Timestamp
When it's not what we want, we call that pain.
It was cold, but I taunted myself to go for a walk anyway. Down the cobble steps, through the sticky gate, and into the yard. There’s enough space here for a good, quiet walk. But I made better use of that time, and called my mother, too.
Her face flashed up on my phone, while scenic trees showed up on hers. It was early, my face was undone. If she saw my raw complexion and creeping wrinkles in broad daylight — she would worry.
I’m her timestamp. We all have one. The person who marks time for us, the point of reference for everything that happened before or ever since. I was the baby. I’m bent to believe, watching me age breaks her heart.
My mother looks good. Her skin is smooth and glowing. It’s the automatic filter on her phone, and it’s incredibly believable.
She observes what she sees on screen. It’s not my face, but an old sprawling house, half covered behind bushes and trees. She asks if we’re up by the lake again. I tell her no, we live here now. This is our home.
I walk through the yard, show her empty space. The property is wide and large, the house is small in comparison. It reminds her of a large dinner plate with very little food. You need to fill it, she says. Build a shack or a bigger house — that’s what people do. I stay quiet. I want to tell my mother that she’s talking about me, I’m the people now.
These were the homes we used to drive by when I was little. Mom and dad would take me into the winding road, secluded from the other neighbourhoods, a small entrance that was deceivingly simple. These are the real mansions, they would say, imagining the families living in them while admiring their imaginations. A few months ago we moved into one of these homes and in her head, became one of those imaginary families.
I live here now, mom. Not every house has to be a mansion, and I like it this way. But I’m losing her attention as I say it.
I ask her how’s dad. She doesn’t know.
Good, she supposes. It’s been a while since he’s meant to call. He does call a lot, she says, when he’s trying to call someone else he dials mine by mistake. He does it again because he has bad eyes and bumps my number up the list. He does it again and then I’m always there, as if I’m on speed dial.
It’s your little dance, I say. He misses you, I tell her, he wants to hear your voice.
She tuts. It’s disgusting, she says.
The frost is seeping into my shoes, my toes are going numb. This loss of feeling. Sometimes I’m grateful for it.
It’s always about feelings, isn’t it? It’s what we chase after, what we call adventure, what we call home. We welcome feelings when we want them. But feelings don’t care for when we want them, when we don’t, which ones, and how long they stay. When it’s not what we want, we call that pain.
My mother tells me she’s tired now. It’s night time where she is. Big house, too big, she says before we hang up. I slip my phone back in my pocket and stand there for a moment longer, under the bare maple tree, it’s leaves fallen around my feet.
Yearning. That pain is yearning.