the ugly earring

yes, the cat woman wants a fox stole.

(directions for this diy here. photo from style bytes)

“after the bed in, please,” they responded.

grunge and black widows encased in resin earrings.

(photo from style bytes) 

Lillian Berlin and Floria Sigismondi and daughter Tosca

photograph by Scarlet Page

(painting by ismail shammout)

“Not to take pictures of one’s children, particularly when they are small, is a sign of parental indifference, just as not turning up for one’s graduation picture is a gesture of adolescent rebellion.”

–Susan Sontag, On Photography

There are no batteries in the camera to take your picture. Your father said he was too tired to drive to Rite Aid to pick up a disposable one. I said that I’d pay for it even though money is tight, and we shouldn’t be spending money on things like cameras. He doesn’t see how fast you’re growing–that your hair is beginning to curl and your eyes have changed from blue to hazel. Louisa, my little girl, did you know I dreamt of you years before you were born?

You were crushing snails with a pair of red cowboy boots, stepping on their shells as they crossed the sidewalk under the fig tree. You had your stuffed monkey with you. You were holding onto its left hand and dragging its limp body behind you. There was a songbird in the fig tree, and you kept calling into the bedroom window, “Hurry momma, we’re gonna be late!” I was trying to make up my face. I was looking into the mirror into the reflection that was my face but not the face I knew. You waited for me to take your empty hand, to walk you inside the house where the candy-striped red and white candles burned atop your birthday cake. There were lots of people and seven candles. I gave you a broomstick pony with a pink bow. You wouldn’t stop crying. You curled into your grandpa’s lap wetting his crisp cotton shirt with your tears.

You wanted a real pony.

When I was born, tiny as you are now, she put objects in my hand. She thought the thing I held the tightest would symbolize my destiny. Do you remember when we did this at the hospital? I put a penny in your newborn hand, and your fingers did not curl. I gave you a pen and a wood flute, but you let them fall to the ground. Your father said I shouldn’t put so much energy into superstitious notions. You held his finger and didn’t let go. I tried to put my finger in his place, but you reached for his voice instead.

I know I shouldn’t feel the way I do–jealous and black inside, Louisa. When your father looks at you with those lovesick eyes, the same ones that used to belong to me, I have to leave the room. I have to close the bathroom door and wash the tears with cold water. One day, when you’re older you’ll understand. Maybe when you have a daughter you will remember what I’m saying to you. It is not easy being number two.

But I won’t be like her. No. Never. She kept a distance when I wanted to be near like the heart locket that she wore. Occasionally, she’d let me stand in the doorway of her bedroom as she brushed her hair, other days she’d close the door and tell me to play in the backyard. When he was around, she was an actress playing house, pretending to be a loving mother–the meals, helping me with my homework, the kisses on top of my head.

My father was the only air she breathed. She said I suffocated her–sucked the air dry.

No Louisa. No, it’s not like that with us. I love you very much. I am telling you this so that I won’t turn out like her, so you’ll know I am different from her.

Yes, tonight, I will go to the store and buy a camera. I will take many pictures of you. Me and you together. I’ll even make your father takes some, Yes, lots of pictures. So you can see how much I love you. So you’ll never forget that I am nothing like her.

(originally written on april 20, 2005)