Sunday, May 10, 2015
The first thing I did this morning was open the long, yellow envelope with the word MOM scrawled across it. Sophie brought it home from school on Friday afternoon, along with a tomato plant in a green ceramic pot. The envelope held a beaded bracelet, purple, pink and pearly plastic strung on elastic. I slipped it over my hand and raised my arm until it stopped on that generous part of my arm above the elbow. When I lowered my arm, the bracelet fell to the floor, so I picked it up and put it in the dish on my dresser that holds trinkets, a safety pin, a Buddha coin, and earring whose pair is lost. A lost pair. Pare me down.
Even in year twenty, these plastic beads strung on elastic, sprung.
Sophie's eyes implore me. Beseech, plead, do something. I'm not sure if I'm projecting the implore, the beseech, the plea. Do something. She and I are knit, intertwined, beads on a string, strung.
Is imagination greater than identity?