beak

Tomorrow, my classes officially start, although I have been obsessively checking Blackboard for the syllabi since I returned home from the on-campus orientation so there is no big reveal.

We are sampling the white wine that will be served at our wedding reception which is in six weeks AAAAAHHHHH.

Maybe we have had a little wine while waiting for the super homemade meatloaf to bake and the new potatoes to roast. FunkyPlaid is assembling and stuffing invitations. I am trying not to think of the million ways I can screw up my graduate school career. Because, you know, I am a positive thinker like that.

Thanks for all of your votes of confidence. They are even more uplifting than this wine. But not by much!

[originally posted at cygnoir.net/2010/08/31/on-the-eve]

I walk down a deserted two-lane highway through a scrawny stretch of forest. My mother, who is not my mother, is with me. The forest is filled with garbage, but we are not surprised. This is how the landscape has looked since before I was born, befouled with brightly-colored plastics and decaying meat. I try to picture it lush and green.

“It wasn’t always like this,” my not-mother murmurs, answering my curious stare. “But then it came to be too much, and we had to build a second layer on top of the trash, a second world, and then a third, to accommodate all of us and all of our things.”

I nod, unsure of what to say. We walk in silence as the two-lane road turns into a tree-skeleton-lined street. I peek at my not-mother’s face; she is serene, despite our destination.

We enter the three-story Victorian and stand at the wooden counter. A thick pane of bulletproof glass separates us from the innkeeper. My not-mother holds her palm up to the glass and the innkeeper scans the chip inside. He shows her down a long hallway, waving me off to the waiting room.

I don’t wait very long.

“It is time,” the innkeeper informs us matter-of-factly, and my not-mother nods with closed eyes. He slides us a folder through a metal door in the counter that contains the usual end-of-life paperwork, the packet of tea to be brewed, the room key. I am defiant, disbelieving.

“It is NOT time! Not yet! Isn’t there anything that we can do?”

“Of course,” the innkeeper shrugs. “You instead of her.”

Dully, I slink to the room after my not-mother. She yawns, so tired from our long walk, and curls up on the bed. I drop the folder on the plastic countertop, take the kettle to the bathroom, and fill it at the tap. In the mirror, I watch my not-mother drift off into dream, and tick off the inevitable list of nexts. The water will boil. The packet will be placed in the cup. The water will pour into the cup. The water will turn into tea. The tea will be consumed.

My throat closes, convulses as I turn the kettle on. I sit on the bed next to my slumbering not-mother and press my palm to the space between her shoulderblades, warm through the woolen sweater. For a while, I try not to wake her, but then the kettle and I cry and cry.

[originally posted at cygnoir.net/2010/08/30/the-kettle-and-i]