The Scintilla Project
Who am I?
I am sagging breasts and age-spotted face. I am white hair, chin hair, elbow hair.
I am 16 in my taste buds.
I am motherless at 35.
I am orphaned at 40.
And now I am 53.
I am dust and pasta sauce, socially-awkward-pansy-pinko-liberal-pacifist-recluse-shy-girl-celibate-happy.
I am memory of grassy hills and the itch that came after rolling down one just before it was time to bathe at night in spring in Maryland, still my 8-year-old self under my skin, skin still allergic.
I am mother.
I am poetry student, editor, writer, laughter, volunteer.
I sing psalms to my empty house, but only when I believe. I don’t always believe.
I am maple tree and clover and wild onion and broken branches scattered over a muddy, thin-grassed yard.
I am dirty siding and Greek meatballs and the word “Yes.” Too rarely the word “No.”
I am never spring.
I am often late.
I am phone-phobic and bad with money, and I like your mouth and the color of your eyes and how you tilt your head to the side when you listen to me listening to you.