She thought her mother was a vampire. It was my fault.
Housecleaning is not a benign activity. It’s hard to stay calm and centred when you’re vacuuming a floor, mopping with vigour, or scrubbing a shower. Those are inherently violent and aggressive activities.
Here we are four adults, or near-adults, crammed sardine-like into a two-bedroom apartment until we find an over-priced, under-sized house to buy. Living cheek by jowl with teenaged children is like living in a share-house with bears who forgot to hibernate through winter. I do not recommend it for long periods of time. My epithets for the children – Godzilla and the TeenWolf – have never been truer. Their appetites, their ability to generate landfills’ worth of garbage, and their Bollywood levels of melodrama leave me dizzy and gasping.
My fingers trace the ridges on the back of her hand, puckering the skin. The silken thread of her life pulled too tightly.
“Lack of turgidity. A sign of dehydration,” my doctor-cousin informs me brusquely. But I know better. The Fates await her with sharpened scissors and a single eye.
I didn’t post in this week’s YeahWrite Microprose #312 grid, but I love flash/microprose and wanted to play along with the other YeahWriters. The single word prompt was hand. This piece, about my maternal grandmother, is nonfiction.
I’ve been sitting with my feelings on the new Wonder Woman film since seeing it last week. And I’m only sharing them here because I was specifically asked.
Let me say up front that I love Wonder Woman (hell, I once named a secret Facebook group Thermyscira, so…), and I grew up spinning in circles like Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman, ardently hoping to magically transform. It is the purest of joys to see a woman superhero inhabit so much screen time.
Seeing women (not just one, all the inhabitants of Thermyscira) represented as clever, powerful, uncompromising, and impatient of foolishness, was life affirming. I’m so pleased that children have such a powerful, intelligent aspirational hero.
The child of migrant parents, I grew up walking in two worlds, fitting comfortably into neither. In the 1980s beauty role models who looked like me were non-existent in the western society my family made their home. They were equally absent in the culture of my heritage.
H is for… home
The idea of home has always been a tricky one for me. This is a recurring theme for me (I may be a little obsessed with this notion).