TITLE: RIDING THE BLIND
Sunshine burns on my back. I feel like the raw ground just uncovered from a deep snow: naked, dark, slippery and too soft. Winter and a cold spring have dragged on forever. One year gone in this small, cape cod house on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. Aiden is now three months old, still mouthing a constant need for me and my drooping breasts. My body is stretched out, distorted. I don't fit comfortably
into my own skin or any clothes I own. I wish the sun could knit me back together. I've tried everything else. Currently I'm stuck on a series of unnecessary home renovation projects. We are renting, again, for God's sake. Renters don't paint. But Jake doesn't point this out. Instead he says, "I don't think this is a good color for the dining room."
He sits next to me in the weathered Adirondack chair. He's squinting and smiling at the same time, holding up a paint color card named, "Robin's Egg."
"We are moving again, aren't we?" I ask, keeping my voice low, trying not to let the tone tremble and give me away. Our daughter Sadie zips by us, her bright yellow jacket blurs as she runs around the yard looking for quartz rocks. She sings a song, something repetitive and droll, but her voice rises clear and bright. It is beautiful but it rings so young I feel older by the pitch and space it leaves in my ears.