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There are four people in our living room of late. Two women and two men.

The first woman has black wild hair and a cigarette and a paintbrush. She is alive and creative and sexual. She stays up until two am painting and drinking whiskey with her studio mates. She is deeply alone.

The first man is thin and muscular and powerful. He packs up his truck and his dog and goes camping and painting in the wilderness for weeks at a time. He eats French for dinner on the weekends and amuses the ladies at coffee shops. He is deeply alone.

The second woman has purple rings under her eyes and a sag to her shoulders. Her hair is faded and hasn't been died or cut in months. She wears whatever is most comfortable and can barely remember how to paint. She has a beautiful little girl in her arms who adores her above everything in the world. She is deeply loved, rooted and the center of the world. She is tired, overworked and stressed. She feels deeply alone.

The second man is unshaven with crazy hair, a bit overweight, in blue sweats and sneakers. He paints like the devil but it's become work - a needed second income. He takes commissions for hotels and interior designers where he can and abides explicitly to their color and size requests. He goes on four hour fishing trips once every several months and spends the majority of it yelling at his overly hyper, un-exercised dog. He has a beautiful little girl in his arms who adores him above everything. He is rooted, deeply loved and the center of the world. He is tired, overworked and stressed. He feels deeply alone.

It's like I always predicted it would be today. Except different, more layered, more complex.

Tomorrow I will feel differently. And that's what they do not show in the movies.

My throat hurts -

Yesterday, I put together a slideshow for my mother who lives too far away to follow the girl as much as she would really like to.

There are some lovely black and white photos Alina took of me pregnant, then her birth and how perfect and small she was for that - one - day. And then you are cast directly into the violence of what became of her for the three months following. It is nearly as shocking to see the transformation on a computer screen as it was then.

It seems brutal to add these in with the stock "cute" baby photos but I had to. It's part of who she is now and it's who she was then. I love that little broken body as much as I love her now - whole and rambunctious.

I showed it to John and he began to sob, as he ALWAYS does when he sees any of these photos. I only cry when he does, which speaks of how much I still dam up those emotions.

Watching something you are instinctually supposed to protect getting cut into pieces is indescribably tortorous.

It is too much still.

I kiss that ragged hip to hip scar every day as I promised I would if she made it and I feel the deep sorrow I do that she had to go it alone every moment I couldn't be there.

I think I will be kissing it in one form or another for as long as I get to keep her.

pregnant4

pregnant1

pregnant3

pregnant2

justborn2jsutborn1

sick2

sick1

light2

light

12:15 p.m. - 2007-10-17
2 comments

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