Lilly Kavanagh
Bio
My Dad was a rattlesnake tamer.
My mom was a fork-tongued free spirit.
They never should have pro-created, so naturally they had 8 of us.
This is my story as I remember it - in bits and pieces and scattered, shattered fragments.
Enjoy <3
Stories (2)
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Kicking And Screaming
The world will hate you for being yourself. It's just a fact of life for those of us born kicking and screaming. I learned this first hand growing up in an adoptive family who detested the enthusiasm and bravado I brought with me in that tattered black garbage bag along with all my worldly belongings. Yes, I was the kid you hear about on the news; the soiled and confused child you see wandering around a filthy trailer in the background of a 90's episode of Cops. The smelly kid all the others whisper about in class and on the playground.
By Lilly Kavanagh3 years ago in Confessions
Sepia
The warm yellow light of the setting sun dances on the water. My mother is beautiful and golden brown from hair, to skin, to hazel eyes. She's smiling holding onto the baby who can't be more than 8 months old. My littlest sister, bald and round and just three and half years younger than me is safe in my mother's arms but I keep a close eye on her just in case. I look around at the full, bushy green trees- young oaks probably greeting a new Spring. Bold, yellow and fluffy flowers dot the river bank. I memorize them- swallow up their electric yellow enthusiasm with my young eyes. I'm barely over four but I'm alert and watching. A slight change on my mother's face - surprise? She holds my sister out at arms length laughing while my other siblings splash nearby. The danger of the too-fast current doesn't occur to me. I'm being held up by someone I can't see anymore. In fact, there is a lot I can't see anymore. Frustrated I close my eyes and replay it over and over- trying to bring back the memory in full color. But I'm left with a degraded image in sepia; like trying to recreate a moment in your mind by holding up an old roll of film to the light. I close my eyes and allow the faded picture to play. My mother-smiling- undoes the tabs on the baby's disposable diaper and sends it floating down the river. I watch it float away in quiet confusion. When it's gone from sight I look back at my mother and now naked baby sister. I'm not five and I know better. Who is this woman anyway? I've rarely seen her face- beautiful as it is. She's my mother- that much I know, but she is somehow unfamiliar to me. In the years to come this will be one of the only memories I have of this unfamiliar mother. I'll replay it over and over again until the image is worn and spotty. I'll look for her in stores and restaurants where she isn't. I should hate her for what she will put us through, but I never will. I'll only wish I could go back and watch her sparkle in the setting sun one more time- this honey colored woman with the golden laugh who sends soiled diapers floating down the river.
By Lilly Kavanagh5 years ago in Poets
