Morning Pages by Kate Feiffer

Author:Kate Feiffer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regalo Press
Published: 2024-03-26T17:08:08+00:00

DAY 31

It’s Sunday morning and Marsden’s alarm is blasting “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys.

I love the sounds the house makes when he’s in it.

He turned off the alarm. Does he remember it’s Sunday and he can sleep in? I can hear the sliding and thumping of his feet. He never fully picks them up. This little fact, his feet shuffling in the morning, is one of the few things I still know about him. It’s like I have no idea who my son is even though I gave birth to him, nursed him, read him bedtime stories, cheered with him when he learned to swim, and brought him to the ER when he broke his arm. I took him to see Broadway musicals—Shrek, The Lion King, Wicked. He loved them, couldn’t wait for the next one. “Marsden’s already a theater geek,” I’d tell anyone who asked me about him.

I know what has shaped him. The good and the bad, the memorable vistas and the emotional litter. You think that since you gave birth to someone, since you raised someone, you should be granted access into their brain. You should understand your child better than anyone you’ve ever met, so why is it that I feel like I don’t know him at all?

He moves slowly through the world, as if he’s not terribly interested in getting from one place to the next. His eyes are half shut most of the time, like it’s too much work to open them all the way. And his hair is greasy and too long. He can’t be bothered to shower. I don’t know what he thinks about or cares about. I don’t even know if he thinks or cares, but I suspect he must do both. His friends talk when they stop by. They are syllabic positive. I wonder if he breaks out more words for them, shows up with an inflection or two, if he makes them laugh, makes them think, or if he is their silent stoic friend? Tall and handsome. I would never expect that to be the son I raised. No, my son is supposed to be a chatty theater geek. How did my lap-sitting, babbling, sly jokester turn into a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma rolled up in a teenager devoted to the practice of concise sentences and monosyllabism?

Last night I asked him how he’s doing on his college essay.

MARSDEN: Good.

ME: That’s great. What is it about?

MARSDEN: Stuff.

ME: Can you be a bit more specific?

MARSDEN: Nup.

ME: Have you really started it?

MARSDEN: Yup.

ME: You know you don’t have to go to college.

MARSDEN: Yup.

ME: And if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to write this essay.

MARSDEN: Yup.

ME: So what do you think?

MARSDEN: About what?

ME: Going to college. I’m not trying to be intrusive. I just want to talk.

MARSDEN: Okay.

ME: So….

MARSDEN: What?

ME: What do you want to do?

MARSDEN: Mom, can you please leave?

But that was last night. Now I hear his feet shuffling and he’s calling for me.

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