This Semblance of Movement :: Creative Writing Essays

This Semblance of Movement claustrophobic because my walking hurts the ground. Hesitate. That there would be nothing left to write. There argon cracks in everything weve made. That does not mean futility. Fathers faith in truth and because this stubborn repetition but what if. The moon looked paper-thin to iniquity. So I musical theme if I could slide more softly from now on. Sifting luculent I am peeling off the liquid skin of a memory. Pulling crooked strings out of a silent line of merchandise of dreams, sister keeps asking what shes missing in me. The sky was three sunglasses of blue tonight, glass stars and frozen landscapes, caught in the pantomime of living. Time unfolds its beat-up wings and in that space I smile. Stealing blankets and the young young woman fell. My first day home from the hospital, she only wanted to play, but scope to tug, share a piece of my soft security, she tripped, cut her chin. The first crease of our tenuous intimacy. There was a safety scissors haircut (Mr. Rogers would have do it that federal agency) and hours under chairs looking everywhere and up. Entranced by mobiles moving crosswise 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 fuss 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 deuce 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 lead 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 known breath. One word. Baby. To discover, shortly after, for two months their silence had been shared. I remember the ship canal we used to pretend. In the water, we could have been dolphins, at home different versions of Barbi e and Ken. Our Barbies lost(p) countless heads perfecting dives off sofas end and to prize thats how I spent my years. Do I laugh or merely cry. When we played I think I was always the boy but I dont know if that changed the way I feel.