Hannah has come to my door. Damn.
Damn my personal philosopy, damn the
when it comes to your door
forever monkey I carry on my back.
Hey Jack, if you are reading, remember this philosophy?
Um, you know it firsthand.
The philo that brought me home one afternoon in tears,
to your arms, to the porch on Beaver? The half-black plucky
one whose mother was dying of, um, "stomach cancer,"
when what we all saw was bone-thin AIDS.
The one I told you,
She's just six.
Yeah, that one. The one that told you after a week or so
when you were just a couple minutes late
meeting the MUST GET HOME TO GREET THE KID deadline,
you who'd never had kids,
You were supposed to be here,
I was about to piss my pants.
The one who is now so talented, and witty, and athletic,
and stunning that when we see her smile,
we neither one can hardly breathe?
Remember?
She came to the door?
(And before her...the mattress boy, Tyson? Couldn't read
a three letter word. Hey Jack, how about a quarter for Tyson. And while you're at it, jaw smack his bully brother, and boycott the church that locked the playground gate!)
(And before him.....the if only I had a dad boy, Toby? The tool crazy one who wanted to watch you build something, anything? The one who, later at 15 was living in that corrupt shed, and so a bed was thrown down in the laundry room...but hey, it was a bed.)
Damn those at the door boys. And there were others.
Before Toby. Before Tyson.
There were others,
and their mothers,
and their sisters,
and their brothers,
and their relatives
at the door...
or so to speak.
Well, Jack. It's Hannah.
Her mom died, you see. Two years ago.
Only, the woman who died wasn't really her mom.
Biologically, she was her great grandmom.
Hannah's real mom is a real piece of work.
Or a real piece of shit.
Take your pick.
And the "mom" who died was 85. Or right at it.
But Hannah called her mom.
And had always called her mom.
And then two weeks after, Hannah sliced her wrist.
Oh, this one is a spiralling tale, Jack.
Hannah's Dad, also 85, in Hospice,
has tried to maintain
as the girl has gone from worse to worse to worse
to therapeutic home hell
where this young girl
who reads a NOVEL a day
who loves boys
who loves makeup
who loves clothes and jewelry and piano music
and WHAT DOESN'T she love
is so hopped up on Seraquel, Depakote, Lexapro
and SEVEN other THERAPEUTIC
swallows that I've had to rattle CAGES
to say ENOUGH is ENOUGH.
This one
keeps looking at me,
keeps hunting my ass down on a daily,
and saying in her small voice that can on occasion
be so ADHD loud it makes me want to scream,
please, can't I come live with you,
can't you help me,
can't you,
I will be good,
I just wanna be a kid,
I just want my mom,
I just wanna live somewhere where I don't have to request shampoo from the locked cabinet.
I just want you.
Can't you?
can't?
And if only I could.
If only,
I could get it all together, Jack.
You'd be better,
I'd be better,
and you'd be paid back.
And will, and more.
And Hannah,
before this drift,
is not a monkey, is.
Is not a monkey.
Is.
Is not.
Is.
Remember the story, Jack?
Maggie, not mine, but my mother's,
sent a monkey when I was celebrating five.
A sock monkey.
Flew all the way from NC
to California.
I should have known it then
when I squeezed that grey,
red-mouthed sock.
Other girls loved plastic dolls.
Scupper ©2012
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Ashley Holt
jackie2
The Songbird
Bullet or Film
Ernesto Tinajero
Rodney Roe
Salon.com
Comments
Those who show up at the door..
And their grief from this world.
Geez. You cover much in so few words.
Don't you somehow wish you could save them all??
did you hear the one bout
morning glory
set, please
your
s
t
o
r
y
--JP, I missed the "morning glory..." - would love to hear more.
I need to read again ...and I think again after that ... but at first reading ... well ... my heart is heavy and I think yours is too ... carrying that darned monkey on one's back can be so darn wearing...