Like a girl becomes a non-working non-money-earning girl. Maybe a more-like-a-real-writer girl. And same girl decides to make money to pay for her extravagances. Which means teaching. The thinking about of which may also possibly make a woman a crazy girl.
However as is almost always the case the girl has found herself with good hair. And in spite of numerous worries that exist in the facts the things that comprise a life the girl has maybe enough god in her or dried apples or memories of her mother’s sweet rolls that she is going to be okay.
The sweet rolls were for a time, and then were not. As also the cherry ice cream. The pineapple orange ice cream. And dried fried apple pies for breakfast. But the eggs were always as was the bacon and for a time that seemed for always at the time was the mother with very fine teeth was the father’s blue eyes was the pasture rolling down to a wet place we called the swamp. For a time. For the swamp is no more. Or the mother. But the father does not even now have rheumy eyes. It is the rheumy in the eyes that gives us away.
In my book there is water everywhere. The water comes back and back. There is never enough water. The water is the father throwing the girl up and up in the air above the sea. The water is in the mouth always never enough water to drink. Cold. The temperature of the room. Almost hot in the bottle in the summer car because there is nothing else at hand.
The water was the thing we didn’t have the night the house burned. We had ice instead. Which is also a true love of the girl. To live without ice would be to live without TV only much worse. Of course the girl does not know this having never lived without either.
(There were also cigarettes and they, too, appear to have disappeared. This may be that the girl cannot drive her car. And has not hung with cigarette-stocked friends and sat in plastic chairs all white trash on the street in the front yard in front of the house with canned beer and witty repartee.)
Oh most obvious. Oh most abundantly clear. The girl is a stream a poem about it. Because water is really a mirror. You step through. You’re born again. Hence the baptism. Hence the water that breaks. And dumps us onto the dry land of the doula’s hands doctors mothers wise women kitchen tables stainless steel and most lucky of us who pass from water into water. What would heal us all. What would be all of us still swimming.