‘I never know how long the baby will nap. The time varies, an hour, ninety minutes, three hours. Sometimes the merest creak of the wooden floor and he surfaces from sleep. Other times a dog yowls, a train whistles, the phone rings and he sleeps on and on. I did not know his nap would last and still I got nothing done. Perhaps the first thing I gave up when I had a child was the idea of getting something done, anything done, a shower, the dishes, the laundry, a letter–what letter, forget the letter. Not girl, interrupted, but life, interrupted, coitus interrupted, everything interrupted. And yet what other interruption gives this much joy, this fierce tenderness and still leaves you speechless with anger, with grief, with loneliness? …’
Read more from ‘Lemongrass to the Plains‘, first published Quarterly West, ©2005.
For more of Diane’s work, see Publications.