I walk around the house in a bath robe mumbling dates and flickering through memories of us. The times we were apart and the times we were together. The way I would make the others do the things I love about him. I kiss the future and pray she’ll be there forever, along with him. I’m spun up. I put Daughter on and stare at the ceiling. I wonder why our eyes flip everything upside down and assume it has something to do with the fact that we all started off as sponges. Then I think about how that doesn’t make much sense, but nothing really does. There’s a cord hanging from the attic and all I want to know is what it would be like if my feet were on the ceiling. He walks in. The house is in disarray and a bottle of Tanqueray is open on the counter…
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I remember this blog of Daffni’s. Reading it again I’m struck at how smart it is. Her writing draws me in, makes me FEEL – in much the same way as Plath did/does.
Very much so. All of Daffni’s work speaks to me on a certain level, but this really touched me x