an absence of daughterhood— By madison price

Artwork by Susan Cohen

A moment in tandem somewhere beyond the blackhole. Are we not just there? Our parallel lives standing side-by-side at the kitchen counter, divided by a thin line, sharing fruit from the same watermelon. I can see it—the slow trickle of juice, a reprieve in the perfect shade of pink. You wonder how many times your mother got lost in a showersong. Eyes closed, concentrating on the mind-muscle connection, a conductor of her own breath. Really honing the craft. You will think: This is the difference between having a mother and creating one. It's not that you carry shame so much as it is a sinkhole in your psyche.

For ten consecutive months you will sleep, on average, twenty-one to twenty-eight hours per week. You don’t need the math to tell you that is not enough.

Unpacking a box in August (you moved at the start of spring) you will find a sealed envelope, grocery paper brown. 3.5x5, unaddressed. You think you know what it is but you will be wrong. You find a thin time capsule with a clipped spade-shaped leaf and a brief letter, an unserious elegy. Though the handwriting is less weathered, less tired it is categorically your own. You, I, she writes:

The doorbell rings. Flowers from K. This beautiful centerpiece arrangement of eucalyptus and these magenta pineapple shaped bulbs. And that’s life sometimes—something so completely beautiful catches you by surprise and reroutes the moment. Now I am writing this with sap on my hands, sticky proof of life’s sweetness.

Keep going, she writes. C’mon, c’mon.

It's Spring now, morning. A small swell down beneath the belly button. Yes, a golden hue—a soft falling for every person who wakes up and quietly continues to try. It is Saturday and the breeze is a cradle rendering all of us briefly held. You heard to get rest where you can. It’s there, in the breath, an aspiration.

Madison Price lives in Brooklyn with her cat, Babycat. You can find more of her work at variouspinks.com