11.8.99

I'm living a morning like other mornings past. I'm writing emails for hours and clearing the inbox, more as a grasp at certainty (or repression) than for the sake of cleaning house. I'm in my bathrobe, plush and white, and my hair has dried into soft waves of my gramma's young womanhood. I am grasping for my love, but I am a pawn, reaching in directions where I cannot move. I am tying up the ends by sorting through the stuff of my early marriage, through the remnants of my mother's identity, through the long blue gaze of my gramma's eyes. Adulthood is inchoate; this act of gathering may be the last scramble over that promontory to self-assuredness. It may be. I am waiting for it all to congeal into a distinct identity. The question is, will I be able to gather it all in with this one protracted and weary reach? One day I will again write here with candor.

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