family.love.madonna.

The watery eyes are worth the words of beauty. I feel the sixties reaching out to me when you speak, and the ebony ink against the yellowing page reminds me of the tips of your fingers after you smoked too many cigarettes.

Your lungs gave out on you? Or was it just your soul?

My grandfather died with a lump on his head, and all I can remember were the dozens of crows that stood outside of the nursing home where his bandaged/turbaned head drooped to the left and my mother cried, her black curls brushing faintly across her rouged cheeks.

My father is distant, cold, but not intentionally...at least, that's what I tell myself. My crimped handwriting pales in comparison to his engineer's block print, every number perfect. He told me that carpenters use square pencils so that they won't roll off the roof, and once, he threw my math book across the counter when I could not understand.

But really, it wasn't his fault...I'm stubborn. Born Taurus, born hard-headed, if you place your belief in stars.

My mother uses a lot of hairspray. The plated gold of the doorknob to her bathroom is dull now from all the aerosal-liberated clumps of goo. She is consistent, punctual and ordinary, but our eyes are mirror images of each other.

My brother and sister have dark hair and flashing features with pale skin. He is a mathmatical whiz, and she is the picture of youthful vigor as she stretches her legs over the diagonal black stripes. His eyes stare into Colorado mountains, but she looks at the insides of things and remains unattached and unemotional. I'm proud of both of them, but especially her...she mastered the art of how to deal long before I did.

The wool hat that I have for no reason because I never wear it still sits in my blue wicker basket, begging to be used, but I refuse it because it reminds me of approximately one year ago this November when I wore hats and that boy said he liked it when I did. Begging to be used, ha...I guess that's ironic, right?

No, this won't be a sad song.

Six minutes until Halloween is over, and on the radio today, they asked if you would dress your daughter up as Major Flirt, a sexy soldier. I choose to dress up as nothing, as the black eye make-up makes my eyes water, and I save that suffering for precious words from her.
Eight year olds in short skirts make me sick, but if Madonna says it's okay, it must be true.

After all, she adopts starving children, so that means she is right.

Thanksgiving is coming soon, and there will be too much food and I will watch my father cut the white meat out for me and look the other way when I swipe the best parts. That's how I know he loves me.

My Precious will come with her white hair and benevolent smile and hug me, enveloping me with her baby powder/Mary Kay lipstick smell. Gary is the only one who can call me Kate and make it sound nice instead of harsh and ugly. He has large hands, and his balding head almost scrapes the doorframe when he slides our glass door open.

They always take coffee when my parents offer it and stay and Gary's laugh rings throughout the house and everyone is happy and smiling over the rims of their steaming mugs.

And they all love me, oh yes, they do.