margaret r. belise

celluar key tone. 210.337.5834. quickend breath. i am afraid. what if someone answers? silence. ring. "the number or code you are dialing is incorrect." sigh of relief. heart thump. sweat forming. heartbeat. slow unsteady. beat heart. after two years, no one has her number. everything is okay. grand it has been 732 days, some hours and seconds since you've been gone. today, 09.11.06.. the world mourns. yet i am left to mourn alone. thier grief is not mine. yet, i have no tears.... in this moment. i really wish i could reach out to you. talk to you once again. some days i know the reason you are no longer with me and i can embrace it. others, i selfishly and angrily lash out, as i feel alone. believing no one understands. forgeting you, means forgetting her, her, her, and her. and i can't let go. that means i let go of me. i'll read etheridge knight before the day is over... (the idea of ancestry: " i have no sons to float in the space between..") . i remember how i would tease you with a weak impersonation of aunt thelma calling you "maug" or great grand's "ma'ga'reet" ? they're all gone now. i have no connections to home. but i miss the game: "whatisitkim?" or "is this my first grand child. my favorite?" the last year has not been as difficult as the previous. i have grown. i drink less and talk a little less. i am abandoning the name i picked up the year of your death (thirteen) i no longer feel as angry, but grand... i'm still hurt(ing). i talk less to escape but to commuicate. i need her now as much as i need you. to help me fill in the blanks. and to find the strength of your voice. i have talked less, yet people really don't care. they have thier idea. i'm learning to trust. i've stopped the phone from ringing and elimiated the "frenemies". you know the ones who believe they know, but know very little. funny, huh? the exercise of select memory. they don't know what you've always known. i am STILL the loneliest when surrounded by others and the insecurities of being "visible" eat away at me. i've never liked a lot of attention, it means you're first in line for criticism. my tongue continues to get me into trouble, but not nearly as much. grand. i've learned a bit about chosing my battles wisely, occassionally i will build and climb mole hills disguised as mountains. i still love HARD, and i still love her. i still pace when i'm nervous. my locks are longer. i'm still working on a personal relationship with god and not arguing religion. and yes, i still engage in that pensive piercing gaze listening, looking at no one, but seeing every one and thing. i keep it because that's all mom left me, besides my name. but you know this. you know that i cling to black and white fibers from a worn picture, searching for her in me. that connection was you. now you're gone. selfishly i need you to be here, on the other end of my phone line. i need you to tell me "everything is gonna be okay. grand is here. you can always come home." HOME. that word has been foreign to me for two years. maybe the rest of my life... the matrons in my village have transcended. and grand, some days i swear there are restless savages hiding behind vacant huts, waiting, plotting, my failure. i don't believe i have the strength, and on those days i need you. i need your physical self to chase them away. i need someone who understands enough to help me, even if they are figments of my imagination. so i muster the strength to stand tall and guard a village described in our million tongued tale spoken between tongue and cheek. It is a combination of our stories, told in a collective voice and it always begin with: there is a village that lies just outside my soul. where the blood of my pen and the ink of my heart connect. it flows thru my body, pump words to an ever flowing well... it is there that the matrons of my village replenish me, nurture me, protect me, guide me and sustain me thru this lifetime.. they are me, and i am we... and i have no sons to float in the space in between....