the dishwasher blasted on, heat and water and sound…white noise and clean water jetting against the dishes until their bones were bleached, picked clean and dry.
in the kitchen, the sound of women laughing, easy-talking and including one another wafted thru the air, and reached back back back to me there, in the dish room…and outside.
there was one who used to talk to me a lot…but got too naked a view of the broken tumblage within me, the shards and jagged edges of my soul and the way that my emotions (amplified by brain trauma) are at times a runaway train with no options but the wall at the end and the carnage of the full speed collision…and so she pulled back…
way back so that she does not even greet me by name anymore. just the casual nice-nice.
i brought it on myself, i guess. i don’t have the cotillion dress manners and savoir faire…i am all “big-girl” hips and belly and shoulders and thighs and voice torn by testosterone and ruined…
they will never really know how outside i am, and how could they? they have no clue there is a side known as out cus they are in. always inside.
but i listened, savored, much like a peasant would look on from afar at revelries in the distant high castle, and felt good that there was happiness and joy in the world.
but i missed my quiet and solitary kitchbah turned loud and crowded kitchen…
and then i heard Mama whisper to me…it is the lowest place…the place of least honor…it is the loneliest place that She haunts, and it is there She takes up residence.
and so i embrace it, and hang on.
i give thanks that i am here…and can hear…and can bask in the glow of the bright suns around me.