Restive

Restive: impatient, uneasy, or restless




I cannot deny my need to be restless. It is unfair even to use it as a descriptive word when really it has become its own being, an impatient and overbearing adolescent growing inside of me who grates at my every nerve, yet evokes the love only a mother can dote upon her child. I’m restless with lectures, uneasy with long dinners, impatient for results. I must make a shift in comforts, the length of my hair; I am deeply restive in relationships. This bothers me, for though I do create a purposeful splash in calm and tepid waters, a large part of me, the part I dare to love the most, does want to go a lifetime with one person without every feeling the need to disturb it. This year’s resolution is not to kid myself and say I will destroy restlessness, but to save and keep it safely in a way where it is still a part of me. I will displace it, lock it in a room and feed it only uncomfortable lunches and awards ceremonies. On holidays, just to be kind, I will let it come out when we unwrap presents from family seen twice a year. It can come to any party where large crowds anxiously await for me to catch cooked food flying in the air towards my mouth, and I will always let it help me blow out the birthday candles.

But, I insist it be far away when we kiss, impossible to sense when we embrace. It must be tucked in and already fast asleep when you throw your heavy legs and arms over me and silently beg me to lay still and dream beneath you. This year, I beg for the strength to find my restiveness less obtrusive and more innocent, less garish, less of a spoiled ending, and much more like the tug of a child at the hem of a skirt.