The Residue Years

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It’s years beyond the worst of it, and it’s your time, Mom, a time of head starts and new starts and starting and going and not stopping — of re-dos and fixes, of gazing at full moons and quarter-moons and seeing what before were phantasms for-reals. If this streak keeps up (it will; why not?), you’ve got the rest of your life, hell yeah it’s a life, minus fatmouthing no-accounts. You hope — no, we hope (you and your eldest) that this year, next year, and the years after are an age of heartbeats, steady breath, and a healing for your harms. Smart money says you and I are in for seasons and seasons of pewter sunups and cold-ass sunsets and rain. In this state, who can get away from the rain? Shit, you used to think maybe it was the rain. This will be a time of cruising rainy days by your old bus stops, unsoaked, semi-warm, and daydreaming. To be true, Mom, we’ll likely see days upon days of yearning. But hey, this might also be the time, after a long-long trial of bootsie-ass suitors, of your white gown and bouquet; it might be, but Mom, let’s keep it funky, if ain’t been in forty-plus years, there’s a helluva chance it won’t. You know I would take care of it all if I could but at present — enough said, so meantime, you’re on your own for new gear: for age-sanctioned tops and blouses; jeans and dresses; khakis and slacks, work suits; until they cut me loose, it’s on you to foot new heels and flats and sandals — yep, sandals, but closed sandals, please, for those sacrilegious toes! Plus, Mom, set aside enough to keep spruced, to make this year, next year, and all the ones to come, months of pedicures and manicures, of consistent appointments for weaves, of waxes and peels and scrubs and tweezing, but no foundation.

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