I’m trying to write this while Lucy is blaring Hamilton, making me listen to particularly genius lyrics and riffs, ones that speak to
her so personally she must listen to them over and over, as I did when I was her age, with Captain Fantastic and The Brown Dirt
Cowboy, and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and Honky Chateau, singing those lyrics over and over, like they were some kind of
other-worldly manual for the life I wanted to have. I, with my ear to the big speaker. Her, with her ear to the phone.
Edie is clinging to my waist, she is bored so bored so bored, and now they are fighting, screaming at each other, but then again,
they aren’t. Now they are talking in soft tones, talking about how they are going to punch each other, and puke on each other’s
hair, and they laugh, so I know they are not serious, and they tell me they enjoy trash talking each other, the crueler
the better…”You’re so ugly even Hello Kitty said ‘goodbye’ to you,” Edie says, and Lucy responds, “I love your hair. It’s just like
Rapunzel’s….except she has fewer dreads.” They love twisting the words into something nefarious and still coming out of the loop
fine and whole and together. I wonder who I trashed talked as a kid?….No one, only children don’t trash talk the shadows on
the walls. Or did I? And did they respond back? Maybe, so much going on in my head back then, in my room, being the only one.
They are watching something on TV now and they turn to tell me various things happening in the storyline. I don’t care about the
details, but I love being in the room with them, hearing their chatter, their constant love – almost addiction for – each other’s
attention, so much reaching out to each other, so much slapping and soothing, slapping and soothing, slapping and soothing.
At the same time, I want to flee this room, with them in it, and be alone in silence and quiet and my own thoughts, and words, my
own shadows, dark and looming as they may be. Burr is getting on my last wired nerve, playin’ over and friggin’ over. Edie, she
plops down on top of me – a loving, longing hug that stops my freedom to move, and smothers me in her deep, limitless heart –
and pins my right arm down, underneath her, and I cannot bang out another word.
The words simply stop.
They stop because I am surrounded by my people. I am not an only anymore. Nothing is just mine. Thank God my tolerance for
aloneness has been loosened and un-cinched by their insistence.
They do not care that I write, as long as I write about them, as if my quiet time, any time I have, is still also theirs.
And Edie is reading this over my shoulder.