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daughter. written by lynn fister. 11-14-08.
I am brushing my daughter’s hair. It is greyer than mine to show the wiser who is wise. That owl that sits on that dead
wintered tree would bow his head in respect to her. The window opens to the bitten sea, the salt gnawing on
greyer rocks and the wind rustles the palms to shredded and faded green
paper. I am brushing her
hair. Rock back and forth from
heel to toe, and once in awhile our sea eyes meet in the mirror. The mirror is a huge spoon on the wall,
made of pewter. In this way, our
faces are warped and our eyes meet.
Mother, she says. I would like to be a mother
one day too. I want a daughter. Her warped face is still pretty. As long as she is pretty, as long as
she has pretty lips. As long as she stays young. As long as her eyes match the cold sea. This is what matters.
What would you like to be when you grow up?
Why does everyone always ask that? This is her reply. The answer is always the same. I would like to have the head of a
bee-eater, the arms of squid, a sand dollar body, and daddy long legs. I grow bored having to tell you again
and again.
Don’t you want to be a dentist? Don’t you want to go to
teeth school? I say. I wish I did. I wish I went to teeth school.
If boredom were peonies. No. I don’t like teeth that
much. They always fall out when I
sleep. This is scary, you know.
Yes, boredom. We’d have many
bouquets.
And so we continue like this. Her grey hair grows greyer as we speak. But she still is pretty in pewter. In pewter she looks all grey. Her skin mute but sheen. She shake she shudder soft she seems to
age and I do not and I continue.
She sits still. Older than
me now. Nor head of a bee-eater or
the arms of a squid. She slowly
begins to realize this, and her eyes lack luster soon. The bitten sea. She sits still as her eyes are bitten.
Wanes as banana blossom in autumn.
Body like an abandoned pupa.
Soon bones so dry they whittle to strings in the wind and a sound of
cello.
One day I realize that I am brushing not a person. There are no longer bone strings. I didn’t even have a brush, come to
think of it. But I stand there
making the motion. And I still
don’t stop as I come to think of this.
I almost see her face in pewter.
I almost sea owl eyes. I
almost see cello notes from bone threads. Her face in pewter.
But then I realize it is mine, and it is I with the grey hair. It is greyer to show the old how older. The cello song is faint and grey. But my head is a bee-eater and my arms
are that of squid. I look at my
body and sure enough, I am part sand dollar with spider legs. And I forget about brushing for a short
time. I widen my mouth at
the spoon.
And I am toothless.
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