Saturday, September 1, 2018
Thirty Summers # 136 Claine Keily
Of what do I write? I have written of sadness, of the anger induced by all the injustices in this world, of the particularity of being a woman, a white woman made black by others in this little-large part of the world. Now it is time to rattle the pastures with the sound of glass anklets as I pass through them carting hay to the horses rescued from competitions. Now it is time to sing as I bend to feed the cats that were given up by others, now fat, but once so unwanted. Now it is time to rattle that glass, shake it hard as I remember my mother walking with it about her on her wedding day, a buoyant peroxide blonde, as yet not weighed down by the chores and the endless manicuring of her beauty, the dowry she would pay to keep her husband.
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O dear Claine those thirty summers!
ReplyDeleteIndeed Rob, indeed.
ReplyDeleteLove the way memory wraps around into being, connecting the present and the values that make us.
ReplyDeleteReading Proust many decades ago changed the way I write.
ReplyDeleteThirty Summers - ah, dear Claine, your words rattle, sing, shake (and so much more ...) on the page - and in my heart. Thank you :)
ReplyDeleteThanks for your response Kristen.
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