Markers. Ants. Tectonics. X. & Pain. & Illness.

My mother says he divorced her when, instead of giving birth to the son he had so wanted, she expelled a pile of sticky steaming bones which were identified as belonging to a variety of dead artists. They knew, mother says, because of the placenta, which had a list of each bone and corresponding artist’s name woven by the placental blood vessels. Also written by capillaries were the words A Fine Product Of Connecticut. Which is odd, she says, because the baby, or pile of bones, if you prefer, hadn’t been conceived in Connecticut. Though the doctor did a smash up job of attaching the bones using the best super glue, sutures and staples the hospital had, my father was disappointed and packed his bags after a week. Feh, what did he know? my mother says, look how well you turned out. And for an assemblage of miscellaneous bones I reckon I have done OK. Mother says my father never knew himself or what he wanted, and that was his real trouble. When they were dating, he had mentioned to her that he had read the Missed Connections section of the local weekly paper, where people could write in descriptions of people they had seen at a bus stop, or on the Bay Area Rapid Transit, or the coffee shop. People they had been attracted to but were too afraid to approach at the time, and now they regretted that lapse and wrote missives to the paper describing the lost person, the missed opportunity. My mother was already in love with my father and so wrote a description of him that she felt was so detailed and caring that when he read how well my mother knew him my father could not help but be moved to ask her to marry him. He did ask her, but never mentioned the Missed Connection and when she asked him about the paper my father said he felt sorry for the sort of idiots who hope for one chance in a thousand, or a hundred thousand, that their once in a lifetime moment might happen to pick up the paper. What are the odds? my father said, I only read it once, as a lark. Meanwhile, my mother was getting emails from men who were convinced it was them she had written about. Each man wrote of how awed he was that she, who didn’t even know him, could have such insight into his soul. Each man wanted her. The emails flooded her inbox and she had to cancel the account. But that’s when I knew your father was replaceable, she said, while she taught me to use the computer, my skinless fingers moving on the keys. If you doubt that I can exist, being only a pile of bones, listen to your computer. The clatter of the keyboard, the click of the mouse, these are my sounds, though I share them with you. Besides, like my father, you don’t even know. You wouldn’t recognize your own mother or father transfigured into words, or you would pick the wrong person or the wrong words, there are so many to choose from. I doubt you could pick yourself out in a crowd. You’re like my father, you don’t even recognize yourself.