charlotte -- take one

form: poem in prose
completed: july 2007
notes: i posted the poem that this became some time ago, but i always liked the prose version better. again, the lyrics are from 'Going to Morrocco' by the Mountain Goats

It never gets easier. It doesn't matter how many times it happens or how much you'd hate for it to happen to someone else; it happens and it's terrible everytime and you feel like an idiot for crying but you do it anyway. At least I do I'd been waiting for the call, to hear my father's voice on the end of the line, wondering if I had a minute, but that doesn't soften it I thought it would.

It's not the thing itself that bothers me; it's the fact that it makes you realise that the same thing will happen to everyone else you know. It's my mother's voice betraying the fact that she's worried about me. It's the realisation that one day I'll have to be the one making these calls.

You take my hand and lead me to your car. You open the door and help me in. You start driving us nowhere. You turn off the music and watch me talk on the phone. I'm just trying not to cry; be a big girl for my mama. If this is what maturity is, if this is what it's like, I'm hiding in your bed and never coming out.

What's the matter? you ask me. She's gone, I reply. There's wetness in my eyes, tracing lines on my sooty face. You take my hand and kiss it. I stutter and choke on my breath.

You touch my face and begin to sing.

There's no reason to cry.
There's no reason to cry.
You can have a seat for a while.
Relax.
Smile.
But don't touch that dial,
'cause there is no reason to cry.

I start crying harder, but you keep wiping up my tears. I notice some in your eyes. You stop the car to hold me: not saying a word, not judging, just breathing, just keeping me close so I'm not afraid. There's snot on your jacket but you say you don't care.

There's a guttural stop in my throat.
There's a guttural stop in my throat.
The wind comes in from far and wide.
Sands blow.
Grains collide.
I'm changing inside.
And there's a guttural stop in my throat.

Somewhere back in my mind it hits me that she's gone. That it could happen to me, too; my dad, my friends. But you are the epitome of life: your smile like being born again, washed clean of all my wrongs. And in that moment, I love you more than anything else in the world.



Here's the poem version. Which do you like more?