3.28.16 All things enduring and true

There is the conversation, where they inquire about things , that are too difficult and emotionally unwieldy, that mar the boundaries they need. 

A visit follows.  My growing girth too much for them, as the invisible some-time extension between us tightens, and they grimace . They and others would not be caught dead, this way I am these days. 

Without fashionable clothing or sleek dyed hair, all those enviable ways. 

It is other ways I have slid into , as I struggle with that in life which she knows not from. The focus on my beloved, the erasable impact of every day exhaustions of caretaking, of investigation, of supportive efforts to wield the unwieldy, borne of Things that Matter.

These are the ways we sometimes become, that are not necessarily what we want, or anything we anticipated, but what with necessity and priority, this is the place we find ourselves. Doing what we can; managing. In ways that do not necessarily provoke sympathy or gratitude or understanding in others. Which can come as  a surprise, but must be learned, understood. Adapted to.  Because sometimes the ways we, out of necessity and choice, become,  instead prove uncomfortable , perhaps even threatening, to some of those we love most.

The hairs sprouting from my chin, that in earlier days, with job and income, were kept neat by an aesthetician, with hennaed lashes, facials, and visits to the gym. Today in passing, they touch them on my face, seriously dismayed. 

Sometime later, as exhaustion threatens, I hear them all mentioning mothers with mustaches, and I sigh.

In the other room nearby, they ceremonially tug at the chic waistline of some beloved trousers, with a young  one by their side, noisily ruing the discomfort of a size nothing pant ,that is too roomy, really. 

Passing by, I glance their way, remembering my own smallmouth self getting married , my too tiny body , in a silk homemade jacket and pants. The shock when I held them up a few years ago, to realize how badly fed I was, at 32, with a 4 year old child .

So I'm there with them all, as I lean back, closing eyes, then casting a glance over my lifetime. How  I came here from there. 

There are other countless small remarks, that follow in the few hours to come. 

Tiny almost but not quite unperceivable aggressions, peppered in between smiles and nice things, that I recognize as the hidden language of females . 

And I turn away, turn toward the lives beneath . 

Toward that which means something to me; that which matters.

Because it is not true that love and connection will guarantee sympathy and concern. 

All these things do matter, are enduring, are true. 

But sometimes , with some we love, 

they are as connected with the dismissive and the easily denied disdain 

as they are with closeness and truth.