Forty-Something Years in Ninaland

And the Cat’s in the Cradle


“Take your broken heart, make it into art.”—Told to Meryl Streep by Princess Leia.


And the Cat’s in the Cradle

Remember that song? And how many songs have been sung about the man on the moon? Which one of us is on the moon? Which one of us wishes we were? You didn’t know but you showed me the moon that night.

I would have danced with you that day, the day we first met. I would have let you hold me under the moon and tell me stories about people in far away galaxies.

You understood robots and the meaning of math. But it was my words that never made sense to you. You always looked like someone who got lost in the woods. As if you wanted to be found.

I remember the way you nodded for no reason, it annoyed me at first. Were you saying yes to me? But now I miss it, also the way you took a toothpick between your tongue and your teeth and said nothing.

I’m sitting here, trying to write that song, about your stubble and how it felt on my fingers. The way you wouldn’t kiss me. You said you couldn’t kiss me.

Other things were stopping you…you let me hold your hand, your porcelain fingers cold against my skin. And I remembered Derek, the kid who wouldn’t kiss me in kindergarten. He kissed all the girls but me. He said he just couldn’t do it.

I wasn’t a pretty kid. Am I a pretty woman? Your pomegranate colored lips would not let me in. Your hair, what color is your hair? I can’t name the color between blonde and silver.

The way your glasses shimmered in the light, I swear I saw your soul. In the twilight, under the green awning of the massage parlor we walked passed.

We stood outside the car, waiting, waiting for something to happen to us. In the bridle cold as I searched for my keys, there was a moment I lost you as well.

They say art is not for the weak minded. You have to be strong to make fashion out of the fever.


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