|sent from: Waterloo Station, London, USA. destination: Corte Madera, California, USA|
Another evening listening to praises sung to my sister and the many things that she does amazingly well. These praises were sung by my parents. Having concluded this, the attention turns to me and a different set of stories. Of how amusing I was a child with various hand puppets, how I said the funniest things when frustrated with this or that. And, of course, bed wetting stories. Lots and lots of those, it seems, far more than I could recall or of course remember, as they happened before I had any sense of myself. The stories are told with no malice or intention to hurt, but a thin layer comes off every time they are repeated; something sore is revealed. I can feel my nerve endings closer to the surface, fiery to the touch. Soon, all that’s left is the blood, waiting to be drawn.
It’s a Monday. I never used to have Monday blues, but I do now.