Skip to main content

Featured

Not me, her

In 1987, I found myself trying to write about a high school girlfriend that had been molested by her father when she was a child. I was 19 years old, struggling to find my way through a screenwriting assignment about delivering character. The idea was to describe messy young love between two Sid and Nancy want-to-be's. But that failed, as I could not stomach oversimplifying her complicated past, events that shaped her life as a 16 year old with a mohawk, a smart mouth, a lingering stare. I understood that I had to start at the very beginning.

No one wanted to hear the story. When it was my turn to read in class, it even came to be that some of the other students asked to stand in the hallway before they heard another description of what happened in that lonely little house in the middle of nowhere. I was trying, and failing, and trying again to get things right, to explain how this happened, how it could happen to this girl, how this man found his way to acts of selfishness and d…

as salty as the sea


V is turning a lemon around in her hands, four tiny fingers squeezed together, tapping the thick skin. N is stirring kasha for her, to be fed patiently in little spoonfuls. The baby will cry out, twist her face, wiggle, moan and then eat another half spoonful spreading much more across her cheeks. This goes on for about an hour sometimes until the kasha is gone or N surrenders. A moment passes. V calms down, cracking a little smile as two bottom teeth shine from her pink gums. N wipes her face, her hands cool and smooth, washing the crust of dinner from her nose, cheeks, even eyebrows. I love this moment, the fresh water, the shine of her skin, the little "ahhhh" sounds N makes, as if being clean is the most perfect feeling in the world.

In pajamas with dalmatians on them, V waves her palm at me. This is how she says goodnight, as if she is saying goodbye. I kiss the top of her head, her hair more duckling fluff than anything else. They go behind the door and I start dinner. It is a humble anniversary meal of fresh pasta. I measure one cup of semolina, one cup of double zero flour, two big eggs, a splash of olive oil and turn it under my palms until it is smooth. It rests under a towel and I bring together the pine nuts, arugula, mint, garlic barely warmed over in some good olive oil, a pinch of some exotic dried chili and a generous mound of grated pecorino. This is the same dish I made six years ago, the night we met. It was a different kitchen, with a tiny table so wobbly it danced every time you put your fork down. I put the pot of water on, cupping my palm to measure the salt for it. It should be as salty as the sea, they say - that's what it should be like. Every time I make pasta, I go to the ocean.

The baby finds sleep easily and the water is just boiling when she comes back. There are roses for her, already in a vase bending low in the darkness. A few short candles flicker in the cool air drifting in from the balcony. It is colder than -20 tonight. She sits and watches my calculated movements. I think I am never as confident in life than when I am with a sharp knife and some flame. Everything is clear here. There is no doubt in my kitchen.

The wine opens with a happy pop, and I sip from the glass of Gavi. And all at once, the pasta is ready, the bowls filled, forks placed, extra cheese grated. I watch her face in the dim light. In six years, a hell of a lot has happened. Ever since she got pregnant, her skin changed, a few odd freckles for example. When I look at her, sometimes I see that twelve year old girl from some old family movies. The one cracking her gum, ponytail swinging, old jeans and a t-shirt. The tough girl with the sharp tongue. Then, I see the shy round face, cheeks red from embarrassment when we went on our first date. I also see the mother, tireless, unstoppable.

We eat quietly, talking about the week behind us.

I stare at her, drinking in the details of her nose, her eyelashes the very same way I did the night we met.



Comments

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs