Chattanooga Writers Guild
Chattanooga Writers Guild
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Janet Newheart Paris I ain’t never really getting myself to Paris… knowed that a good while now, after Mama died a-birthin June Rose and Papa gone these eighteen years.
The picture of that famous tower on my bedroom wall been turned brown-like and wrinkled, with spots of mildew everywheres. Little Eli got hold of it onest too, tore off a corner afore I caught him up and whipped his hide right good.
No, Paris and me won’t match up, true, but I ain’t pining for it much no more. I been thinking my dream was most likely wantin to be anywheres sides here in this old house and all the kids and haulin water and keeping the coal stove a-goin.
Had me a man back of this loved me so good our nights took me places I never spected to go anyhows. He made up for being stuck in this holler, looking on me with them blue eyes clearer than that water down at the dam and hands that had my body feelin a whole world of new. That goldarn mine took him and seven others just when I was getting used to all our travelin.
Mighty glad he can’t see me now… breasts that perked up for him like little mountains layin flat on my chest the way dog ears flop in the dust, and the smooth belly where he wrote pretend love words been cut on so much over the years he’d be tracin nothing but scars with those nice, slow hands. Sick parts of me been took out left roadmaps on my body is how I see it.
But they’s times, those real lonely, cold and dampish kinda nights I let my crooked fingers move over them raised lines til I’m tinglin practically all over and forgettin. Ever now and again my hands, they find Paris, right here in this place I ain’t never left.
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