‘If I could pin point the moment that we fell in love, I wouldn’t tell you anyway, because the feeling is so sweet I choose to keep it locked up, a secret. Every time I think about it I get hot. I’m not going to let it out. Not ever. The more I tell the more it slips away.’
This is what my mother said when I was a boy. She spoke in this lovesick sort of way. I thought she was being selfish; I wanted to know what love felt like. Her eyes widened, her palms pushed excitedly at the air when I asked her. Each one of her fat fingers wobbled and jiggled, until one remained – franticly scratching at the air. The finger moved forcefully at first and then as an indistinguishably soft poke. I wondered how this action signified Daddy.
‘Your Daddy was a tall man. Strong and lean. He liked eating fish on a Friday, your Da. Sometimes he’d bring me back a pickled egg. Your Daddy used to say he liked my feet, as I have such a slender toe.’
As she said this she’d pull off her large clog, to reveal a flat, slappy heel. Flexing her toe made the muscle ripple underneath, the fishy skin soft and translucent. She pointed and wiggled the toes one by one. This seemed to please her, slowly her head lolled to one side as a thick gaze slid across her face.
‘A little bit of love would leak away in the telling. The less you know the better young man!’
After this I felt cast adrift, my mind floated inexhaustibly through top shelf magazines. I had dreams where I wiggled my fingers to produce a clicking-popping feeling in my groin. In the dreams slow oily feet massaged my back, paraded over my shoulders and slipped down my spine, hot and sticky. I drifted slowly towards my thirteenth birthday.
My Mother was throwing me a party. It was August and the palms were bending low, the air fizzy and wet. Through the town cars clogged up roads, aching to get to the sea, a giant machine honking and belching its way towards the water. We stood on the pebbles as the machine spluttered behind us, spitting sweaty bodies into the ocean. I asked Mother when the guests would arrive at the party. She seemed distracted.
‘Your Daddy would tell me how my hair was softer then the yolk of an oyster and how my teeth sparkled like pearls! If I told you how he loved me. Oh! Oh oh. When I think of how we were together. It makes me feel alive. Now don’t ask me again, or the feeling starts to go.’
She announced this sensationally to the breeze. The grey strands of hair whipping her face reminded me of unkempt fishing net. Her smoky old teeth gnashed at the air trying to taste the saltiness. In the charged heat I felt my whole body sway on the shoreline.
This is what my mother said when I was a boy. She spoke in this lovesick sort of way. I thought she was being selfish; I wanted to know what love felt like. Her eyes widened, her palms pushed excitedly at the air when I asked her. Each one of her fat fingers wobbled and jiggled, until one remained – franticly scratching at the air. The finger moved forcefully at first and then as an indistinguishably soft poke. I wondered how this action signified Daddy.
‘Your Daddy was a tall man. Strong and lean. He liked eating fish on a Friday, your Da. Sometimes he’d bring me back a pickled egg. Your Daddy used to say he liked my feet, as I have such a slender toe.’
As she said this she’d pull off her large clog, to reveal a flat, slappy heel. Flexing her toe made the muscle ripple underneath, the fishy skin soft and translucent. She pointed and wiggled the toes one by one. This seemed to please her, slowly her head lolled to one side as a thick gaze slid across her face.
‘A little bit of love would leak away in the telling. The less you know the better young man!’
After this I felt cast adrift, my mind floated inexhaustibly through top shelf magazines. I had dreams where I wiggled my fingers to produce a clicking-popping feeling in my groin. In the dreams slow oily feet massaged my back, paraded over my shoulders and slipped down my spine, hot and sticky. I drifted slowly towards my thirteenth birthday.
My Mother was throwing me a party. It was August and the palms were bending low, the air fizzy and wet. Through the town cars clogged up roads, aching to get to the sea, a giant machine honking and belching its way towards the water. We stood on the pebbles as the machine spluttered behind us, spitting sweaty bodies into the ocean. I asked Mother when the guests would arrive at the party. She seemed distracted.
‘Your Daddy would tell me how my hair was softer then the yolk of an oyster and how my teeth sparkled like pearls! If I told you how he loved me. Oh! Oh oh. When I think of how we were together. It makes me feel alive. Now don’t ask me again, or the feeling starts to go.’
She announced this sensationally to the breeze. The grey strands of hair whipping her face reminded me of unkempt fishing net. Her smoky old teeth gnashed at the air trying to taste the saltiness. In the charged heat I felt my whole body sway on the shoreline.
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