BORN LUCKY
An old
boyfriend once called me the “Queen of Leaving”
and he was
undoubtedly right, because
I left him
constantly, leaving broken furniture
in my
wake, only to return a few months later.
We had
drunken sex and fought again
a few
hours later, often furiously
and about
causes neither of us understood,
until the
pressure was so bad that I left again.
Everything
was more difficult
when I
stayed in the same place,
grievances
piled in corners like abandoned trash,
then torn
into shreds by scavengers.
It was
home to me, and comfortable
because
someone was always making for the door
knowing
that the other side held images
that, if
not better, at least were different.
The trick
is learning to stay,
and
releasing the need for escape.
The irony
is that this only happens
when I
have less interest in movement,
and even
the act of crossing the room
appears
unnecessary--
something
I only do through force of habit.
Sitting
quietly is an act of trust,
and I can
afford to do it,
but even
this admission is terrifying.
It's the
same weird luck I experienced
during a
sudden thunderstorm in Chicago
when I was
a tiny child, returning from the zoo
with my
mother, and I was frightened
by the
hailstones and the lightning
and she
said, “the lightning won't strike you”
with such
absolute certainty that it stopped me
and I
asked, “how do you know?”
and she
replied, “because you were born lucky”
and I knew
I didn't have to escape from anything.
