Life Lines

You're on the `phone and you're yelling at the man at the other end
because he just isn't listening, as usual, and behind you little
Kenny says
"Mam, I want the toilet"
And you say, between the shouting and as calmly as you can,
"Okay Kenny, just go in and take down your trousers and I'll be
there in a sec" And then you're back at the man at the other end.
"Now listen here you, you fuckin` moron...." and you check to see if
Kenny's still there behind you because you couldn`t stop the spit
out abuse, but he is and you feel the bile in your stomach and the
heat in your hot flushed face and the poor little kid says he can't,
he can't take his trousers down because of the bandages, and he
holds up his bandaged hands. And the bandages are there because he
tried to pick up the oven hot pie dish while you were on the `phone
yesterday, on the `phone to this same piece of shit that still isn't
listening today.
Do you know her? Do you know this woman?

And later you'll cry because you know you can get through two
bottles of wine now.

Now, check the mirror and tell yourself that you can breathe. See
the lines in the forehead, take your fingers and feel that furrowed
brow. Now read it with your finger tips, like you're reading your
very own personal `skin brail'. What does it say? It says,
OLD
TIRED
OLD
Sound familiar? Good.

Yesterday, what you did was this. You didn't eat anything all day to
punish yourself, even though you couldn't help what had happened,
even though you had pissed yourself with grief at your little boy's
pain. You had decided that you were too fat anyway, too fat in the
face and hips to be attractive anymore, that all those dreams you
had dreamed when you were younger had somehow turned into food and
beat the living shit out of your figure, and that all that was left
now was to care but not be cared for: to hide but not be hidden. You
knew that you could kiss good- fuckin'-bye to Revlon and Maybelline,
and say hello to Dr. Scholls and corn dogs.
Hello, I'm here, does this scare you?


You'll cry because your husband is at work too long nowadays and
when he gets home he's so worn out he just wants to sleep, but you
want to tell him that the twat who sold you that bedroom cabinet
doesn't want to replace it even though the front of the drawer has
come away in your hands.
And you hate the feel and texture of the words in your mouth because
they are so limp and impotent that you want to start making up your
own words that express your feelings so much better, so that you can
really rip into this geyser at the other end of the `phone. Words
like `fuckster', `pissant' and,`dicklimp'
Now check in the mirror again, are the lips trembling, are the jowls
wobbling in your anger, are the eyes watery enough to float a stick
in? Yes they are aren't they.

Later you'll cry because twelve months ago you used to get drunk on
just the half bottle of wine, and you had never kicked over your
glass onto the carpet, and you had never slept on the couch.
"You're ginna replace this unit or I'm coming down there with it and
I'm ginna create such a commotion you'll wish you could crawl all
the way back up your own arse, do you follow me, are you GETTING
this?" But that isn't nearly enough as poor little Kenny dances an
Irish jig trying to keep himself from peeing right there in the
hallway.
"Now mam, now..." he squirms.
Look in the mirror and tell yourself that Jesus will not forgive
you, will not pardon this outburst, will never accept this kind of
talk, will not look the other way and will never dis-connect the
heaven hotline. Now argue the point. Argue that Jesus never had a
mortgage, had never done a school run and had never had a period.
See who it is now? You should do. You know me.
Wife
Mother
Sister
Daughter
Teen
Little baby girl.