I used to lie on the floor for hours afterschool with the phone cradled betweenmy shoulder and my ear, a plate of coldrice to my left, my school books to my right.Twirling the cord between my fingersI spoke to friends who recognized thelanguage of our realm. Throats and lungsswollen, we talked into the heart of the night,toying with the idea of hair dye and suicide,about the boys who didn't love us, who we loved too much, the pangof the nights. Each sentence wasnew territory, like a door someone wasrushing into, the glass shatteringwith delirium, with knowledge and fear.My Mother never complained about the phone bill,what it cost for her daughter to disappearbehind a door, watching the cordstretching its muscle away from her.Perhaps she thought it was the only wayshe could reach me, sending me awayto speak in the underworld.As long as I was speakingshe could put my ear to the tenuous earthand allow me to listen, to decipher.And these were the elements of my Mother,the earthed wire, the burning cable,as if she flowed into the room withme to somehow say, Stay where I can reach you,the dim room, the dark earth. Speak of thisand when you feel removed from itI will pull the cord and take youback towards me.
—Leanne O'Sullivan
