Rebecca Weaver



I've Seen This Before

This, before. What makes it new with you is the gangly legs, the sun on your face & they remind me of the girls I wished I was friends with in high school. Not that way. Just friends, just the way that those girls, when they chose to, opened themselves to the sun so that it could do its work in them and that's what you see when you see that kind of happiness, you see the sun working in someone.  

Perhaps this is why you love Minnesota summers so, perhaps it is the same for me; what I saw was not just summer working through your newly-girlish legs and arms, it was as though your body asserted a right to be there in a way maybe it hadn't been for awhile.

Is that what the body does in grief?  Hibernate and wait for the sun of touch or kindness?  Wait the summer night to be just so, for the next day to also wrap you in its arms?





So it's this we are come to come from not that but the other which is the first gesture so it's meaningful, the look of the thing, how she looked then. Motherly? No but good enough to be fatherly to. So it's a kind of keening, after all. Not warranting such a response as to make it so but pretend for only this or that moment. Not so close as to think beyond the first thrum, and not to kid yourself about origin, the burgeoned family you haven't met because theirs isn't yours and you will take Maupin's "logical" families for real. Because yes you know that's fiction, as are the genetics and staircases of the received narratives, and yes you know it's relative.