A Hand on the Table

Natural female audiobook narration in an intimate, conversational Southern Louisiana accent, subtle and unforced, warm grounded tone with a slight rasp, clear articulation and steady natural pacing, realistic pauses following punctuation, emotionally perceptive, dry humor where fitting, vulnerable but restrained, pure voice with no accompaniment, ‑Whispers

My mom has always been so tidy. She said I had a gift for making a mess. I took that as an insult until i realized it was in fact very true.

When I left home, I packed too much.. thinking maybe if my things came i’d feel more comfortable -

I didn’t know how often a life comes loose at the seams.

There were years I called being busy the same thing as being all right. I could make a list, meet a deadline, remember everyone’s birthday. I could even laugh at the right moments. People are comforted by a woman who can laugh at the right moments. They don’t ask what happens when she gets home and stands in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, trying to remember why she came in.

One Tuesday, I found that tin in the back of a drawer. The lid had rusted a little. I sat down on the floor, right there beside the laundry, and sorted the buttons again. It was ridiculous. It was also the first quiet thing I’d done for myself in a long while.

I called my mama after. We talked about the weather, her neighbor’s stubborn magnolia, and how the grocery store had moved the good coffee. Ordinary things. The kind you can hold without dropping.

I’m still learning that starting over doesn’t always look brave. Sometimes it looks like putting the mug in the sink. Sometimes it’s telling the truth in a plain voice. Sometimes it’s keeping one small button, just because it belonged to somebody who knew you before you learned how to hide.

And if that sounds modest, well. I have never trusted a grand promise. Actually, i’m disturbed by their intention. I trust a hand on the table. A phone call answered. A morning that asks nothing more of me than to begin.

1990/7500

I used to think a person could tell the day her life changed. Like there’d be a bell, or a door slamming, or somebody saying, well, honey, this is it. But most things don’t announce themselves. They just leave a cup of coffee cooling on the counter, and you find it there hours later, untouched but… there - awaiting. Cold. My mom has always been so tidy. She said I had a gift for making a mess. I took that as an insult until i realized it was in fact very true. When I left home, I packed too much.. thinking maybe if my things came i’d feel more comfortable - I didn’t know how often a life comes loose at the seams. There were years I called being busy the same thing as being all right. I could make a list, meet a deadline, remember everyone’s birthday. I could even laugh at the right moments. People are comforted by a woman who can laugh at the right moments. They don’t ask what happens when she gets home and stands in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, trying to remember why she came in. One Tuesday, I found that tin in the back of a drawer. The lid had rusted a little. I sat down on the floor, right there beside the laundry, and sorted the buttons again. It was ridiculous. It was also the first quiet thing I’d done for myself in a long while. I called my mama after. We talked about the weather, her neighbor’s stubborn magnolia, and how the grocery store had moved the good coffee. Ordinary things. The kind you can hold without dropping. I’m still learning that starting over doesn’t always look brave. Sometimes it looks like putting the mug in the sink. Sometimes it’s telling the truth in a plain voice. Sometimes it’s keeping one small button, just because it belonged to somebody who knew you before you learned how to hide. And if that sounds modest, well. I have never trusted a grand promise. Actually, i’m disturbed by their intention. I trust a hand on the table. A phone call answered. A morning that asks nothing more of me than to begin.

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