I listen to records sung by a woman named Mary, which is also the name of my grandmother, and of the first woman. Well, there was Eve, but she was just some prequel, some decoy to politicize. My grandmother lived up to that name, or died up to it, when her heart squeezed its last beat at 8:00 pm on a Friday night. My aunt, maybe too readily, joked that it was an act of accommodation, that my true grandmother’s real self wouldn’t have wanted to inconvenience anyone. But who is she to say that was really Mary? And who am I to say it wasn’t?

Mary. And always undercut, too. Too much to live up to that name’s legacy, but she came closer than anyone I’ve ever known. And one night after saying a too late, too short goodbye to my emptied grandmother, I said another to a younger Mary. She’s opted out of that name, but it is always there. It’s always there. The night after my grandmother died, I sat at a new kitchen table, drinking another Mary’s warm drinks and eating another Mary’s too much food.

More and more, I live a life of accommodations, decoys and stunt doubles, which answers so many questions. Why it is that I keep wishing for bitter cold and windows that need closing. Why I don’t care about chipped paint or scuffed linoleum. Why I daydream of the time I never have to answer another telephone, or place another call. Why I wait to hear footsteps recede before leaving the house. Why my heavy, stuttering heartbeat wakes me up at night. Why I try not to think about K. too much. Why my head aches, dense with matter, or something that feels like it. Why I keep a list of reasons to leave. Why I find you in strangers’ faces and postures. Why I only work up the courage to talk to your friend’s friends after three drinks. Why my jaw flutters constantly, a mess of false starts.

Popularity: 1% [?]