Georgia Blues Dew & Albacore Shells
A woman and her introspective laundry days
Floral sheets wave in the wind
like hoisted sails broken free from masts,
and with them wafts the smell of laundry,
the same detergent that the last hug
with Grandmother smelled like,
full of warm sunlight, sweet blooming Georgia Blues, and love
–always love.
.
Sometimes, the world hoists me up there too
with the laundry,
to flutter about all tethered Icarus in sea summer air,
arms pinned with clothespins like a butterfly–an Emperor
held under the sun’s heedy lepidopterist gaze–left
out to dry,
to figure out how to wring all the doubts
and tears from my drenched mind.
.
Under the melted crayon sunset
I had put the best pieces of myself
next to all my broken things,
shut tightly in an ivory jewelry box
next to shattered albacore shells
gathered carefully by tiny hands
and crushed childhood dreams.
And next to the ring that you gave
me with faulty promise,
unused and empty
of more than just my finger.
.
Sometimes, at night,
when my heart is weary and eyes tired,
the moon grows a face
that looks eerily like my mother’s,
blurred with childhood recollection and estrangement,
and asks me,
with singsong abandon and moths erupting free,
if I am happy with myself, and I never
know how to answer.
.
See, my grandmother told me that the only goal in life
I should strive for
is to be
happy.
Full stop.
And for her the full stop was more
than just the end of the sentence,
it meant throwing away the whole damn typewriter
so you couldn't be tempted by those
who would bring you down
to alter those words.
.
Sometimes, I pull the typewriter out of the trash,
Raccoon fishing for more garbage to dine on,
And rewrite them anyways.
.
Sometimes, I give away my power
As freely as the sun gives warmth–unconditional
And with no expectations–
And I thought you stole all the love I had left as greedily
As the darkness steals the day.
.
But this new love is a subtle thing,
Unlike the all encompassing love that swallowed
me whole
like the great fish did Jonah
the day I met you.
This love is like slipping on a silk robe over raw, naked
skin,
Like the gentle swaying of waves
On the ocean’s rest days,
Lulling sailors and fish to sleep,
And like the quiet, eternal
kiss of land and sky.
.
This love sneaks up on me quietly one day,
tip toeing around all my misgivings and reluctance,
a masterful dancer ballerina-ing their way home.
This love catches my gaze from across the yard
one heatwave afternoon with drying laundry
and I lean down and
meet the reflection of my eyes in the dew
on Grandmother’s forgotten Georgia Blues,
petal cupped mirror glimmering
with shimmering intensity,
showing me who I really am
underneath all that has happened to me,
I see more of myself in the resilient dew
on a tiny flower than I ever have,
and I finally begin to love myself;
.
Love myself with all the fullness and imperfections of sea summer air,
Love myself softly and with patience like lost Grandmother hugs,
Love myself fiercely as the moon does the tide,
Love myself beautifully like smashed albacore shells,
and with all the new beginnings of fresh laundry fluttering in the wind.
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
Part-time daydreamer. Full-time dork.
Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. adventure, nostalgia, and other affairs of the heart, and anything else I want to honor and hold space for).
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