mother-daughter-women story

This is our mother-daughter-women story. Ours is separate from the fiction of fertilization, womb, fetus, birth in a small Los Angeles hospital, you holding the infant-me against your chest like a beating heart, your body my body. Our story is one of careening through lifetimes like undestroyed blast particles, taking form as slaves, lovers, witches, nomads, reuniting this time around as opposing forces. 

And after years, here we were, barely looking at each other across a devastating crevasse. You, a ghost woman in your own home while your family selfishly disintegrated into themselves. Me, a ghost daughter desperate to please but bitter in my never-enoughness. I don’t know how we went on like that. But we did. We did.

Until we didn’t. In that glorious, passionate, stunning way, we resurrected. It took 35 years of barely balancing on the untenable strain of our bloodline until we could at last see one another. 

When my boyfriend died and I found his body and you told me about your gay brother’s suicide and how as a lonely chubby Jewish girl in Texas, you would lie in the grass and leave your body so you could be her own friend. How you followed a man to Los Angeles to join a cult and stayed for 10 years even though he refused to marry you. How you began a liberated woman who rode horses bareback and said “fuck” and skinny dipped while stoned and ended up a soccer mom in Denver suburbia driving car-pool and wearing pearls. How you hated the float- floating from one vapid expectation to the next without feeling alive, shriveling until the sight of everything pale and perfect made you scream a silent Stepford-wife death. How you struggled to balance your womanhood and your motherhood and your wifehood, and isn’t every woman born with the weight of that imbalance on her back? 

I wish I had seen you sooner.

I also was struggling to balance childhood and womanhood and daughterhood and maybe there was no capacity to look. 

But here you are, staring back with inexhaustible love. Our story is woven into the greater stories of faith, myth, religion and philosophy. One of careening through lifetimes like undestroyed blast particles; at last, into reunited forces, into woman form. 

an old short story

I recently discovered a short story I wrote in high school…

Truckin’

Steam spiraled from my travel coffee mug and I jerked my head around to stay awake. These late nights were rough. The first few months were sort of exciting, traveling around the country with no one to bother me. I especially liked L.A., seeing pretty girls in high heels showing it all on the side of the street. I had picked a few up along the way, and I wistfully considered the pleasure of a warm body.

Months later, the thrills had worn off and 16 hours days on the road had drained me.

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In Stride

I wrote this for a friend. It’s a love story.

In Stride By Jessica Rounds

Once upon a time, two brave souls embarked on a treacherous trek with others to reach the summit of their land. They believed from that peak, they would see all the things that had seemed unknowable to them.

From the bottom, where they were, the peak appeared impossibly high. But they disregarded the overwhelming distance between themselves and their destination, and set forth.

In no time, the two defeated any semblance of a daily grind by keeping each other thoroughly entertained. She listened with fascination to his stories about the creatures from his native land, taking in the whole of him. Those facial expressions sent her howling with laughter, clutching her stomach for fear she would die of delight. He found such laughter contagious and her big eyes disarming. “Oh Lord,” he thought to himself. “Who is this girl?”

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