TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
For years my mother was the moon, and I was her little comet, darting away from her, eager to see other galaxies. I couldn't hang in one place. I needed to brave black holes and see the rings of Saturn. I wanted to trigger supernovas. Now, it seems, I am finally heading back home, slowing down as I get close, and I realise I miss my mom (I miss my dad too, but in a different way), the way she speaks to me about moon-time and moon-ways in a language she speaks only for us, not quite moon, not quite comet, but still otherworldly.