I PROMISED MYSELF I’D STOP THINKING about it, so instead I gave memory to thing I’d never much noticed: Intersecting lines, crumpled paper, smooth chords. An aroma that wandered over from the next table, two curls in my face, a saturated photograph. Persnickety, New York, or wherever that station was where we got on the train to the city. Rye bread. Poughkeepsie, that’s it. Sitting in an ’88 Chevy Suburban on a hot day…
There’s nothing in the mailbox. I used to read a book about figure skating, I could be in Vancouver. I have no recollection of being anything less than five. The best times are the silent ones.
The only time I ever wore lipstick, it ended up on my teeth. I’ve been longing for bigger hair. I’ve never smoked a cigarette, not a single inhale to my name. Every time a car gets too close, I exhale again and again. I’m scared of traffic and of the buzz. I feel tied up in petty obsessions: making my bed, straightening the closet, the loose thread on my shirt, buying groceries. Mother taught me everything about modesty, and how to arrange the stuffed animals on my bed in perfect succession. They’re all important.
Aching, I looked on as she raised a sheet into the air, watching it float down on to the living room floor. I looked on as the bridge raised, the ship went under, the bridge lowered. I looked on as he stood in front of the microphone and feverishly strummed through red and dark. I looked on to the cul de sac below, the door across, the car next to. Volume. I looked on to my grandma, who looked to my aunt, who looked at ease. I looked on from my bed, some couch, a passenger seat. I looked out.
Jkl Mno, the /\ OK \/ is not CLR.
Things to consider: Getting lost, taking the train, reconsidering.
PWR. END.
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