Entirely irrelevant

We had too much coffee at brunch. My stomach churns and sloshes. Nothing seems to help the slight irregular movement behind my ribs.

It is early July in Green Bay. The cicadas hum like it’s late summer, but the weather is just becoming pleasant, reliable, and steadily warm. The sun only recently a familiar face.

I enjoy a staycation. I read and read and read. I consider my future as a mother. I consider a future without children. I consider another world for women. I read some more. I cry, selfishly thinking of my own brown-skinned loves. Thinking of all the brown people I’ve loved in my life. I imagine their own deaths, their likelihood of getting murdered. Shot at their favorite bar. Over a beer with their best friend. I cry and it feels like relief. I tell myself it will be okay, although I have nothing to back this up. To prop myself up. To change my feelings of fear. I text my Asian boyfriend who is in New York visiting his Asian friends and family. We talk about Asian murder. I send him the link to the Indian murder. He does not want to read it. I did not expect him to. We change the subject from scary white men to food. Our constants.

I drive to Goodwill. I purchase books for my friend, who is expecting her first child. I am delighted to find a few of my favorite books from childhood. Maybe this new child will get to feel some of the things I felt. Maybe this new child will be like me. Maybe this new child will be a part of my life. I have no idea. I find myself at the dress rack, sliding hangers as much as the cramped space allows. I find myself with a handful. How easy it is to be a woman sometimes. One piece of cloth as an outfit. No zippers, buttons, or buckles. I am excited to wear something light and simple. To feel free in my body and unrestricted in my movement. If only every day my skin could feel so unencumbered.

I come home and sit on the roof. I think about writing. The constant urge. The constant slight vibration in my palms. Almost anxious, desperate, to produce something. Something with shape and weight and feeling. A way to displace all this weight that I gather. A way to keep moving forward. To keep the jitters at bay.


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