The Interview Concludes

M.E.: I'm here. Keep going.

Mama Bear: I don't get the feeling everything here is on the square, if you know what I mean. I think I'd like to reschedule this when Alison is available.

M.E. No! That's impossible. I mean, that's not necessary! I have a confession. You're my first interview. You'll have to excuse my...I was using Alison's notes, and, well, maybe I should just use my own ideas.

Mama Bear: Well, ok. Maybe one more question.

M.E. Ok. Hm. (sound of tapping) Well, I know Alison had all of these questions about order, and female subjugation. But.

Mama Bear: All things I'd be happy to talk about! (pause) Yes?
M.E. Well, if it were me, and it is me conducting this interview, I'd like to ask, well, what is it like to be in love with the same person for so many years, living in the same tree house, wearing the same clothes?

Mama Bear: Are you asking about marriage to Papa Bear? Our negotiations and how we keep our household running like a humming, well-oiled machine?

M.E. I'm asking about love. What does it feel like?

Mama Bear: Hm. Love. (sound of her bear-snout sniffing heartily, following the scent of something wafting by her) Well. It feels like--sharp--no, hard edges. And sandpaper bits behind my knees. Oh, and molasses. Fingers pulling bits of glitter into the middle of my brain when the lights go out

and I was just about to be afraid I'd be sitting in the dark, alone, for a very long time.


It feels like overdrawing my checking account and having enough gas to drive to McDonald's drive thru and use the change I found under my seat for a dollar sundae, regardless of the impending financial doom I will face. It feels like fear and a seat belt that's been pulled too tight by one of my insane children from the backseat and one of them howls when I try to buy a little quiet time for myself just to stare at a wall--or a knotty side of an oak tree, whichever--and the way Papa never starts a sentence with What do you think but he always ends the day by pulling me roughly by my blue hat and squeezing my bear armpits until I laugh breathlessly

it feels like forever under a cellar door, which smells of cider and wobbles like big-bellied mice.

It is like trying to put all of the Lincoln logs back into their box before someone trots down the stairs on their way to Bear Cub dance rehearsal and trips and falls flat on their snout over one of them. But never being done with that putting back and waiting and falling.

(the sound of Mama bear's snout snarfling into her dress or a purse, looking for something) Darkness, cookie cutters...(her mumblings become unintelligible.)


---end of connection/interview----