How many times can you have the same conversation before it is no longer necessary to have that conversation? Again. Again and again and again until the space between your collarbones aches like a marble swallowed whole and you'd rather walk in front of a bus than have that conversation. Again.

Sometimes I decide that I'm not. I'm going to do my thing, and you can all do your thing, and maybe in the absence of conversation, you'll figure things out. Because obviously we need to have a different conversation that I don't know the script to. You'll wake up one day  and you'll say hey, did you see, did you hear, did you want to know what I think, and we'll have a real conversation about real things and we won't have to have the conversation that always leads back in a perfect, excruciating circle right where it began. Again.  

But I'm impatient. I am mother incarnate. I want to fix not only your collar but your vision. (Beam, what beam?) I don't want to worry myself sleepless that your discomfort is my fault. And so I watch for the quiet moment and I sit you down and we talk our way through it until we can bury the conversation down in the dust and we walk around like it isn't there for a while. But the process and agitation of our days always work it back to the surface. Again.

I see it there reluctantly, gleaming and honed by years of use and I want to take its place in the dust. I wonder how many more times we will have the strength to heft it. I wonder, if by sheer force of will, I could tear a breach in it somewhere, straighten the blasted thing out and we could follow it to some other place. Any other place than this one that we keep coming back to. 



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