One day I saw it leak right out of her chest at her mother's funeral, she threw herself on top of grandma's casket and cried scary, awful tears. My uncles gently pulled her off the casket, then mom walked in quick mincing steps to the bathroom. She came back dry eyed and composed.

My grandma who was good to us, but brutal to my mother, her youngest daughter. My mother who is good to my daughter, but brutal to me, her second oldest daughter.

I have no part in this chain, I know yoga.


Anonymous Heidi said...

Okay, Grace wins. She made me cry.

4:06 PM  
Blogger Mary Tsao said...

This is good. I saw this in my mind's eye.

6:18 PM  
Anonymous Em said...

So good, Grace. Beautiful, and you have capital letters and punctuation, to boot! I was moved and impressed with your speed and style in cranking out a fully formed Work. Brava!

11:57 AM  

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