Telling: Altars & Artifacts



It's past nine. I'm used up, fall into bed. Gus upstairs in his own world, winding down. Jake and Tucker still deep in play. I maintain just enough conciousness to know no one is unhappy or in need, beyond that I am rock. I am lump. Eventually, the boy voices still. Jacob sleeps. Tucker, left on his own, comes to me. He climbs over me onto my bed. His hands press (my face, my shoulder, my ribs) as he climbs. The feel of it lingers (the press of Tucker) as he burrows down behind me, continuing the game's narrative in a chattering whisper. It soaks through the haze of my exhaustion (the memory of the press of Tucker). Impersonal as sunlight. Sweet beyond belief.

A Mother's Journal

field notes from
1997 - 1999