In the warm glow of my grandmother’s kitchen I learned about stories.
I’ve been saying for a while now, when anyone asks, that savagemama is on sabbatical. I took a break a while back because I was writing a lot about Eliza, my daughter who identifies as half half, and after writing gut wrenching essay after gut wrenching essay I started to realize that her story isn’t my own. Her story isn’t mine to tell. (Note: She and her are her preferred pronouns.) I also came face to face with what I’ve know since I could hold a pencil, writing from the gut is exhaustive business. It’s the only way I know how to do it, though, and somedays I have been so exhausted from other things that I don’t have much left to spill out onto the page.
It seems I am a potty mouth. It only took the princess of potty talk to tell me so.
I have driven across landscapes looking for him. In the middle of the night, across two states, that boy was waiting in the early morning to open the door for me, to pull back the sheets and lay beside me.
Dear College Boy, Yes, you. In your basketball shorts with your earbuds in, walking across campus.
Saturday morning I cracked two eggs into a pan an instinctively broke the yolks. I let them cook for a few minutes and could hear my grandfather’s voice in my head.