This Semblance of Movement :: Creative Writing Essays

This Semblance of Movement Afraid because my walking hurts the ground. Hesitate. That there would be nothing left hand to write. There are cracks in everything weve made. That does not mean futility. Fathers faith in truth and then this stubborn repetition but what if. The moon looked paper-thin tonight. So I thought if I could slide more softly from now on. Sifting Liquid I am peeling off the liquid skin of a memory. Pulling crooked strings out of a silent field of dreams, sister keeps asking what shes missing in me. The sky was three shades of sad tonight, glass stars and frozen landscapes, caught in the pantomime of living. Time unf oldishs its battered wings and in that space I smile. Stealing blankets and the young girl fell. My first mean solar day home from the hospital, she only cute to play, but stretch to tug, share a piece of my soft security, she tripped, cut her chin. The first blood of our tenuous intimacy. There was a safety scissors haircut (Mr. Rogers would have done it that way) and hours under chairs looking everywhere and up. Entranced by mobiles moving across distance, light, and eyes. In my crib, I would stand, arms reaching out for her, babbling. She, translating thoughts before lips knew how to form. My mother recalls a time early on when she woke in the middle of the night to noises down the hall. A four-year old and a three-year old at two in the morning, laughing. We had been building a bridge of cards from her bed to mine, so that we wouldnt fall in the water between us if we wanted to hold hands. The most unlikely of stories I never thought to question. Sister, less than a year old, lying on her mothers stomach. Head down, moving with the rhythm of well-known(prenominal) breath. One word. Baby. To discover, shortly after, for two months their silence had been shared. I remember the ways we used to pretend. In the water, we could have been dolphins, at home different versions of Barbie and Ken. Our Barbies lost uncondition ed heads perfecting dives off sofas end and to think thats how I spent my years. Do I laugh or merely cry. When we played I think I was constantly the boy but I dont know if that changed the way I feel.