of memories and bitterness

In exactly an hour, I’ll be onboard a train to Kolkata with my mom and my little brother. (I have to give him a name one of these days!)

I’m unusually calm today. I thought I’d be excited, nervous, or some such, but my hand is steady and my voice unperturbed. Which works really well for me, because I have a whole lot of typing to do before I leave.

As my mom and I packed up the last of the things to take with us this morning, we talked about how much things had changed since I was a baby.

of delusions

You know how I forgot my car keys in the ex husband’s camera bag.

He came to drop off the car keys today. He was being really sweet, but I suspected that he was rather miffed at having to come to my office all the way just to drop off my car keys. It’s no problem at all, he said. At least I got to meet you again.

Although I know he hates detours and was just being polite, he didn’t seem upset at all. I almost felt

of hope

So the fiancé met my parents yesterday. I’d like to think it went well, considering the warmth with which he hugged my father before he left, but it didn’t start that nicely.

I’ve never really thought much of my parents, and don’t get along with them at all. Mom was basically away a lot; she was (still is, actually) a struggling actor, which, by the way, I would happily give an eye and an arm to be. The thing is, she was really good and deserved more chances than she got, and I always sympathized with her on that front. The trouble is, she is always play-acting, and will mostly choose from among the following parts:

of togetherness

That awkward silence after you tell him. The wait, oh the endless wait to find out which side of him will respond. The side that loves you enough to forgive anything you do or the side of him that loves you violently and cannot understand why you do what you do. The suspense. The sound of your heart pounding. The vein in your head threatening to pop out.

You look up at him, so afraid. He doesn’t look at you.

of confessions

Almost 2000 page-views, and your head is reeling already.

You dreamed of being popular last night. Of being known as the woman who dared to bare her soul.

Are you really, though, baring your soul? You hide behind anonymity. You refer to yourself in the second person, as though you’re disowning everything you have done or been. Not so brave now, are you?

Why not say I, I did this? I was raped at seven. I am the one who’s always leaving things unfinished. I couldn’t ever love anything. I was the other woman in his life? I want to throw it all out into the vastness of the universe, and see what it brings back.

But you are not ready to own up. Not just yet.

Is anyone else ready to confess?