Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love.
I am not sure I ever did love him, she said.
This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve
of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw.
It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings.
Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works.
Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned:
you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling.
Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part.
Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean:
I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works:
selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world.
Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles
on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling
in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too.
A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m.
Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while.
The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is
just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering.
Bite your fist.
Walk on eggshells around joy.
When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it
and it forgot how to beat right.
Comments (10)
What an interesting take on a painting I've seen so often I typically take for granted. I have to admit, I've never noticed just how precariously she kneels next to that steep cliff. Profound.
Great critique. I always think this picture makes them seem like they are in a cocoon and that despite the beauty of the gold and the colours, she doesn't look quite comfortable. Bloody lovely to look at though.
Indeed! Solid, deep questions. I am now wondering the same. That cliff is a very curious inclusion into the piece, isn't it. Fantastic choice, and a great critique. Congratulations!
Nice work. Glad some painting critiques gained recognition! 😊👏
A reminder that art is meant to make you think. Well done, and congrats!
Oooh love ending the question. Packs a real punch. Congrats, KB!
Beautiful allusion. Said everything you needed to in 50 words. Congratulations on your win.
Always liked this one! Congrats!
Your review is much more beautiful than the art!
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