madermouse's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 8/6/01 Communion At a party, guests circle the appetizer table. They graze, working their way from one end to the other sampling tidbits of this, scooping up creamy bites of that. The crunch of tortilla chips staccato between the rustle of cellophane, the sipping of cocktails, the clinks of ice in a glass. I watch from afar, the outsider. I see their foraging, so easy, so free. Caught up only in the chatter and laughter of friendly conversation, they devour delectables with nary a thought of content, or calories or fat. Their consumption is leisurely, undemanding. they make no calculations, no decision is greater than which to eat next - the smoked salmon canape or the savory cheese tartlet? I shift my weight in my seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable. the air is sticky my stomach growls. A friend comments on my weight-loss. �You look great!� he says. I reply with a smile and a thank you that I�ve learned to offer convincingly. meanwhile my mind screams out �Give me a chicken wing or I�ll rip your leg off!� (yes, nice and rational.) The table is clearing now, only a few stragglers persist, pushing one last shrimp through a spicy crimson sauce having a final taste of sun dried tomato torte. I stand, and approach the remains. my mind calculates and deducts as I reach for raw vegetables, a teaspoon of dressing a pea-sized dollop of pesto atop a single cracker a solitary ounce of cheddar two lonely shrimp a buffalo wing and a slice of fruit probably meant for garnish.
and then it is over. I back away, slowly, knowing I�ve reached my limit. My plate seems slightly bare, but its okay. Because I relish every morsel and flavor. I honor each bite with the sanctity of a holy woman receiving communion, being absolved of all her sins. and then its over. Roaring laughter brings me to reality. A friend looks in my direction and waves me over. I stand, smooth my dress, and tuck wisps of hair back into place. Another successful communion under my belt, I am exonerated, until next time. Momma You and I cut from the same cloth, an expensive but strong one cotton or silk. We are varying shades of blue from deep azure to the color of your eyes when sunlight catches them, on an August afternoon We are made into comforters thick and soft meant to warm the cold and protect the delicate heads of our babies We are shaped into slippers elegant, but practical made to soothe the heals of tired aching feet We are cut into dresses billowy or sexy, offering to flatter the figure of any woman We are fashioned into sheets wrung through the washer hung on the line to dry even in the freezing cold of winter We are the intricate quilts passed from generations telling the history of our mother�s journey before ours We line the coffins at the funerals of our best friends and our enemies cut from the same cloth, you and I expensive, strong, soft elegant, practical, sexy persevering even through the coldest, darkest moments so we can live to pass on the stories of our mothers and die with the respect of our best friends our families and ourselves. Cut from the same cloth, you and I. and I wouldn�t want it any other way. 12:38 p.m. - 8/6/01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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