Loose Leaf Defined
Some years ago, I compiled a collection of poems I wrote into a make-shift book titled, “Me, Inside My Head.” They were poems written when written words were only voice that felt true to me. I wouldn’t’ve branded myself a liar by speech, but what else would you call someone who never spoke their truth? A person who only said what they believed other people wanted or were willing to hear? I wouldn’t’ve necessarily labeled myself a “phony”, either; but, what do you call someone who reads the room before entering, so as to adopt the appropriate affect… assuming an anonymous innocuous personae? I’m not saying I’m a killer in real life, but like that guy said… don’t push me.
My adult children did as all children might and went through their mother’s closet one day, happening upon the aforementioned collection of thoughts recorded in poetic form. Fortunately, for all of us, I’ve always been honest about my skeletons and demons, so no one was frightened by what was discovered; including the poetry.
“Mom, don’t forget to get your book when you get the pictures this weekend,” said my youngest grown person as we drove her son to daycare.
"Yeah…”, I started slowly, the end of the word trailing as though prompted by the red octagon at the corner.
”I, uh—”…
*BEEP*BEEP* ‘My bad,” I respond with a wave in my rearview mirror to the car behind me.
What I was doing? In that moment, I was attempting to disqualify her statement by saying that it wasn’t a real book. I wanted to describe it as a bunch of lonely and lovesick poems written by an unhappily married women printed on bond paper and stapled at her job on her lunch break. I was going to tell her she could throw them away.
“Yeah, pumpkin, um… I have those saved on my computer already, so—” I begin as I hit the brakes at the yellow light amid protest of the cars behind me.
“What? These are in a book… they’re like labeled and stuff.”
“They are.” I say, both internally and externally, as my mind flashes on an image of the Table of Contents page.
“They are,” I breathe slower and softer, my imagination gelling into an understanding that the referenced collection of poems on stapled pages of bond paper appeared, at the very least, to be ‘a book’ to the observer… my adult child who had no emotional attachment to the named object.
“If she called it a book, why am I not calling it a book?”
“HONK HONK”
“My bad,” I respond with a wave to my rearview mirror.
“Fuckn’ Drive!” I see the lips of the driver behind me say.
“You right.” I respond.
