Generation Song

To the girl who clings to silence as her name rolls sideways from the tongue of another. To the girl who is always polite, who drinks her coffee black - not for taste, but fear; the girl who lets sunlight on her skin push her into shadows, who hides from indulgence and cherishes perfection. One day you will forget the numbers, and your skin will welcome the embrace of summer. One day you will send your order back, correct the whispy Peloton women who drag the s into a whirring hiss from their peony lips, you will correct them and smile. All this for a little child who has grown fond of echoing your words.

And here was the child all grown, she worried words would dry like winter hands, that one day sheets would rain down in her dreams, empty like her. Waiting like a disappointed promise. Who is it, that you sing to, she would practice in a foggy mirror, as the old woman began to wake and rusty bells bubbled up, laugher or song she could never tell. The man in the Fedora hat, the man who gave us Esra. The man in the picture she shouldn't have seen. The girl knew, and this knowing, like waves at a weary shore, this knowing is what framed each morning in strokes of accidental solemnity.

What was this, to live without the love which gave you life? What was this, to look down at your body and remember every inch of skin he had ever touched, and know your skin would forevermore remain cold? To love a man is to slit the scars over old wounds mended long ago, to lose him is to live in numb memory, to feel the seeping paralysis of silence. Maybe she was already beside him in the arms of an ebony picture frame. She hoped so.