Pleasure in Aloneness

Written in response to Jeannine Ouellette’s most recent writing exercise on the pleasure of aloneness. Jeanine asked “to include the following elements somewhere in your poemish thing:

• Hyper-specific experiences of aloneness

• Concrete specific images that we can picture in our mind, that we can see/touch/taste/hear, etc.

• At least one image that is not traditionally pleasant (my own funk)

• At least two actions (singing in the car/bad acting)

• The clause, “If you’re me…”

• The clause, “When asked the inevitable question…” followed by a question related to something so uniquely you that those who know you would immediately recognize you in the question, as those who know Diane Seuss recognize her iconic eyeliner.

——

My favorite kind of aloneness

is the hour before anyone wakes.

A room dim with dawn,

cacao mug warm in my hand,

no voices but the ones on the page.

If you’re me,

you grow up learning to turn silence into shelter,

to make a cathedral out of empty rooms.

No one came when I cried,

so I let my pain spill in watercolors.

My least favorite scent

is coconut oil on polyester—

the way it clung to his collarbone

and to my skin.

I scrubbed until it peeled.

When asked the inevitable question—

“Won’t she be lonely without a sibling?”—

I say, “Alone is different than lonely.”

And then I change the subject

to something lighter.

Like generational healing.

I’ve acted interested in diaper comparisons.

In after-school program “brainstorm sessions.”

In deep dives into Target candles.

But I always leave early

and take the Cabrales with me.

Now, I keep company with the past.

Write in silence. Cry loudly in the bath.

Dance in my underwear to no music.

Eat coffee ice-cream with brittle for breakfast.

Drink wine without a tribe.

And say “fuck off” with the most charming smile.

It feels pretty darned good.

Umm hmm.

So good.