in the time of santa anas

in the time of santa anas

I didn’t know who was more mired in the tangle, her or me. The game of survivalism I had been embarking on led me to wonder where I came into this all. What did it have to do with me? It’s a question I never asked before, a string of words that had never crossed my mind in that configuration. Out of necessity, I forced myself to ask it. In truth, I didn’t expect her to care, I had only hoped she would. I had hoped that some sultry June evening I might come home to her starting a soup in the kitchen, music on, her calloused feet lightly thudding against the floor with her delicate steps, her voice lilting with laughter. That she might be dressed to the nines again. That the house wouldn’t smell sour with stale cigarettes and burned meals, too many pets. That she might care about me again. That she might ask what I had been doing. That is what I had hoped. But I knew better, knew not to give in to childish desires. The adult in me forced me to take notice. She did not ask me what I had done, how my day was, what was going on in my life, how the drive was. She didn’t care. I didn’t cross her mind. Not that I blamed her. Perhaps I wouldn’t either. I didn’t know. All that I knew was that it hurt.

"I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hands." - Janet Fitch