The Counting of St. Germains
I am looking for the women of my house. Hidden among the tall shoes, the high hair, the soft bow of the top of my lips. Genes are no good at hiding; spiral staircases bear the marks of their heels, the wood bannister worn smooth as goodnight kisses.
In the closet’s back, I found something blue. It wasn’t mine. Over the knob, looped black and pearl of a garter belt two sizes too big for my thighs. The carpet tracks my steps and casts them in three-inch heels. My women are smoothed
into every crack, secreted in the crevices like mice.
This chair smells like my mother. All my childhood, she sat in her strange dress, twining her hair into decades. She sang counting songs while I hid under the petaled blossom of her dress. In the shadow of her voice is where I learned to count pebbles and throw them at the crows.
Feathers fall, black snow against the off-white carpet. There are bloomers
and then there are bloomers. One is just something you wear to keep
cold hands out. The other is the one I’m looking for–that morninged
glory that continually turns her face against the sun.
Today, is Sunday and I received no letters.
Inspiration of the day: Someone sent me the above postcards. I love the band St. Germain, but have never had the liquor of the same name.
Yesterday, I sent childhood photos and a letter to someone who means a lot to me.