Hi! I’m Sarah and I want to share my writing with you and I want to do it the hard way. The long way. The slow way. The ‘Hey, I dropped you a line’ way. The hold in your hands way. The tuck away and find again one day way. The new old fashioned way.
Postcards, love.
the | latest
To: The Point
I need to confess but the apartment is empty. F won't be back for a week and anyway, he would absolve me. I need that second to last living soul awake, that tall German on the plane, who watched me laugh as I wept over Adrian Brody. He would hear me and scornfully say, 'Gut,' but he is either in Munich or the elsewhere around it and I am here, sitting on my suitcase in the kitchen across from the new vase and its pretty little bow.
I cannot call my mother to confess for I betrayed her on the plane when I called the tiny woman who laid her head beside me on the vacant seat between us 'mother' and thought what a pretty thought it was, to wonder if her hair would feel the same beneath my palm.
Should I write my confession to Roman Polanski?
I wonder this as I am tilting the vase from side to side, a finger hooked in its mouth. I recognized his name through my tears as the credits for The Pianist ran on and on. I knew there was more to him than director ('Director' is not such a large hole in 'man'), yet what more felt endless. It took 40,000 miles down to look up what I'd forgotten. Isn't he to blame for dragging evil so far away from good? Isn't he the reason I am reaching beneath the sink for the hammer?
Dear Monsieur Polanski, you must forgive me...
But, no, it's Q's fault. Q who watched in the design store as I held up the vase and winked at F. I don't contemplate unscalable heights when we're alone, just like I don't scream unless someone is there to see the hammer hit my thumb.
I've turned the vase on its head.
Really it all started against that small section of moving walkway where I sat and waited to board my plane. A little girl's voice on the phone said, 'I miss you.' I turned to find her father carried off on the moving walkway, leaving her words tossed in my lap like litter from a blaring semi and I was right, you know, because I looked down to find those very words on my phone: I miss you.
I am gazing now into the wide mouth of the vase and there is nothing but a speck of light where I tapped a small hole with the back of the hammer. I know I must close one eye.
Have mercy, Father, father, fathers. It is the only way I can see.