Today is my daughter’s last day of homeschool. It’s also just a couple weeks before she’s officially a teenager. I wonder if I could have made more of this time… all of it, but especially the last year with her home. We haven’t spent this much time together in a long time. While the pandemic which spurred this stint was not by any means on our terms, it’s still been a blessing to have had it.
It feels like the bustle of the hustle blinded me. I take things slower now. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before. I don’t she does either, honestly. Now we must strike a balance. I hope she is treated well in her new school. I hope that sending her back will be a decision we are happy about. I hope that college doesn’t take me away from her too much as it did the first time around.
Here’s to hoping!
Paige Six | 6.17.21
I became in a family way when I was 17. My foster mother started to accuse me of sleeping with her jobless boyfriend and changed the locks, leaving me to sleep outside many nights when they went out to clubs. I reported it to services, my teachers, and my nurses. I told my health teacher that I felt the stress affecting my child. I trusted him, I had no one. He told me not to worry.
At 30 I began to explore epigenetics and the research suggesting that trauma can be passed down through generations. Epigenetics translates literally to “above genetics”, referring to external modifications to a person’s programming. I say programming because that’s how it makes sense to me. If you’re familiar with binary, how the 1’s and 0’s turn lines of code on or off, outside forces can do this to traits within us, turn them on and off.
If you’ve created a child at any time, the 1’s and 0’s within you get passed down as they exist in that moment. In short: these modifications do not change the DNA sequence, but rather, they affect how cells “read” genes. I think about the shared trauma in the world and how it’s sinister nature infects the future; contaminates quite literally the gene pool. Ignorance is certainly not bliss.
Paige Six | 2021
Before the Autumn reaps, don’t you believe that tree’s leaves would enjoy knowing the feeling of reaching and holding another’s branches? All the while these trees cannot conceive of such things.
I like to envision the brain of a dandelion as it tenderly caresses the faces of other dandelions. Before the wind sweeps away with their heads spreading each one’s likeness across distant lands. I bet they’d hold on to one another, these seeds, to the seeds of their lovers hoping to exist together upon the reaches of greener grass.
It’s not unlike me to marvel at what a miracle consciousness is. How lucky we are to share it despite all of its pains. All the while these dandelions might never see their own likenesses the way I can divine myself reflected back in my child’s smiling eyes. It’s such a blessing to conceive of such things. -six pm | *when I think of Julia
Paige Six | 2021
I am a golden dawn and this is my orchestra. There are cracks in my soul glow, carry like broken notes, but as the light breaks the horizon I carry them well. I carry the heavy load, the low tones, the vibration pitter pattern wringing out the old rag and make streams from the runnels. They called it nesting but I called it cleaning the walls and floors to no avail because I was the only one who cared about the child growing inside of me in the whole circle.
Time is a wrinkled fold in the corner of her eyes. I press them out with the girth of my thumb and hope the world learns to embrace change. Her skin stretches as my heart sinks. Cut the baby curls and let them populate the linoleum. I find comfort in the signs of aging, in the middle of the folds that foreshadow the way my child’s face will soften as the years callous her soft hands. Look to the mirror to see her in 30 years because I may not be; and she looks so much like me when I was younger.
The moon has a navel, I gaze up its intricate craters and see the umbilical cord, a tell-tale cluster of constellations, cut from Mother. Earth can only watch as space smacks her first child; mars her daughter’s glowing smile with imperfections; carving holes into her powder surface. I can only relate in the most holy helpless manner
A brain fold beneath a miracle, a raven crown of perfect follicles dry of melanin dripping silver everywhere. A surgical procedure carved of sawdust, and she a comet spilling stardust. If I was a dawn then she is a choir. I a setting sun and her new day a chorus. This is my orchestra but the music is for my daughter, my golden dawn but a fleeting moment and her life an endless sea of sparkle. An oasis where only time bends to the gravity, a notebook, a sonnet, a melody.
– six pm |*the moon has a navel; we all gaze upon her