Falling
Ronna Magy
I fell down in my kitchen of all places the other day! You’d think I’d know that old floor by now, twenty-five years of living in the same old house. The linoleum chipped, it’s pockmarks and scars all filled in with the dirt of years that won’t come out no matter how many times I get down on my knees and scrub a sponge on top of it, even with the Comet cleanser that my mother used; the kind that comes in the green can.
I can’t get down on my knees anymore, what am I talking about? That right knee not the same since I chased after that woman artist with her abstract red paintings. Fell down in my new black boots with the zippers running up the sides, on the way to meet her at the Park Restaurant over on Sunset. The curb was too high, and I was too excited. Throwing that orange scarf around my neck, tossing back my head, and sipping on that glass of Merlot.
And that’s what I mean when I tell you….. You know about those women! They are never around when you need them or want them to be the right one with the right eyes, the right lips, the right body, or they are beautiful but not intelligent, intelligent but too old, young but not interested, exciting but too young, butch, but not femme, thin but not voluptuous, sophisticated but too thin, have curly hair and good bodies but aren’t interesting, have a good mind, but don’t know their own feelings, are afraid to commit, and have all the aches and pains of women over 60, or have fallen too many times and had a hip or knee or elbow replaced, and who knows if they would fall for me, or me for them, and what is chemistry at this age, anyway?
Do people still fall in love? Does anyone fall in love anymore? Where is the goddess when I need her? It’s been eons since Valentine’s Day and no one around has sent me any red cards. No hearts pounding on the chest of a Hallmark card waiting to beat when I pull it out of the envelope. No red roses. No chocolates.
What does falling mean, anyway? You can fall off something like a cliff. Fall into something like bed from exhaustion. Fall down something like Alice fell into the looking glass, down the hole running after the White Rabbit and stumbling onto the tea party.
When I was young I had a tea set of tiny porcelain white dishes and cups the size of thimbles with a red stroke painted around the lip of the cups and the edges of the plates. They sat on the tiny white stove from which I served tea in the basement. I was transporting the tea on a tray to my cousin, Bonnie, one day, when all of a sudden the cups and plates fell and broke on the floor. Pieces of white porcelain scarred with red lips, chipped and broken. Tea tears lying in puddles along the floor. My child’s tea ceremony cracked open like an old broken heart.
I fell down in my kitchen of all places the other day! You’d think I’d know that old floor by now, twenty-five years of living in the same old house. The linoleum chipped, it’s pockmarks and scars all filled in with the dirt of years that won’t come out no matter how many times I get down on my knees and scrub a sponge on top of it, even with the Comet cleanser that my mother used; the kind that comes in the green can.
I can’t get down on my knees anymore, what am I talking about? That right knee not the same since I chased after that woman artist with her abstract red paintings. Fell down in my new black boots with the zippers running up the sides, on the way to meet her at the Park Restaurant over on Sunset. The curb was too high, and I was too excited. Throwing that orange scarf around my neck, tossing back my head, and sipping on that glass of Merlot.
And that’s what I mean when I tell you….. You know about those women! They are never around when you need them or want them to be the right one with the right eyes, the right lips, the right body, or they are beautiful but not intelligent, intelligent but too old, young but not interested, exciting but too young, butch, but not femme, thin but not voluptuous, sophisticated but too thin, have curly hair and good bodies but aren’t interesting, have a good mind, but don’t know their own feelings, are afraid to commit, and have all the aches and pains of women over 60, or have fallen too many times and had a hip or knee or elbow replaced, and who knows if they would fall for me, or me for them, and what is chemistry at this age, anyway?
Do people still fall in love? Does anyone fall in love anymore? Where is the goddess when I need her? It’s been eons since Valentine’s Day and no one around has sent me any red cards. No hearts pounding on the chest of a Hallmark card waiting to beat when I pull it out of the envelope. No red roses. No chocolates.
What does falling mean, anyway? You can fall off something like a cliff. Fall into something like bed from exhaustion. Fall down something like Alice fell into the looking glass, down the hole running after the White Rabbit and stumbling onto the tea party.
When I was young I had a tea set of tiny porcelain white dishes and cups the size of thimbles with a red stroke painted around the lip of the cups and the edges of the plates. They sat on the tiny white stove from which I served tea in the basement. I was transporting the tea on a tray to my cousin, Bonnie, one day, when all of a sudden the cups and plates fell and broke on the floor. Pieces of white porcelain scarred with red lips, chipped and broken. Tea tears lying in puddles along the floor. My child’s tea ceremony cracked open like an old broken heart.
About the author
Ronna Magy came onto the planet as the colors of World War II were fading from Detroit’s skyline and Sputnik orbited the skies. She is a member of Queerwise, a collective of lesbian and gay elders doing spoken-word performances in Los Angeles. Ronna's stories and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Southern Women’s Review, Where Thy Dark Eye Glances: Queering E.A. Poe, Vicera, Lady Business: A Celebration of Lesbian Poetry, My Life is Poetry, Sinister Wisdom, and the Bilingual Review. She is the author of several English as a Second Language textbooks.