“Conversations” With My Daughters
I have been blessed! And I mean that sincerely. My two daughters literally take the time to speak to me at least once a day. And often, their communication with me sheds a clear beacon about our lifelong love affair. Following is an excerpt from a recent artistic conversation that occurred between my oldest and I.
I would title this: My oldest daughter’s genius. She’s thirty-five and a new mother. She used her recent free-time to create: Heather in Transition. First up –
I awoke in the middle of the night….cold…tense…and discomforted by a disturbing yet familiar pain…a pain below my nose, but…above my lip. I froze for a moment and then winced as my index finger slid in a perverse and quiet maneuver to that spot and I began to fondle it…slowly. Slowly the pain and the wincing went away and I began to notice that the pain had transformed into an odd kind of pleasure. Underneath my finger tip and skin was a hidden dome that laid silently just nether the skin, growing…growing. I tried to fall back to sleep, but I couldn’t stop myself from touching it. Having been here before I decided that I was NOT going to give it the satisfaction that it sought in the middle of the night, not from me. So…I began to ignore it and finally fell asleep.
The next morning I felt a calling, muted but clear. It was really an urge. It said: “touch me…no…push me….no, no, no…POP me!” I began to fondle that spot beneath my nose, which was now red, but there was no head…no white beauty…just a swollen hard deep core…
I must be strong I told myself. I will not pop it! I will let nature follow its course and it will go away. Two hors later it was bigger and harder, but that bitch didn’t want to show her lily white face. Sweat formed on my brow. I knew what this meant; I was weak. I ran to the nearest mirror and I began to push on that pimple. A tear formed in my eye. My upper lip turned white from the pressure. I pressed on. I wouldn’t be defeated so easily. Again I pushed, even harder this time, my body straining into the mirror and without any warning a loud: “POP” and the blessed release of pressure and that clear ooze of success, the revered “pimple juice.”
I bent closer to the mirror, squinted and picked that white curly cue of pain off the mirror. I examined it for quite sometime, pronounced a few victorious words over the carcass and then cavalierly flicked it away.
The ritual finished by me wiping away the few tears shed in the heat of battle. Relieved, I continued on with my day. For the entire rest of the day, I lovingly fondled that crater left by the pimple and that residual, glorious, clear, pimp juice.
Today was a very good day indeed.