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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Men
Shed
Allowed
Touch
Tears
Way
Never

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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, men who made you love them then changed their minds.
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When you're a little kid, you are small, your life is small - and you're terrifically aware of that. But when you read, you can ride Arabian horses across the desert, you can be a dogsledder.
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.
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You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who am I? You don't know.
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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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My father was an engineer - he wasn't literary, not a writer or a journalist, but he was one of the world's great readers. Every two weeks, he'd take me to our local branch library and pull books off the shelf for me, stacking them up in my arms - 'Have you read this? And this? And this?
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She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.
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Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.
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She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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