Momerotica Chapter One:
I grab my keys and phone and walk out the door. Let’s say it’s a Tuesday. Let’s say it’s cloudy but warm. I am holding nothing. I skip down the steps. I open the car door and I get in! The car smells like: nothing. I put on my seatbelt, just mine. I back down the driveway. I turn on the radio to the station I choose. I choose NPR. They are talking about things that interest me. I feel my brain grow.
Momerotica Chapter Two:
I wake up. Nothing and no one has woken me up. I just woke up because I woke up! Because I was done sleeping!
Everything is fine. Everyone is fine. No one I know or am related to needs anything.
I roll over and look at the clock. It’s nearly eight o’clock!
Outside, a bird sings.
Momerotica Chapter Three:
I go to New Seasons Market. I remember the reusable grocery sacks. The children are at home learning to read. We have acquired some sort of governess.
I have a neatly lined notebook outlining a week of menus for the family. I buy everything I need for one complete week of breakfast, lunch and dinner. I read labels. I measure Garam Masala. I consider a melon like it’s a prospective college.
When I’m done, I stroll around the Wellness section. I smell many samples – lavender, gardenia – lovely – but purchase nothing. Everything I need is in my cart.
I will not return to this – or any grocery store – for seven days.
Momerotica Chapter Four:
My husband comes home from work. He says: “How was your day?”
I sauté the chard. I look at the green leaves in the pan, so fresh and spring-like when I started. Now in the pan, they’re shrinking. Could they disappear?
The children are not learning to read. There is no governess. I am not interacting with them, although I quit my job as a vice president of marketing so that I could – ostensibly – spend time with them.
“It was fine,” I say. I turn so he can see my smile.
He takes a step toward me. He comes close. “Was it really?” he says, gently, gently. He puts his arm around me. His deodorant reminds me of my 20s. He takes my hands.
“Someday they will go to school,” he says. “Both of them.”
“And I’ll cry because I miss them so much,” I say.
“I know,” he says. He takes the wooden spoon and finishes dinner.
He washes, peels and slices organic peaches for dessert.
Momerotica Chapter Five:
I wait for the TriMet number 19. From the bus stop, I look across Bybee Boulevard to Westmoreland Park. It’s been a long, wet winter. Everyone’s been slogging.
They’re re-doing the park. For months there’s been mud, construction fences, bulldozers, warning signs. And now, all of a sudden, I realize they really will finish it. It won’t always be like this. There will be a natural waterway, gravel-lined paths, gracious trees.
I kept forgetting it would ever be done.
I forget so many things.