Lounge of Tomorrow - View Single Post

Eliza Hodgkins 1812 · 05-09-2005, 05:14 PM

Her picture hangs on my wall. I found it in my parent’s garage, forgotten or misplaced like a once brilliant epiphany. Windex made it worthy of white wash again, though the cheap and yellowed plastic frame is chipped on one edge and begs replacing.

The photograph was taken of her in Hawaii. She looks reposed and mildly in love. One arm is slender and crooked; both emerging from a tie-dyed t-shirt sized very small. This woman’s image is a swirl of sin and innocence, a true summer of love vision appropriate to the 1970's.

She is slight but tall. Her cheekbones are high and promise youth even in her maturity. At the time she boasted an afro perm. In life it was red and as ostentatious as she was, but here she is rendered in subtle black and white. This moment in time gives her a false but majestic grace.

This woman looks capable of lying and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. I can see Mrs Darling’s kiss hidden in her faint smile. I spy a secret. I spy carefree.

This woman is not my mother. She’s just some beautiful girl who looks pretty upon my wall. I have her shape, though my breasts are much larger and I carry more weight. Her legs are longer than my own, though I have a longer torso which makes me the taller. You cannot see her legs in the photograph. Our eyes are green but here they look pale grey. Our smiles don't match but I inherited my grandmother's grin. We are dusted with freckles. If I look through a collection of my own photographs I will not find any of me that look reposed and mildly in love. I’ve never looked graceful or majestic, and I’ve never looked past a lens into the eyes of man who saw the best in me, and learned how to capture it for others to see.

This woman is not my mother. She is someone’s promiscuous lover, and he is taking her photograph.

She is twenty-six but she looks twenty or thirty-five, depending on when I’m looking at her, or maybe it’s how I’m looking at her. I was twenty-six the year I found the picture and hung it on my wall, and it frightened me to think how much could happen in twenty-six years: a whole other life, someone else’s life. One moment you are twenty-six years old and the next you have a twenty-six year old daughter who is trying to make sense of your life from just one photograph. And the girl is looking at you and recognizing you in portions. She’s falling in love with the mystery of you and trying to answer the enigmatic question mark only she can see trapped inside your Kodak pupils.

She’s looking at you and you cannot be her mother. You are something else entirely. You are the first pale creeping of the dawn and the elusive dusk as it quickly slips into darkness. You are high-tide and concealing.

You are not my mother but someday soon you will be. My smile is your mother’s smile. I can see it in the iris and in the bone structure of our hands, though unlike yours the middle finger on my right hand is crooked. Notice our arms, dusted with freckles. See how are scowls match and how easily our rages fly. I am capable of telling lies and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. We are promiscuous.

There are no pictures of me at twenty-six looking as beautiful as you look now, but when you are my mother, your eyes will become a lens that traps me safe inside of yourself, where I know I am beautiful and cherished.

05-09-2005, 05:14 PM	#113
Eliza Hodgkins 1812 Sputnik Sweetheart Join Date: Jan 2005 Location: Long Beach Posts: 2,685	Twenty-Six Her picture hangs on my wall. I found it in my parent’s garage, forgotten or misplaced like a once brilliant epiphany. Windex made it worthy of white wash again, though the cheap and yellowed plastic frame is chipped on one edge and begs replacing. The photograph was taken of her in Hawaii. She looks reposed and mildly in love. One arm is slender and crooked; both emerging from a tie-dyed t-shirt sized very small. This woman’s image is a swirl of sin and innocence, a true summer of love vision appropriate to the 1970's. She is slight but tall. Her cheekbones are high and promise youth even in her maturity. At the time she boasted an afro perm. In life it was red and as ostentatious as she was, but here she is rendered in subtle black and white. This moment in time gives her a false but majestic grace. This woman looks capable of lying and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. I can see Mrs Darling’s kiss hidden in her faint smile. I spy a secret. I spy carefree. This woman is not my mother. She’s just some beautiful girl who looks pretty upon my wall. I have her shape, though my breasts are much larger and I carry more weight. Her legs are longer than my own, though I have a longer torso which makes me the taller. You cannot see her legs in the photograph. Our eyes are green but here they look pale grey. Our smiles don't match but I inherited my grandmother's grin. We are dusted with freckles. If I look through a collection of my own photographs I will not find any of me that look reposed and mildly in love. I’ve never looked graceful or majestic, and I’ve never looked past a lens into the eyes of man who saw the best in me, and learned how to capture it for others to see. This woman is not my mother. She is someone’s promiscuous lover, and he is taking her photograph. She is twenty-six but she looks twenty or thirty-five, depending on when I’m looking at her, or maybe it’s how I’m looking at her. I was twenty-six the year I found the picture and hung it on my wall, and it frightened me to think how much could happen in twenty-six years: a whole other life, someone else’s life. One moment you are twenty-six years old and the next you have a twenty-six year old daughter who is trying to make sense of your life from just one photograph. And the girl is looking at you and recognizing you in portions. She’s falling in love with the mystery of you and trying to answer the enigmatic question mark only she can see trapped inside your Kodak pupils. She’s looking at you and you cannot be her mother. You are something else entirely. You are the first pale creeping of the dawn and the elusive dusk as it quickly slips into darkness. You are high-tide and concealing. You are not my mother but someday soon you will be. My smile is your mother’s smile. I can see it in the iris and in the bone structure of our hands, though unlike yours the middle finger on my right hand is crooked. Notice our arms, dusted with freckles. See how are scowls match and how easily our rages fly. I am capable of telling lies and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. We are promiscuous. There are no pictures of me at twenty-six looking as beautiful as you look now, but when you are my mother, your eyes will become a lens that traps me safe inside of yourself, where I know I am beautiful and cherished.
	Submit to Quotes