Word Number 9: Plata Rasa

n. the lulling sound of a running dishwasher, whose steady maternal shushing somehow puts you completely at peace with not having circumnavigated anything solo.

Latin plata, plate + rasa, blank or scraped clean. Pronounced “pla-tuh rah-suh.”

It’s been a whole year since word number 8! I put this project on the backburner to finish my creative writing degree, and as of July 2024 I have graduated! This is a piece that started with the exploration of an inanimate object, a dishwater, that becomes a window into the complicated relationship between mother and child. This piece intentionally does not use gendered pronouns.

Shh shh shh shhh

A piercing cry startles your mother awake. They had been dreaming, reliving your birth. But instead of placing you in their arms, the nurse found them unfit for motherhood. You were crying, tiny hands clenching an unfamiliar finger. They rise and nestle you against their chest.

For a fraction of life, your mother is the world. For the rest of your mother’s life, the world is you. How is it possible for the world to have such small fingernails, and teeny toes?

You crawl, and then walk, taking wobbled first steps into your mother’s arms. They hold your hand in the bathroom and the car, arm twisted backwards to reach sticky fingers. At dinner you sag like a wilting flower between bites of flown food.

You fall asleep to the sound of the dishwasher.

They teach you how to ride a bike and inevitably you crash, coming home one afternoon with bleeding knees and dusty, tear streaked cheeks. Your composure fails as they rush to your side, eyes wide, “What happened my love?" Your lip wobbles and a choked sound escapes as they open their arms. Shhh Shhh Shhh, it’s okay” They rub small circles on your back while you sob into them, connected by snot and tears.

SHHh! Shh!!

Your best friend suppresses a laugh when your desks are pushed together, sharing a textbook in English class.

SHH!

The words tumbling out of your mouth come to an abrupt halt and heat flushes your cheeks. You tell your mother about it later in giggle laced sentences.

The first boy you date becomes your world. He has blond hair and blue eyes, and you look at him like you used to look at them, at your mother. And you don't recognize the heartbreak in their eyes when you come home a few minutes late and they are frantic. You don't understand anxiety yet, don't understand the crippling feeling of not knowing, of depending on someone else to tell you what they are desperate to know. No, you won't recognize this feeling until boy number three. It's not until your own heartbreak that you even begin to understand what your mother felt that day you snuck in the house at 1:30 expecting everyone to be asleep and finding their eyes red, purple. They look sick. You fear someone has died, "what's wrong?" You ask. They get up from the couch and wrap you in their arms, a tight embrace. You can feel them crying, breathing in shuddering shallow breaths. The only thing you understand is that you're grounded, and for a week you can't text your boyfriend. Now you are crying as they wrench the phone from clammy fingers. "Just let me tell him!" You whine, worried about how this will affect your relationship. You're also assigned to dishes for the next month. 

You fall asleep to the sound of the dishwasher. 

Shhhhhh Shhhhhh

The phone call is short. You sob and sob, tears and snot connecting you once again.

Across the high desert, golden grass blows in the wind.

You are to be married in 10 months. The date has been set and venue booked, you have sent out "save the dates." 9 months before the wedding you are in a bathroom stall at a bar using a razor blade on your wrists. You can't figure out what is wrong with you, the questions you were asked by the couple chosen to sponsor your Catholic wedding an unsolvable maze. Once, you wanted this, you love him. You keep telling yourself this, in a bathroom stall. A swift cut, “pull it together,” cut, “stop crying”, cut, “the guy out there is just a friend”. You use pony bead bracelets and a watch to cover the marks. Your fiancé doesn't notice and 7 months before the wedding you tell your mother you don't want to get married. They ask no questions. 6 months before what would have been your wedding, your mother is moving you into a new apartment, has sent out unsave the dates, and forfeit the deposit on the venue. They cook dinner and you fall asleep on an air mattress to the sound of the dishwasher, shh shh shh shhh.

You wake up next to your mother.

Shhhshhhhhshhhhshh

Water thunders over a cliff, tiny droplets landing on your awe inspired skyward face, but their eyes are fixed on you.

You wake up next to your best friend.

You wake up alone.

You wake up in a bed that is not your own. You don't recognize the curtains, there is no cat draped across your legs. 

Shhhhhhh

A man with a fistula puts his arm up to your ear. You are bystander to a 6-lane freeway, the blood a continuous stream of cars doing 80.

You wake up beside a man

Shhhh Shh Shhh

The shower is on, steam snakes up through the small slit in the top of the bathroom door, fogging up the mirror you need to get ready.

You wake up beside a woman.

You wake up beside the man who will be your husband, though you don't know it yet. Light pours in the window, streaking across a dark blue comforter and a dog you didn't think liked you much last night. You sit up slowly, taking the room in for the first time in daylight. It felt smaller at 2 AM, more intimate. You remember going through the bookshelf and pointing at people in photos, his sister, two nephews, his parents, and the dog sporting a much softer looking chocolate coat. You remember drinking, a lot, remember doing "The 36 questions to Fall in Love," did you finish those? There was a frozen pizza, and you think you made bagels? Well, you remember 6 colors of dough being pulled out of the fridge, but that’s where the memory cuts off.

The bedsheets rustle and you look over to see he is awake but has not yet met your eyes. You watch him shuffle to the bathroom and realize he is not wearing boxers, but some pajama shorts with a Toy Story print, the type your mom might have bought for you in high school and secretly wore but would never admit it. You blink and lose the war against a smile "How long have you had those?" You ask. He looks up at you, seemingly surprised to hear you speak, then down at the pants as if seeing them for the first time.

"Oh, um, I'm not sure, I don't usually wear them" he says.

You laugh, "well, then why are you wearing them?"

He blushes and continues to avoid your eyes, "I usually wear boxers."

"Well then why didn't you wear boxers?" you say, amused now at the discomfort and the shorts. His cheeks flush a darker red. "Well...?" a smile dances on your lips.

"Um, well... you kinda passed out. Just getting you up the stairs took at least half an hour since you refused to be carried. But then I got worried, I mean.. I,-I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable, if you woke up in my bed with me, in my boxers, so I put these on. They're the only pajamas I have."

You wake up beside your husband, with six cats demanding to be fed.

One day, you will wake up as a mother. Not today, but sometimes you dream about them, about what motherhood is like. How will your anxiety manifest in the face of a screaming child? What about the insolent teenager? In your dream a child is crying but nobody gets up to attend them. You watch from above as a tiny body throws its entire weight into soft punches and shallow kicks. Why does no one come?

Once, you assumed you knew what it meant to be a mother. That it was an instinct occurring in all people with a vulva. But now you know this was naïve. There is not a specific body part required to be a mother. To be a mother is a commitment, a lifestyle. It's to give your heart away and expect nothing in return, to watch your heart grow into a person with their own life and personality.

You wake with a start, heart pounding. The cat is making a horrible wailing noise at the end of the bed, a precursor to vomiting. To the right, your husband continues to snore. You creep to the living room, moon giving off just enough light to avoid corners and cat toys, and sit on the couch. You think about the baby in your dream, the insistent crying still ringing in your head. Across the room is a small white light, the only one working at this hour. 

ShhShhShhhh

You fall asleep to the sound of a running dishwasher.

Yours,

Max

Next

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References

Koenig, John. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition