6 but abt cas
things i said under the stars and in the grass
i. âWhat do you think moms are like?â None of us really romanticized what maternal love felt like. As a group, we were too collectively damaged. Colinâs mom had hurt him, Ashâs mom had spent the food money on makeup and drugs. Our moms didnât want us in the first place. It was generally accepted that parents werenât all they were cracked up to be, but in this memory Iâm seven and weâre in the yard, contemplating alternate lives. I stared at the stars and pictured that my motherâs 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 motherâs 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 Iâd never forget, I hope a mom comes and finds us. I hope sheâs nice. Mine found me, and she is. Sorry you never got to yourâs.
ii. âEyes dark as the sky, hair soft as the grass, laugh warm as the summer sun.â Iâll forgive myself for the slip up because I never ceased to be tired when weâd go for late-night walks. This is more than Iâd ever said about your mother to you, and you sigh like it hurt you. I tear my gaze from the heavens to where youâre 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, Iâll drown. Canât 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 youâll 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. Itâs old chalk on blackboard, itâs a tatty black pillowcase, itâs your favourite pair of socks. Itâs ever-changing, always different. The stars arenât your mother, theyâre brilliant fireballs a million lightyears away. Youâre the sunny spell in the middle of winter, youâre the breath of fresh air as spring rolls in. Youâre rose petals in the wind and sometimes fingernails down that chalkboard. You giggle, but I know you havenât forgotten what I said about Adri. For your own sake, donât think of her.
iii.I donât 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, theyâve 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, Iâve entertained the picture that the moon was my brotherâs 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 donât notice me frowning, perhaps I do this a lot and youâve learnt to accept that old men frown. Old dogs donât learn new tricks, and it doesnât matter that Iâm not yet seventy, but one ages as one becomes a grandparent. Mike never warned me about the ancient feeling;Â 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 Iâll look through your old telescope and nod when you ask if you used a word correctly, or Iâll mutter a suggestion for a better term. Iâm good for that much. Grandpa Thesaurus Rex. You donât seem to mind. We get along well.
