A list of things that kept me up last night:

1.

That scene in The Elephant Man, when those horrible jerks forced that woman to kiss Joseph Merrick and then threw a drink in his face when he could hardly breathe. The depth of that man’s objectification, his identity so discarded, so deeply inaccessible to those surface dwellers who violated him, planted a seed in me that’s never left.

2.

The time my mother reached the bottom of things. About a decade before she passed, her zest for faking her way as a well-adjusted person seemed to run out of fuel. It was as if the gift she’d had, where she pretended she knew how to do everything and actually exceeded everyone’s expectations, even her own, had expired.

She’d gotten a freelance job as a muralist, something she’d never done before, but this time, the paint stayed tacky. She showed it to me when I visited and when I touched the paint, she shrugged, a kind of “well what the fuck are you gonna do”.

But for me, it was a day of demarcation—the day her facade failed. And ever since, I wonder when my day will arrive, when my own paint will stay tacky.

3.

The time I was running to catch a train and I swear I heard a stranger yell, “Wait!!! You left your beauty back there!”

4.

The time right after Brautigan was delivered. I had to have emergency surgery. I had asked for no anesthesia since the epidural was still keeping me numb. And I think the doctors forgot I was awake.

They were talking about snow tires and other things besides me. And I was lying there, so freezing cold, so afraid I would die. So afraid I wouldn’t get to be a mama to my new baby.

But then in the ceiling fan, I saw what looked like the shadow of an angel. And I suddenly warmed up and knew all would be well.

5.

The time after my mother died and I visited her apartment in Florida without her in it.

Her necklace that she’d worn for decades was resting on the bed, ripped at the middle of the chain as if it had been yanked. Her rings, placed near the chain.

It was somebody’s job, to remove her accessories. Perhaps it was not the first body they’d taken away that day.

I thought about the 911 call she’d made when she feared she was dying. How they couldn’t locate her address because the phone was on my account, in Upstate NY. How I’d been wide awake looking up chocolate chip cookie recipes, unaware she was dying.

6.

The time I walked miles with my mother in the Florida heat to St. Vincent De Paul’s to find treasures.

Back then I usually wore heels but not with my mother. With her, I felt comfortable in flats. I loved those warm fuzzies I felt, knowing I could finally be myself with my mother.

Later that day, I accidentally broke some piece of pottery she’d found. I was so worried she would be disappointed. But instead she said, “Jessica. Are you fucking serious. Me and you, honey—let’s work on healing the broken things that matter.”

—JLK