ينشر داخل يكتب في الوسخ, أبريل - نيسان 2004
حبر مراهقة, فبراير - شباط 2002

حلقة. حلقة.

أنا توهّجت ال [كمّود], يغسل أياديي, ومحبطة داخل غرفتي أن يمسك هاتفي على ه رابعة وحلقة متأخّرة.

"مرحبا?" أنا أجبت.

"هاي, ميري, هو أم."

"[أه], هاي, [موم]. كيف تكون أنت?"

هناك كان تنهيدة قريبة غيرمسموع. "أنا بشكل جيّد. كيف تكون أنت?"

"أنا جيّدة. هكذا كيف يكون كلّ شيء يذهب?"

أنّ خفيفة, تنهيدة خفيفة ثانية. "[أه], هو حسنة. أنا كان دعات أنت لأنّ أنا حصلت هذا [إميل دّرسّ]… أنت يستطيع أرسلتني رسالة, لن [ب] أنا يمكن أن يجيب, غير أنّ أنت تستطيع بريد إلكترونيّ ي وتركتني رسالة يقولني أن يدعو أنت أو شيء." أغفل ه كلمات تقريبا غير أنّ أنّ فكرة شفّافة هو أمكن كنت يشرب يذبل سريعا, لأنّ أنا أردت هو إلى.

"يبرد [أه], موافقة."

"هو تسعة [أه] اثنان. ثمانية ستّة [توو-]"

موافقة… [أه], لذلك هذا مثل [أنسور مشن]?"

"رفض, يطبع أنت هو داخل وأنت تستطيع بريد إلكترونيّ ي."

"[أه], جميعا بشكل صحيح. هكذا هو…"

"تسعة [أه] اثنان. ثمانية ستّة اثنان."

"جميعا بشكل صحيح." أنا دوّنت الأرقام إلى أسفل على واحدة من الموقعة قرنفليّة ه أنّ زيّن مكتبي.

"ستّة [أه], سبعة خمسة. في [تله] نقطة شبكة."

"حسنة, يحصل هو."

"إن أنت تتلقّى وقت هذا المساء, سيدعو بريد إلكترونيّ ي وأنا أنت متأخّرة أن يقول أنت إن أنا حصلت الرسالة. أنا لست يوقن كيف هو قد افترض أن يعمل."

يوقن, أنا إرادة بريد إلكترونيّ أنت. هكذا كيف يكونون عمة بول جديات?" [ببست] [موم] ي لأخه اثنان [إلمنتر-سكهوول] أطفال.

"[أه], هم جيّدة." هناك كان آخر صوة خفيفة في الخلفيّة, أنا استطاع سمعت أو ربّما يتخيّل ه ضرس جزيئيّة غرامية يطحن أو شفاته يفوح. "أحضر [شلّي] ويعقوب منزلهم تقرير بطاقات اليوم."

"[أه] أجل? هكذا كيف يكون الطقس? هو برد بعد?"

أنّ يتوقّف خفيفة, خفيفة. "أجل, جيّدا, كان هو ثلاثون درجات هذا صباح."

"[أه], نجاح باهر." أنا قلت هو, يعرف أنا كان ال رعى ابنة [كليفورنين]. صوّت ثلاثون درجات باردة, غير أنّ لذلك أتمّ [ا لوت] الأشياء.

"عرف أنت جدة و [غرندبا] [ميلّر] أتى أن يزور?" أنا أردت أن يمصّ كلماتي إلى الخلف داخل مثل سريعا بما أنّ أنا يقالهم. هو كان بصعوبة صفقة كبيرة أنّ أبي والد أتوا أن يزور [أوس-ثي] أتمّ [أفتن-بوت] [موم] تلقّى يكون أراد أن يرىنا حديثا.

"قالني [أه], أجل, ستيف. هم بعد هناك?"

"رفض, ترك هم في يوم الثلاثاء."

"هكذا أنت شدادات بعد يحاول أن يأتي خارجا أثناء شتاء كسر?"

"[أه], يفكّر أنا هكذا. ساويت نحن بعد نحاول, غير أنّ نحن يضطرّ بدأت يدفع ل [كر ينسورنس] قريبا, أو ربّما حاليّا. And then, I went to go take my license test, but they told me I need driver’s training since I’m under eighteen, so now we have to sign up for six hours of classes and it’s more than a hundred bucks for each of us.”

“Yeah.” I heard what annoyed me, but what I liked to pay attention to: those slight, slight personal noises. “Well, I’d really like to see you guys.”

“Yeah, me, too. I’d really like to go down there soon.”

“I’d like to go visit you guys in California.”

“Yeah,” I said, almost uncomfortable. There was what was best for everyone, and then there was what meant a couple of weeks of smiles between welcoming and departing tears.

“Oh, yeah, I wanted to tell you guys… With my disability, you should be able to apply for more grants. I was trying to work it out for Steven, but with you it’d be easier, just to list me as your parent. Because with Dad’s and Christine’s salary-”

“It’s too much for scholarships!” I laughed, and wondered if I should wish to suck back in my comment and laughter, too.

“Yeah. Cause I’m not getting anything. Someone should get something outta my disability.”

I giggled again, pretending her comment was a light joke. My laughter covered those slight noises.

So anyways, could you remind Daddy to get my Section Eight application? I left him a message but…”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You know what, maybe you could get it. Just call up the welfare office and ask for housing authority.”

I scribbled on a pink Post It as my eyes let me know they’d enjoy tears spilling out. “Okay,” I said, thinking I controlled my voice.

“All right, honey.” She yawned in the background. “I’m going to let you go now; I need to get to bed.”

“Yeah, it’s late over there, huh?” I tried to steady my wobbling voice as shady, transparent thoughts of my mother’s, not just lost potential, but wasted and solid talent was made apparent through this phone call.

“Yeah. I need to wake up at six.”

“Well, all right, Mommy.”

“Good night, honey. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good night! Take care.”

“All right.”

I hung up and went back to the bathroom, to continue my shower. I looked in the mirror as my face began to scrunch, trying to squeeze out the tears. Ridiculous black tears trickled down my cheeks. Earlier that night I had reveled in perfecting my Halloween make up.

I hopped in the shower and sobbed, hardly weeping though. My face continued to scrunch, in sobs and in laughter as I thought cynically about my little moment. I thanked God for Him being in my life; I would have thanked Him for guiding me had my thoughts not been floating around, bumping into each other. My pitiful mother, my pitiful mother, it’s so sad all that could have been of her life, but I know plenty of other people with such wasted potential, but this is my mother, but you’re a lucky girl if your largest problem is feeling sad about your mother, yes, lucky, thank you Lord, I know so many people have it worse than me, but stop crying, oh, now you’re laughing, yes?

My face convulsed more as I realized how uncommitted I was to this moment, this being one of the very few times I cried and wanted to let “it” all out. But let what all out, my mind demanded. Where is this crying getting you? How is this not just a big distraction (oh, the evils of the word!) from all the things you’d like to accomplish?

I knew I’d write this all down, and I laughed, but what might have been audible was drowned by the shower. I bet you’re just clinging to this moment because you just want something to write about, my mind insisted. I laughed and sobbed again.

I got out of the shower and brushed my teeth. I smudged the mist on the mirror so I could see my face. I was always interested in how my face looked before, during, and after a good cry. I liked my wrinkled brow and ruddy complexion against the white, white bathroom walls.

I went into my room and saw my computer waiting for me, waiting for me to process my little conversation-turned-moment into neat, black words.

Oh, but my curling hair can’t wait. Before I blow dried it quickly, I tried to reflect more on my mom’s misfortune, but I’d already mentally and emtionally filed that experience under “Not-Really-A-Big-Deal.” I was disappointed in, but proud of, myself. My, what large emotional defenses you have, I thought. I grinned at my still wrinkled brow and still pink face. It contrasted nicely with the beige, beige walls of my bedroom.