Champagne is for getting swept off her feet. It’s for first meetings and shiny jewelry and coquettish glances under heavy mascara. It’s for a new pair of lips meeting her rouge-tinted ones, a new hand curling in her hair, a new body pressed against hers. It’s for new, exciting things, for reinvigorating an all-too fleeting youth and reinstalling an all-too fleeting confidence. Her laughter bubbles over like the fizz forming at the mouth of the bottle. Champagne is for a first date at a fancy place way outside her budget, but the handsome face sitting across from her makes it worth it. It’s for a tipsy walk back to her date’s apartment with a wonderful warmness gripping her chest and complacency muddling her mind. Champagne is for being made love to, and she feels something sparking right then and there, like when bubbles pop in her mouth. Feni is for falling in love. It’s for exotic trips to south Asia and plenty of humor (“Wait, what is this called? Feni? Out of cashews? Wow, you really can make alcohol out of anything!”). It’s for long, soporific afternoons bathing in the hot sun and being kissed over and over again until she feels her existence melting away to the man she wants — needs. It’s for losing her mind and inhibitions, the days blurring together into a routine — food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep. Her partner is the axis of which her world rotates on; the gifts she is showered with and his gentle caresses pull her in until the gravity is causing her to crash towards him. The ecstasy and bliss she comes to associate with her lover dawns a wonderfully terrifying realization: she’s completely in love. Beer is for simple beginnings. It’s for moving into a new apartment and cardboard boxes and paying rent. It’s for relaxation after a long day at work, and opening doors to unwind. It’s for beginning a new reality that she’s so enraptured by that it still feels like a dream. It’s for chatting and sharing secrets under the stars on the fire escape. It’s for flipping news channels and shopping for curtains and making (and subsequently burning) the dinner. Beer is there when they find themselves enamored by domesticity. They’ve begun to prefer these moments of cheap take-out and post-coital silence over cool nights in the Mediterranean and surfing on Florida beaches. It’s also when, as she sips a can of Bud Light and lets the bitter taste lull her brain into happy mindlessness, she decides she may as well be married to this man, because she now refuses anyone else, forever. He’s ruined her in the best way possible, so they marry in the spring. Cider is for parties.
They invite people over often, open bottles upon bottles as they eat and chat and sing nineties tunes. Her mind is buzzing after the third glass. Between gossip and house tours, a pleasant warmth in her stomach grows whenever someone compliments how right they are for one another. She nods, feigning a noncommittal expression, even though she’s swimming in her own joyous disbelief. How did she manage to find her soulmate? The one person she’s made for, the only one she’ll ever have, ever want, ever need. She doesn’t want to live without these endless nights of guests and finger foods and drinks. She couldn’t. Gin is for waiting. She’s been told that the workload piles up at her husband’s office. They have to meet the end-of-the quarter cutoffs for their bonuses. It doesn’t bother her much; he’s very focused on his career and she wouldn’t dare be an inconvenience for him. She begins to cook meals for one instead of two. Her husband comes home at late hours, exhausted beyond belief. He usually collapses on the couch, absorbed in his own little world, numbers dancing in his head to the tune of his far-away workplace. She takes the liberty in easing his pain by providing a glass of gin and tonic. It’s not her favorite drink, and it’s neither his, but it’s enough. Afterwards, he crawls into bed, and she goes after him, watching him with adoration as he trudges up the stairs to their bedroom. She’s heard that such periods of stagnancy — dips — are inevitable in relationships. It would be selfish of her to whine and complain. She loves him, earnestly and completely, and that means she must make herself as receptive to his behaviors as possible. She needs him, needs this relationship. Wine is for delusion. The nights without him become longer. She comes to that realization one evening at eight o’clock, sipping on Chardonnay. Lately, he’s become too tired for gin, and instead opts to sleep immediately. His smile is weaker, more tired. His eyes are more distracted and he fidgets perpetually. They drink a lot more often. Now and then, she’ll briefly contemplate beginning a discussion on children, just to keep him home more. She’s desperate for redamancy, for his hands all over her body, to watch that expression of unadulterated affection flutter back onto his face. Wine helps her cope with some of the loneliness. It helps her lose her sense of time, turns the world syrupy-sweet, and she’s able to trick her awful mind that he’ll come home soon. She imitates the role of a trophy suburban housewife, longing for her husband while pretending to sweep the floors. Over time, she realizes, she has a better chance of finishing half the bottle and passing out on the couch before he gets home. She drinks extra to try and ignore the smell of unfamiliar perfume on him.
Vodka is to numb the pain. The pain in her heart, the pain of the bruises, the pain of the truth. Her throat is sore from all the yelling, but it’s nothing in comparison to the liquid fire scorching her esophagus. He’s gone. He’s stormed off, and she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. She’s sorry. She’s so, so sorry. She didn’t mean to get angry. It had just slipped out. He had said he’d be leaving for a week-long business trip, and she, unable to bear the combined weight of her brewing hurt and mistrust over the past months, had lashed out, accusing him of cheating. In turn, he’d erupted too. His hands were all over her, but not in the gentle way they used to be. Their voices were raised, but not laughing or calling out each other’s names. And now, she’s on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Please come back, she repeats hoarsely into the silence of her apartment. She clings to those words like a prayer, begging to anyone and anything to bring him back. She’d throw herself at his feet for a chance at forgiveness. She was wrong for losing her patience. Maybe there was a rational explanation to it all. She shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And she’s so, so sorry. It’s so cold without him by her side, without the knowledge of when — if — he’ll come back. It’s really, really cold, so she takes another sip. Once the hangover has passed and the weight of her grief has dispersed from her chest to her sinus, she hobbles to the bathroom. Every step she takes in bitter sobriety beckons her back into the reprieve of stupor. She makes it, however, and flicks on the light to their bathroom. Her face stings from the (hours? Days? It would have surely been years) that she’s been weeping. She runs her hands underneath the warm water, and blood rushes back into her fingertips all too hastily. They turn red with feeling. She splashes the water onto her face and examines herself in the mirror. Water is for revelation.
The sunset over the pond was a disappointing, faded hue, muted by clouds and the heavy hanging moisture in the air. Naomi Foster, a gangly fourteen year old with too many sun baked freckles watched it anyways, swinging her legs in and out of the water over the side of the flimsy aluminum dock. This hour of the day was one of the few attractions of the campground, and picnic blankets lined the mossy shoreline for families in pre-planned serenity. There was no blanket for Naomi, no overnight camping trip that would end as soon as the tents and sleeping bags were gathered up and tossed into the back of a car. For her, there was only an old school bus, reborn as a trailer and parked anywhere the whims of her mother may lead.
Rose-Louise was the name of the bus, painted on the deep green walls of either side. Fitted with two bedrooms, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen and table, it had been their home for the past year. It was once an ordinary school bus, with sickly kale-green seats and dirt from the bottoms of children’s shoes etched into the crevices of the floor. The weekends of a whole year were devoted to converting the empty tin box into a home, day after day of research, plans, and crushing work. Naomi remembered sitting across from her mother, exhausted, just closing up a grease-stained pizza box. As soon as this is done, we’ll be out of here. I promise. Just you and me and a great big adventure. And all those months ago, at only thirteen, Naomi believed her. There was no way to tell one future from another, and how could she have known? Adventure meant weeks upon weeks of driving, night spent in empty campgrounds, days without groceries or conversation with another living soul.
“Dinn-ner!” A howl through the darkening mist. Naomi pulled herself up, a marionette hovering barefoot over the water, and began to walking back to the bus, tugging low swinging leaves and scraping moss from tree trunks as she went.
Alma Foster was a wispy looking woman, with a slight frame and feathers woven into her dusty brown hair. In one gentle motion, she pulled a disposable casserole tin out of the toaster oven and set it on the counter. “Terry’s coming over tonight.” she said.
“Fine. I’ll go out, then.”
“You know you don’t have to, honey.” She clutched the serving spoon for the casserole a little tighter. But Naomi didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to see Terry, reeking of beer, his greasy ponytail slicked back against his rotten scalp. He had been coming over for the past four weeks, and the distance was shrinking between visits. She suspected that he, more than anything, was the reason they had stayed here for so long.
“I know.” she said, and she did. It was not, could not, be her mother’s fault, not entirely. Compared to her old, wild minded friends with unnameable instruments and equally musical voices, and even her father in his youth, Naomi was scant company for a long voyage. Alma continued to talk, telling her of the little jar of organic honey bought at the farmer’s market, the odd creaking noise Rose Louise has begun to make when put into reverse, and other daily intricacies that began to blur into the same lull of loose details and polished words meant only to fill the space. She seemed relieved when Terry’s elephant footsteps made the doorway groan, and Naomi slipped away with backpack in hand.
She didn’t get very far. Where was there to go? For miles there was nothing but the same clusters of white pines and craggy boulders, and wilted patches of wildflowers dried up in the summer drought. She sat on a wooden picnic bench, abandoned from the earlier sticky sweet barbeques of families got to leave after only one honey-tinted evening. Behind her, a gauzy yellow light streamed from the windows of the bus.
She fiddled with the zipper on her bag of a while, and remembered losing the backing to her favorite pin, the one her father had given her on her last birthday, sitting on the curb in front of his house. A real house, with curtains and a lock and a working bathroom. Despite the odds, she found the back again the next morning, nestled in the mulch of the campsite, and just for a moment, she believed in miracles. The backing fell off again a few days later, just before leaving yet again, this time lost forever. Terry’s house, a boxy mobile home, was right on the edge of the campground. She had been there, just once, forced to by her mother to have dinner with the two of them. From this, only two memories still clung to her; the key to the door was under the mat, and the key to his pickup truck was perched on a hook just behind the coat rack. Naomi could drive, if only well enough to give her mother a few hours of rest without losing time on the road. She wouldn’t have to go far. Her father’s house was only a few hours away, a few hours she wouldn’t be missed. She imagined pulling into the drive of the perfect suburban house, the relief on Dad’s face as he stepped through the squeaking glass front door. He wouldn’t be mad she had driven, or stolen or run away. No, he would take her up in his arms and and tell her Yes, of course you can stay here. Please stay. Everything will be alright. She knew he had kids, two perfect toddlers with his nose and the eyes of his new wife. She had seen the photos on Facebook. If he loved them, Naomi was sure she must love them too. They might even have a garden, fresh and full of sunshine like the one she used to tend when her backyard was not a blur behind her.
And what of Alma, left in her little green box, without a daughter? She would be fine, Naomi was sure. Glad, even. Good riddance, to the girl who could not sleep against the rocking of the bus on the long drives, who grew too quickly to properly fit scavenged clothes and hand-me-downs from other people’s children. Besides, Terry was here. She would not be missed.
Terry’s truck started without complaint, and more quietly than the matronly groan of the schoolbus. Naomi circled around to the front gate with a cautious lethargy on the pedals, and at last, she was free.
The highway was all but abandoned. It was a weeknight, and late, at that. Where was there to go? The children of the cookie-cutter homes nestled just of the exits were already tucked into bed, their parents adrift in the blue glow of the tvs in their living rooms. Naomi drove following the emerald flashes of road signs, waiting, hoping that she could get close enough to navigate the rest of the way on her own. It was this, perhaps, or simply inexperience, that kept her from seeing the deer until it was too late. It rolled over the windshield, and in the same motion, fell lifeless to the ground. Naomi shuttered the truck to a stop, and stumbled from the driver’s seat. She glanced at the deer, and back at the bloodied bumper of the truck, and held in the tears welling in her eyes. Don’t let anyone take a deer you hit away from you, is what Terry had said, overheard a few day after they had first arrived to the campground. No one, not even a cop. It’s yours, and yours to keep. They just want it for their own freezer. She hated hated hated him, and the crass way he spoke. Hated the campground, stuck too long to the wheels of a lopsided adventure. Hated the deer for jumping into the road, giving its life to nothing.
She shuddered, and turned away. The truck pulled away from the breakdown lane, a machine unaware of the life it had taken. And Naomi, of course, was a capable driver. So she drove, hurdling through the dark between her two worlds. To a welcome, and a bed, and some feeble sort of hope. Please don’t let her see the police sirens and raindrop tears and caked blood on headlights. Let the road be hers alone, for there is a long way ahead of her.
In the hour before Sunday service started, the younger members of my congregation— myself included— would attend a rudimentary Sunday School. There, we would learn the basics of Christianity, bible stories and their meanings, and, as years went by, we would begin to discuss how we each individually approached and understood the concept of faith.
But it was very hard to pay attention, since the couch I’d sit on would prove to be much more comfortable than one could imagine.
That couch was made of this really smooth yellow leather, the wrinkles and stress that scarred it probably signifying the piece of furniture had been around for at least a decade or two. I can’t say it would’ve been justified to throw it out since that thing was soft, incredibly so, the naturally cool temperature of the room that surrounded it often turning its cushions into these cold, pillowy, clouds of comfort.
Soft to the touch, I can still go on and on at how many times I’d just sink into that couch, blissfully unaware of whatever our lesson was and fully allowing myself the pleasure of pretending my parents had just let me stay at home and stay in bed for a few more hours.
“Do You Like To Learn About God?”
I’d be floating on airs half the time I’d go through the motions of Sunday School. The room’s blue paint and lack of artificial light often meaning the most coloration I’d be surrounded by would be the easy white glow of an early morning sun.
I can easily admit that this setting definitely made me sleepy, not bored. I was happy to be there. The lessons and bits of scripture we’d be taught often sticking in my head like a persistent fog of words and jargon.
I was taught to love my neighbor, to understand the importance of honesty, and to believe that, no matter what, we had a place to go when we’d die.
I was taught to understand that, no matter what, there is a God. He was to be understood as ever present and all-loving, not a single thing on this beautiful Earth being able to escape His vision, or, His judgement.
“I Like To Think About God.”
Sunday School to me was a place to rest, but never sleep. I could get in the in-between of conscious thought and a delightful, sleepy, haze but I’d never fully indulge in whatever reprieve my body wanted. Of course, this was mostly due in part to the fact that I wasn’t really alone there, no matter how much it would seem like the only thing I could hear was the gentle fraying motion of my hands brushing up against the leather of that cool, yellow couch.
· 2 ·
Me and my Mama would shop at the local dollar store after every service as if the routine were a part of the worship itself.
Every time we’d visit, a golden hue of an oncoming noon painted the store, its plastic signs and endless products glistening and shimmering with a sheen of artificial value. To me, this sight always bewildered me as the endless aisles of the twinkling snacks, cheap toys, and paperback books all had this sort of honest charm to them. Each and every product bathed in this golden light as if they wanted to show a bit of self esteem in those lifeless shelves.
It was warm there, the thick haze of aging air and poor ventilation falling on me like a blanket, the shimmering sun doing wonders here as well as it was easy to feel comfortable in a place where your skin always had a bit of glow to it.
I’d play with my fingers a lot as my Mama walked me up and down the short but endless aisles. She’d spend a childhood’s eternity carefully inspecting the varied array of spices, discount chips, and Bible coloring books, the whole ordeal doing very little to grab my young attention. In the rare moments of mercy where she’d let me run off, I’d always end up staring at the magical row devoted to brightly colored toys and plastic guns.
“I Wish I Had A Gun.”
I’d find myself lost in that toy aisle, thought sludge and daydreams flowing through my head as I’d imagine the fights I’d be in or the kingdoms I’d build. I wanted to be a soldier, a policeman, a cowboy. I wanted to fight for the honor of that aisle and tell stories of the warzones I’d endured and the opponents I’d overcome to the plastic companions I’d befriended along the way.
To a simpler me, this routine, this perpetual campaign of visits and post-church errands, was as perpetual and indistinguishable from the flow of times and seasons itself. I always wanted to play, I always wanted to snack, and I always had to go with my Mama. Whether it was Spring, Fall, Summer, or Winter, that store was the pillar of my life’s consistency, the be all and end all of where my daydreams would take me and where they’d mingle with the crusting knots of an uncleaned rug floor for all of time’s infinite crawl.
No matter what, I would always, and could only, end up there with Mama. For toys, for food, for pencils, for presents, for medicine, for shampoo, for detergent, and for her.
I never felt like I’d be old enough to shop there on my own, its vast arrays of complex colors and sounds being far too difficult for someone as perpetually young as me to ever fully understand.
Maybe I just don’t have the heart for that kind of thinking, or even worse, the wallet.
It will always be the place my Mama brings me.
“Some Things Never Change.”
· 3 ·
There’s something about cheeseburgers that makes them very easy to crave. I think it has something to do with the juiciness that a good one can bring. It’s strange when you think of it, the last thing you want with something bread based is an overstay of moisture, but a good, juicy —almost creamy— cheeseburger that has been dolloped with a generous helping of mayo and ketchup is something that’s incredibly difficult to ignore the allure of.
“You know how bad this could be for you if things get difficult? You’re… What’s the word, noter- nota- notarized. You’re notarized there,” Moses finished taking a small sip of his soda before continuing, “Notarized… is that the right word Aaron?”.
“That’s exactly it,” Aaron answered as she took a massive bite out of her sandwich, her large jaw practically unhinging to cram as much of the burger as she physically could into her still talking mouth. “You said you sign a lot of paperwork every time you clock out right?” she asked me with a hiccup, “All they need is the slightest hint that you’re involved and you’re screwed for life, retail leaves a paper trail.”
“You Won’t Have To Worry About A Thing.”
· 4 ·
I’m a cashier at that dollar store now. Its historic shelves are now a part of my daily routine, the hands that once twirled onto themselves in indecision now hard at work at keeping things stocked, cleaned, and efficient. If I’m given an early shift, the golden glow that stuck to me in my youth helps keep me focused, It’s continued presence being somewhat of a nostalgic comfort as it keeps me warm even as the air outside turns cold and crisp.
That familiar sense of place makes me happy to be an employee there, my thoughts flitting constantly between scattered scenes of childhood ignorance and present day responsibility, the overstocked aisles still feeling just as alien as they did all those years ago.
As the sun sets however, the white and artificial glow of the buzzing lights replaces any remaining piece of childhood wonder with a hollow pit of exhaustion. The closing routine begins and I find myself vacuuming the same floors, typing out the same credentials, and signing paper after paper of bureaucratic bookkeeping and quality assurance.
On Sundays, I help deliver the day’s bank deposit, that specific routine being a little more involved since we need to do whatever we can to deter a robbery. At this point, paranoia sets in.
When my manager is bringing out the deposit, they’ll stand in wait at the door as I drive my car up to pick them up and drive them over to theirs safely. The 20 second window between them locking up the store behind them and hopping into my car is the only time the deposit is under any sort of outside risk.
Thou Shalt Not Steal.
· 5 ·
As I began to understand the intention behind the lessons I was being taught at Sunday School, I also began to understand just how lonely that place could feel, though it wasn’t the kind of solitary loneliness that drives someone to longing. I had friends, people to talk to, and the presence of others was always felt and present.
No, the loneliness here was because, despite all of this, it always felt as if I were only talking to myself.
When lessons would drone on and much of the class fell silent into a stupor of boredom, I’d be the first to step up and answer whatever questions I could. I’d bounce back the answers I knew our teacher would need to hear and, in turn, I’d get a few kind smiles from both her and my classmates as my continued participation meant less accusations of laziness would be directed towards the group.
I can’t say I wasn’t having my own fun in this educational back and forth, it felt as if I was being used.
Nobody truly cared for what I’d been spouting, they only cared that I said the right thing at the right time, though for many, this was more than enough to convince them I was truly hoping for the promise of eternal bliss.
I’d talk of my appreciation for the sacrifice that people like the Hebrews had made for their loved ones, to allow themselves to be tortured, used, worshipped, and sanctified all for the sake of a God they had to believe in just on the principle of trust and faith. Martyrs and Saints became the stuff of legends to me, and when I’d speak of how often I’d look up to these figures, the smiles and praise I’d be given would far outweigh any religious vindication saying such things would grant. To be faithful, for me, was to be loved.
But this never changed the separation, the mental solitude that kept me from honestly understanding what I had wanted from this class or these people. They liked the things I’d say and the affirmations of the good that kind hearts and good faith can bring. I was the resident child prophet for that cold, blue, room, but sometimes I felt that even my peers could see through what I was doing.
I was loud mouthed and overly zealous. No one my age could truly care this much about the contents of a Book too big to even consider reading through in its entirety. Why would I, the space cadet obsessed with a yellow couch, be the one to step up and adore the word of God?
I had become addicted to the act, solitary in my addiction to putting on a “pious” appearance and chained to screeching thoughts and lessons I didn’t truly believe in… but did I?
I thought a lot about Heaven when I was young. I thought of playing cards with my grandparents and talking to my idols. I dreamed of living in a golden tent amongst an endless field of clouds, of eating from a banquet just for the joy of consumption, and adoring myself and my peers for all of an eternity. But one Sunday, my thoughts taught me something excruciating.
“If You Can’t Die In Heaven, What If You Get Bored?”
· 6 ·
I can’t go to church anymore.
I work.
I think.
I miss my Mama.
I talk to myself.
And I talk to some other people.
I work at the store with a golden hue.
I’m old enough to earn money here.
I’m old enough to keep it up and running.
But I’m not old enough to be alone here.
Because I still think I should be here with my Mama.
I stare down the aisles as the sunset comes.
I remember the warmth I felt.
I see candy bags twinkle and plastic cups shimmer.
I see office supplies gloss over with their inky blacks.
I see canned goods shine with a metallic twinkle.
I see toys.
I see Mama.
I feel bad.
· 7 ·
The store was incredibly busy on the last Sunday night before Halloween. This wasn’t unexpected as a LOT of people tend to leave this sort of shopping to the absolute last second so we made sure to keep our things stocked.
We did a double our usual amount of candy stocking, made sure that all of our décor for sale was up to snuff, and even went out of our way to keep things festive by throwing up some cheap cloth ghosts and paper ribbons wherever we could afford to use the space.
It was nice to see so many people come in from the cold smiling, their moods immediately perking up as they soon found out that we had exactly what they were looking for to keep them well prepared for the night of trick-or-treating and costume parties ahead.
Soon things became a blur of oranges, blacks, whites, and yellows. Each beep of the scanner and the crumple of bags changing hands and money coming in and out of the till created a sonic bedspread of familiarity. Slowly, even as the night turned white and silent, that nostalgic fire re-lit again as the magic of a good night’s worth of work mingled with the familiar smell of candy corn and scented candles.
My manager comes up to congratulate me on the hard work, a few chuckles indicating we’ll have to spend some time tonight making sure all the money is well accounted for as to avoid any possible miscounts for the undoubtedly massive take.
I laugh with her, saying that this kind of night is always something I’ve always hoped of having, the businesses, the festivity, and the aromas all coming together to reform the idealized picture of this comfortable little dollar store that my heart has always held.
But something in me curdles at these words. It’s almost a sickening feeling, the kind of bitterness that builds up in your stomach when you drink something rotten and sweet.
It’s a feeling of loneliness, of abandonment, not on yourself be to those around you.
I felt deeply perverted, and extremely excited all at the same time. It was my last day working here and I’m both happy things got to be so special but incredibly guilty for how my time here will end.
The night lights shift on as the purifying glow of white iridescence brings me back into focus as I start to feel a cold sweat come over me. I check out our last remaining customers with shaky hesitation, some hoping I feel better soon as my skin uneasily turns a shade lighter
I want to run and shake off my nerves screaming, I want my arms to feel less like spindled guitar strings, their erratic twitches and crude feeling reverberating erratically against my chilly body.
I feel the same pit of fear and uncertainty grip my stomach as it had when I first felt myself questioning my lessons, the terror of choosing between an eternity in obliviousness or an infinite amount of time in conscious space breaking me down to my core as I forgot exactly why I had chosen to go through with this.
“It Has Always Been My Dream.”
· 8 ·
Sunday School taught me to rest.
In our brief meditations I’d always stare out the small glass window we had up on the far wall. It pointed out towards the parking lot, the small trees and apartments that surrounded it doing little to block the empty blue sky that always hung over our lessons during the colder months of the year.
These moments gave me pause. At first, I’d think of games and daydreams, always wishing to be somewhere else but here. I’d think of action and tragedy, a life without rules and entertainment without limits as the cold touch of boredom clenched my idle fingers tightly. But this wasn’t to last, as soon I’d think of the banality of the room, the peaceful look of a group of people huddled together in shut-eye unity. Were they praying? Was I supposed to pray? Or were we told to clear our minds? I know I can’t do either.
I’d start to crave sleep, but of course, it never came. My dreams would stay pinned to the sunlight, and my thoughts would blur together. The ticking of a clock, the details of a whiteboard, the feeling of a couch. Am I alone? Can They hear my thoughts? Are They asking the same, or are we different? Can we be different?
Our teacher would quickly bring things back to order as our shared reverie ended. We talked of sin, and punishment, and our fears of the infinite. We talked of thoughts, love, and opinions and, for once, I revealed something true. Something undoubtedly me. Something undoubtedly Mama, who loved, and loved, and loved, and loved.
“I Don’t Believe In Hell.”
· 9 ·
One afternoon, me and my Mama went to the dollar store to pick out some decorations for the Fall. Every year, I loved finding another ceramic candle-house to add to a large collection I was bringing. They were small, decorative, and very exciting to organize as it made me feel as if I ran my own little village of friends and neighbors.
When we entered, the golden glow was bathing me and mama with its welcome embrace once more, I went straight for the nearest display and stood in awe as I looked at each of the little houses. There were cozy cottages, barn houses, and grain mills that all looked like a perfect addition to this year’s community.
Mama smiled as she stood beside me rubbing my head with a gentle to and fro, twisting and curling whatever strands of my hair her fingers fell on with a light tug.
Distracted by the affection, as I went to grab the house of choice, a small wooden ranch-house, my hand accidentally brushed against a little grain silo, knocking it off the shelf.
It’s Okay, It’s Okay, It’s Okay You Didn’t Mean To Do It.
· 10 ·
I came up with the plan when I decided I was going to quit.
Since the deposit always needs to be delivered every Sunday night, it was best to time it so that we’d be moving a lot of money. Halloween was to Fall that coming Monday, meaning there would be a lot of commotion going in and out of the store to get things prepared last minute, making for a sizable cash deposit needing to be made that very night.
As we began to close up shop I sent a quick text to Aaron and Moses to get them into position near the side of the store.
“I always get so nervous that we close this late… parking lot’s too big, can’t see who’s trying to make a move,” My manager told me as we made our way to the front door, a bulging envelope of cash sticking out from the corner of her handbag. “It isn’t safe, though you’re smart for never having to do this again,” She told me with a chuckle.
“I’m Going To Miss It Here.”
“We’ll miss you too! It’s been a good long while hasn’t it?” She motioned me to stay close to her as she pulled out some keys to unlock the door.
I looked behind me at the silent and darkened store. Its shelves were stagnant, shadowed by the lack of light. The rich and colorful displays of products, toys, and banners all stood monochrome, stopped in time itself as the lack of light obscured any friendly details out of sight.
It wasn’t warm anymore, but neither did it seem frozen by the lack of light. It was waiting, pushing me on to make my next move as I left the world I had built there behind me, my head going numb with a dull pain as the shelves, tills, and decorations all stared at me with abject disappointment… Or was it relief?
I could only stare back, for just a moment I felt the soul of the store pass through me as my manager finally opened the door, the cold Fall air pulling me to where I was destined to go.
Now, things were truly over, and all I could see was a decrepit store waiting for the end of time itself to come and take it.
My manager poked her head out of the door to make sure things were clear for me to leave, a quiet nod and a whisper of “Good Luck” pointing me towards where my car was parked just a few steps across the road, a tall street light illuminating it in the all but abandoned expanse of a quiet parking lot.
I walked over quickly, my hands deep within my pockets as the night air swelled around me in a bitter cold. As I got near the car door I caught a glimpse of my reflection, my features barely aged past from when I was just a kid but still weathered enough to show that above all else I was tired. My breath fogged up the image as I opened the door and stepped into my car, my shaking fingers sending out a final text of preparation to let them know it was time.
“It Always Feels Like I’m Only Ever Talking To Myself.”
· 11 ·
Mama taught me never to steal. That being bad was something she couldn’t forgive me for. She told me to keep my hands to myself and to always say “Please” and “Thank You”.
Mama taught me to pray every night before bed, especially when I felt bad about something, since by the time I’d wake up things would already be getting better.
Mama taught me that I was to be kind to strangers and gentle with my friends, so that no matter what, they would know how much I loved them.
I thought about all this as I brought the car around to the front of the store, my manager looking at me through the locked glass door one last time as I gave her the all clear signal.
As she stepped out quickly and locked the door behind her, Aaron and Moses were there to greet her with loud shouts, masked faces, and loaded handguns.
They ordered me to step out of the car.
“Do You Want To Meet God?”
They left as soon as they came, my manager and I staring blankly at the torn open envelope and the few scattered coins that they let fall freely on the freezing asphalt.
We said our goodbyes silently, a huff of disappointment and exhaustion escaping her as she refused to pick up what little money had been left behind and instead suggested it’d be best if we just walked away happy to still have our lives.
I drove back home with my head in the clouds, my tongue feeling numb as I replayed the scene over and over again, my thoughts slowly melting away into another golden memory of what that store had given me.
As I sat on the ground bawling at the broken ceramic silo, my Mama scooped me up and brought me close to her chest, cooing gently and telling me how I didn’t have to worry so much.
She told me it was only an extra dollar, just one other dollar she’d have to pay for the tiny accident and that I was still allowed to get the little house that I wanted. She said that no matter what, even if I had a bad day, even if I had some small accidents, I always deserved to be happy.
“I Love You Very Much.”
I was too young to shop there. Did anyone else tell me that? They might have been right in the end. I was always too young. I was too busy floating on clouds, dreaming on big yellow couches, and waiting for that golden glow to realize I would never be big enough to shop there.
I thought about Sunday School when I held my share of the money in my hands. I thought about those cold lonely Sundays, those long shifts of working and waiting, the emptiness of trying to belong and the bliss of feeling like somehow, somewhere, there will always be someone waiting for you in the end. Was this Heaven? Or did I go to Hell?
When I went to bed that night, I dreamt of hugging her one last time. She was smiling.
“I oft be a cowboy when Moments such as this Relapse. The bitter stench, The sour curl, And cradled in my own arms I lie. I oft dream of San Antone Of melting sunsets with ivory scraplets upon A distant sky, Not mine, Not mine. I cannot bear to see it. Not mine, Not mine, Never to be mine.” So I say this, to you, my love. My distant and eternal Friend. I am saddened by my wishes, The begging That I make for a life of cattle prod and sandstorm. To see the dust of a hoof, The crack of a splinter, And the rolling of a hill far greater than my self. I oft claim to be a man of sanity, a stable gentleman within myself, But in this confessional I wish to express, that no true self, Is better expressed than this. “I am crawling,” I claim. “I am crawling when all else about me is walking, running, sprinting, flying.”
So, to you, my Only friend, Believe me and listen! Listen! I am begging for you to hear me! I am telling you of my pains and Harms. My endless, endless, dreamings. My desires to be caressed against saloon seating, Doppled spangler draped across my belt, And a spur twinkling like new crushed glass ready to kick, cut, and Slice. I pray to be a ranger, a rider, a soldier, a Thing. An specific thing, An specific some. An specific a. I want be an a, A referral put against by historians as midst the best of man’s creations. An Inspiration. I dream of collapse of An unfinished bounty, A gunfight deeply lost, Never able to redeem. Of pores of Blood and desecration Seep out of me against the bleached shoals of Nevada, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, Not here. I will beg and beg again, “I crave a death not able to me!” One of jovial cantina florets, The strum of a guitar and a song
Unlike most songs Made for me, my exploits, and you. A song A song that will tell of my exploits and ridings A song that the patrons crackle and spark with, its rhythms a Love To my own self, the self that rides. A song that shares my journeys and killings, That speaks of me not as I had been but as I yearn to be. A journeyman. A soul half against the law and half against himself, The winds of El Paso, Santa Fe, Amarillo, Burning against my back, My face dashed onwards to my claimed glories. Streamed sunlight abound and blessings now granted, My instruments of equine, Colt, And Wesson now holy. Shall opulent rays dance ripe with crimson, As sorrowful mother’s rest Indiscriminate Naught a care for man Nor beast Nor devil Nor self Myself reborn A weapon made for peace And peace, for all, I weaponize. Do you not hear me lover? Do you not understand my yearnings?
My want? My need? My death? To be a cowboy? For I cannot stand longer. My horse is figment, my pistol myth, My belt a creation, my whip a prayer, My boots a shame, my heart a deception, My sands a god, my sunsets a past, And you, A charity. Yet I am not a cowboy Nor whilst I chance to be As now I’ve cruxed to scream it on That “I am merely me”.
Drowning in the sea of ice-blue happiness, Eyes red with salty subliminal sin, Agonisingly angsty algae like a blindfold. The dull thud, the loud roar fills my ears Dreadfully disturbing whispers, Like sick slimy tentacles. But all I can hear is the sound of your beautifully melancholic melody. Opalescent alkaline water Through my nose to my throat Down the wrong pipe. Like a fish my mouth opens and closes, A ringing silence of realisation in my ears. Bloody tears mix with sweet water, Rage joins hands with joy. Sore throat and alamort lungs But live live live goes my treacherous heart.
Momma said I could get a fish if I would just quit yappin in her ear because apparently I tend to yap in her ear when I get bored but I don’t think it’s entirely my fault because there aren’t many ears around for me to yap in unless you count my own but I’m not really good at yappin in my own ear and to tell you the truth I don’t think anybody really is. So the deal was if I would just stop yappin in her ear she would buy me a fish because I’ve been begging for a fish since…bless his soul—Mr. Armstrong passed. I’m pretty sure I fed him a bit too much or maybe I didn’t feed him at all I’m not entirely sure to be honest but either way Mr. Armstrong is no more. Anyway, the only way I could make myself stop yappin was if I taped my mouth shut which is exactly what I did and by the end of the day Momma just looked at me heaving out a big old sigh after rolling her eyes and said real sweet and real sassy:
Fine.
I couldn’t have been happier—honest. I could tell Momma was extremely enthused at my accomplishment, as was I, because of the way she sighed. It was more of a happy sigh rather than an annoyed sigh—don’t let the rolling of the eyes fool you. Her eyes were rolling of pure happiness. She was happy I was getting a fish. I was happy I was getting a fish. I know Daddy would be upset about it because of the last few times I’ve gotten fishes and acted out but I generally make him upset for loads of reasons anyway so I try to stay away from him but this time I would be real good to the fish and real good overall—honest.
She brought me to the store and I looked through all the big tanks but all the fish just looked sad and old and I didn’t really want my fish looking all sad and old. I put my hands right up against the glass of one of the smaller tanks and a little sad old goldfish swam right up to me and I knew it would be the one. I told Momma I could teach it tricks and everything. She pointed with her fat finger at the fish with her nails all sparking with the prettiest blue you ever did see and said you can’t teach fish tricks. Maybe she was right I don’t know but all I could think about was how I was gunna have a new fish.
She said we had to pick a tank out for the thing and to keep it real simple and real cheap because the vase we kept my last fish in was filled with nice flowers. Most of the tanks were these big old boxy things but I wanted one of those nice looking round fish bowls—the ones that are big enough for you head and kinda look like an upside down spacesuit helmet. That’s all you’d need —a nice simple helmet-looking bowl to put the fish in then you got yourself a happy place for a little sad old goldfish. So that’s exactly what we got. On the way home Momma reminded me that I gotta keep my yappin to a minimum and be real good to the thing because it was living and all. I promised and taped my mouth shut. She just sighed and drove us home.
When we got back I went straight to my room and put the bowl right on my desk and poured the little old fish in it. It just started floating around not really moving much which got me a bit nervous and I started shaking because it was supposed to be moving. I kinda tilted my head to
1
look at it and spun the bowl around and it started wiggling its little fins. It was alright. I started thinking about what I should name it. A fish ought to have a name I’d think. It was a living thing and all but I couldn’t decide right away.
You could see right through the bowl because it was glass and everything. You could see the bright blue sky and clouds through the bowl—not the real ones but the ones on my wall. Momma said my room used to be my nursery and they wanted me to feel like the room was my world so they made the walls real bright and put clouds all over and even put stars on the ceiling —the one’s that glow and everything. Just so my room could be the world. The fish didn’t know that. It just saw the blue and the clouds and the stars and my little gray bed in the middle of the room.
I wanted to give it its own little world and make the fish bowl habitable because Momma said I should make the bowl habitable. I went in the backyard and got some little gray rocks and washed them and put them in it bowl and stuck a really big one right in the middle. The little fish swam all around it and it kinda reminded me of a little ship orbiting the moon! It looked like a little astronaut doing a little dance. When I got in bed later that night I could see out of the corner of my eye the little fish swimming around the moon. I decided to name it Major Tom.
***
Pshh. Ground control to Major Tom…I put my hand over my mouth to make it sound just like a walkie talkie like they do in all the movies when they’re tryna sound like they’re talking through a walkie talkie…Major Tom, are you there? Over. Pshh. I was giggling all over the place under
the covers but I was tryna be quiet so Momma didn’t yell at me to quit yappin. I stacked up the pillows against my bed to make a nice tiny old fort. I peeked my head out from under the blankets to see how Major Tom was doing as he was on an extremely important mission to find extraterrestrial life. Of course it was just sitting on my desk staring at me wiggling a bit near the moon but it liked to play pretend too. Pshh. Mission almost complete. Over. Pshh. I could hear the fish loud and clear.
It was getting real dark outside with the sky turning red and blue and purple the way it does but I kept my lights off so the stars on my ceiling would glow like they usually do. Momma opened my door and saw me sitting under all the covers and told me to go to sleep because it was late as hell and she didn’t want me being all whiny in the morning. I’m not always whiny in the morning but apparently when I don’t get my sleep I get real whiny in the morning and start yappin all over the place and Momma doesn’t really like that. Daddy says it makes me talk in a higher pitched voice than usual but I’m not too sure about that. I wasn’t about to go to sleep because I had my own mission to do.
When it got real dark outside I could hear Momma and Daddy shuffling down the hallway to bed and I waited until they were sleeping real good. I could tell they were sleeping real good because
I could hear them dreaming. Momma said when you’re sleeping real good you make noises in 2
your sleep which tells everyone around that you’re dreaming and to not wake you up. When they were sleeping real good, Major Tom watched me peep my head out into the hallway to check both ways before sneaking into the bathroom down the hall. I knew where Momma kept her prettiest blue nail polish—it was real pretty. It was all dark and blue like the sky at night and it glittered a bit when you put it in the light. I liked opening the bottle and I liked the smell when it was all wet. My hands get shaky sometimes. They actually get shaky all the time, especially when I’m all nervous, but I tried my best to spread the paint over my nails without my hands shaking the entire time because it just felt right. Then I snuck back into my room.
Pshh. Looks like Earth blue from the moon. Over. Pshh. Major Tom liked the way it looked too. It was its favorite color. It reminded it of its mission of being deep in space looking for a new life. I pressed my hands right up against its little glass bowl as the paint dried. I challenged Major Tom to a staring contest. It didn’t blink but I couldn’t help myself—Major Tom always wins. After a few round it was all dry so I hopped on my bed and started jumping around and wrapped the blankets all around me. I got in front of my mirror and I looked all cozy and funny-looking. I spun around with the blanket swirling all around me and started giggling again as Major Tom watched me holdout my hand as I stared at the paint glittering on my fingers. I think I did a pretty good job but that’s only because I copied what I’ve seen Momma do loads of times and I’ve done it twice before.
I jumped right back on my bed and looked up at the stars glowing on my ceilings and tried to get my fingers to touch them but I couldn’t get high enough because the ceiling’s pretty high. The blanket swished around me just like a fish and I could just imagine slipping into Major Tom’s bowl to teach each other tricks. Pshh. Major Tom. Looks like I can swim too! Over. Pshh. Then it taught me how to wiggle all around through the water with my fins and tail. Told me I gotta have determination so I tried real hard to have determination and then I was told I was doing alright but that I had to be careful. Pshh. The current’s tough. You are swimming fine. Just swim to the stars. The spaceship knows which way to go. Over. Pshh. Major Tom was my favorite fish.
***
I wasn’t yappin but I guess jumping on my bed and giggling all over the place in the middle of the night made a bit too much noise because I could hear footsteps in the hallway coming to my door.
What do you think you’re doing—what the hell do you think you’re doing, with that on? Come here…now!
Daddy’s voice was like thunder—it really was. I could feel the paint on my walls turn real gray with the clouds as Daddy spoke because he spoke not in the nice way but in the mean way. He was asking me a question but he really wasn’t and I don’t like when he does that but he does it a
lot. He pulled me in the hallway and made me get real close which made me feel real small because Daddy’s the tallest person I know because he just is—honest.
3
What do you think other kids are gunna think about that, huh? When they see you lookin like this? Scrape all of that off, you hear me? Don’t let me catch you doing that in this house again. How many times do I have to tell you?
I was just playing with Major Tom—
Major Tom what? You’re playing with the damn fish again… I just—I just can’t with it. This is the third time, the third time. “Major Tom.” You can’t be—we’re getting rid of it —that’s it—you gotta straighten out.
Daddy, I’ll be good—honest!
And then I started shaking real bad because I was real nervous and kinda scared and Daddy makes me real scared especially when he makes his voice all deep and angry. Then he got even closer to me and pulled his hand up and I zipped my mouth shut and he slapped me harder than he ever did before and pushed me in my room and said to not come out until I scraped it all off. I thought that was it but he didn’t stop and I just saw all the clouds on my wall start to rain—the sky turned real gray and I started crying. He picked up the bowl and started walking out. Major Tom was completely unaware of what was happening so it just swam around its little moon looking like it was on a mission. You’re fine, okay? You’re just going on a special mission—just another mission. It couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.
I warned you the first and second damn time. You gotta act like you’re supposed to. And stop talking in that voice you do. You gotta try. You gotta.
And then he flushed Major Tom just like that—and then he looked at me as I sat on my bed crying and shook his head as he placed the bowl down where it was just a couple minutes before but this time it was empty. I scraped the paint off my fingers with my teeth and cried and couldn’t stop my hands shaking all over—my entire body was shaking. Daddy didn’t need to do that but he did because he can’t be raising a different kid but Major Tom didn’t mind. Major Tom liked making pretend and swimming and the moon. Major Tom was a happy little sad old goldfish—a good fish. So I just cried and I couldn’t stop but that’s okay because sometimes you just can’t stop crying so I just wrapped the blankets around me and gave up scraping because it was really pretty and I liked the way it glittered in the light…just like the stars. I was looking out my window when Momma said to go back to bed and to quit crying because Daddy was right.
I just laid on my bed with my belly up and tilted my head a bit and saw the empty bowl out of the corner of my eye. I was still sad but I went over and picked it up along with some tape and brought them on the bed. It was real late now and Momma and Daddy were dreaming again. But
the stars were glowing real bright. I grabbed a long piece of tape and put it right over my lips. I was gunna be quiet until I could learn how to swim a bit better. And then I stared at the empty bowl in my hands with my scraped up fingers wrapped all around it. Pshh. Put your helmet on.
4
The stars look very different today. Look. Over. Pshh. I could hear the voice—I really could. And I put that bowl right over my head and could hear myself breathing real steady and I stopped shaking and the gray covers around me started to rumble before turning into air. And the clouds started to move real fast all around my walls as smoke began to come up from under me. And the stars started to get real bright right above my head as I heard the faintest voice: Pshh. Commencing countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two…
When I was young, I used to hate the taste of grapefruit juice. My mother would get it for Her gastrics, Her diet, Her tongue, and Her Cocktails. But for me, there was nothing. It was, as I had described it: Too bitter! Too sweet! Too sharp! Too neat! And with a hue of Pink that felt quite unfashionable for my tastes. But despite these adamant protests… She continued her purchase of the garish concoction. So, as time went on, I became accustomed to its revolting flavor. Its luscious hints at a velvety sort of saccharine still left me saddened however, Since the tart curl it blanketed on my tongue soon began to feel like a betrayal. Why can’t I get my sweetness without this unwanted tang? What’s a gal to gain? Surely there’s a way to get that kind of flavor without a needless sacrifice! And maybe, If I’m lucky, I don’t need to find a way to “make it work”. When I was a growing, I used to ignore the taste of grapefruit juice. With a bit more freedom and a bit more money, I went out to hunt the taste I needed. In the winter, I found that chocolate and butterscotch could be my new best friends. The needed warmth they’d bring, Free and uncommitting,
Felt right for me. The silky cream and honeyed laps of gentle presence were just what I’d been needing. With them, I never felt the bitter sting of feigned affection, The momentary kindness the grapefruit would drench me with being a distant memory, A nostalgia, for some. Not for me, Until of course I felt the sickness that came with too much syrup. When I was mature, I used to allow the taste of grapefruit juice. By spring, I became acquainted with the honesty of strawberry and mint. Fresh dollops of a sharp sort of sweet, Unlabored by acidity, and Unburdened by overtness, Left me enamored in a world of balanced affections. However, I was soon re-introduced to my old unwanted friend through the means of Gin, Vodka, and Liquor. Once again, I felt the unwelcome sting of that flavor I once loathed but, at least now, I couldn’t tell which was hurting more. So I went on in my tristes with these sultry three, though soon, I felt something amiss. As when my early years waned, and solitude set in, I began to understand, and feel, The roots of my mother’s addiction. When I was aging, I loved the taste of grapefruit juice. Long gone was my need for the subtle as I found the Pink blessing appealing. Its Bluntness, and Cruelty, That my familiar foe had brought, Freshened my glass once more without a moment’s hesitation. I never needed any sort of better treatment, That sort of thing belonged to those who needed it,
Since, for me, the disheartening taste of a dishonest drink, The unwelcome snap that’d come halfway down the glass,
Reminded me of where I began. And so, of course, it was needed. But the pain it provided, The disrespect it harbored, and The disloyalty it held, Hurt more with each passing hour. Why had I returned to what wronged me so before? What shackles ripped me back here? Was this punishment? Duty? Fate? Or something worse… Where was the hope I once held out for tastes better than this? Would it ever return? Can I ever feel it again? And for what seemed like an age, I waited. But now that I have years behind me, My time with cups, glasses, and shots, long felt. I carry pride in myself, and humility to, when I reach for a bottle these days. As I am old, I forget the taste of grapefruit juice. My falls are now spent in the company of nutmeg and cinnamon. In a moment, I can rely on the fragrant smoothness of simplicity, Since now, deception is a crude impossibility. With froth, heat, woodsmoke, and sugar, I am well met with the kind of kindness I fantasized about long, long ago. The ills of deception, longevity, duality, and remorse no longer a part of my palette, But instead,
A lesson for where I wish to be.
I cannot thank that for which has wronged me, That extension of mercy being something even my wisdom can’t bestow. But, for a moment, I like to think that things were always meant to be this tender. That someday, even I, Could feel the sort of sweetness that my mother always carried, and Smile.
There once was a girl who lived in Trujillo Alto named Analita. Analita was a girl of “never caring”, since she was a smart enough person to know that if she thought about every blade of grass she’d touch, she’d sense the countless ants that hopped off from its green slender form right onto her chanclas, the itching she’d complain about to Mama and Papa never again a mystery as she could just point at the green and say, “¡Eso!”. One night, Analita decided to “never care” by not turning off the big desk light she’d keep on when she’d work no matter how badly it hurt her eyes and felt like burning. This kept her up all night though, something she didn’t like because the heat was already an issue, and the itchy sheets were already a problem, and the half torn PJ’s were already making her sweat but, because she never cared, she knew that all she could really do was lie there and wait.
She closed her eyes hard, harder than ever before, and waited.
She thought about getting up and turning off the light, and waited.
She thought about getting new sheets or, better yet, just going to the living room couch (even though it smelt like ham and dust) because it had that nice silky blanket her stinky abuelo would sit on for his shows.
She thought about all these things but, most of all, she thought about tomorrow, and didn’t care. It was hard for Analita to care about tomorrow because she was too busy not caring about today. Why bother with going to the bathroom (even if your gut feels like sludge)? Why even care about the turned off fan (even with all the beads of sweat making your curly hair turn into a dandruff jungle)? Why get up and find something better, when the right now is so awful to be in?
“Do I like the awful?” Analita thought.
And it was the most she never cared.
But late one night, as the night frog’s chirping became a deafening cascade, she saw a cucaracha skitter right into her closet, the light chitter of its clicking limbs climbing up, up, up. She knew she’d be safe from the insect’s intrusive antennae but, just as a precaution, she climbed right out of her musty mattress and creeped towards the closet’s creaking door. Surely this was too much caring! One little roach was ignorable, maybe even invited, but all Analita felt within her was a glub of dishonesty as each step she took along the splintering wooden floor brought her closer to that towering portal.
Maybe if she turned back now, hopped back into bed, and awoke to a festering nest of scuttling larvae scratching at her pores then maybe, just maybe, she’d claim a climactic victory as the most careless of them all. No longer would she need to stress over any form of defense or longevity, now she was a brood! An emperor of the repulsive! Never again would she need to express any sentiment of caution or thought, her carefree life as a host to the abominable granting her an ultimate reprieve of the mind she so deeply hated.
But now, mere inches away from the door, she persisted on to thwart the vermin. Maybe I can get away with it just this once? A singular treat of effort to allow my planned apathy more empirical freedoms? No, Analita knew, this would only be a beginning.
She swung open the wretched door with the force of finality, her days of ignorance soon coming to a close and she spotted the vile interloper and raised up her bare foot against it. Soon her days of laze and worry would be concluded, no more would she stand idly by to let disgust and pestilence infest her livelihood, now she had the determination to defend it! Her days were soon to be hers at long, long, last!
Crashing down with the full weight of her little patita, Analita victoriously stomped the unwanted filth, the slicing tip of a nail the cockroach sat upon now nestled deep inside her sole.
I miss that feeling of unlimited time when I sat as a child on the bathroom floor after a shower, drip-drying until satisfied. Ivory skin— dirtier but softer then, no raised scars, no broken mounds to impede passing water beads. Uninterrupted dragging, tingling, itching. I tried to drip-dry yesterday, to unlock those pockets of endless time. The droplets plummeted, hurling themselves off the red mark cliffs. Cotton towel scrubbed wet body— flaky epidermis shed. Music haunted the shower and continued haunting after, keeping track of unwanted minutes. The floor wasn’t suited for sitting— no bath mat, no carelessness to make wet linoleum comfortable. No comfort. Clean. Mounds of broken flesh. Interrupted. Lint-clogged pores. Ivory skin turns into tusks and teeth, overgrown and in need. Picked scabs. Forgotten. The emery board passes by, takes a look, and hisses.
The grass holds my feet in place while I stare back at my reflection in the glass-like surface. With each breath, the water winds up to reach out for me once again. The scents of pine and fresh earth are still making their way through the air after all this time. Not much has changed about this place, in fact, and it doesn’t seem to mind that I have. The sun still cradles me in its arms, letting me sink deeper into the comfort this little Eden offers. There’s a rope swing behind me that solemnly sways in the breeze, waiting for me to return once more as a child; clenched fists around the rough texture, with only the sweat of my palms to prove that I was scared to jump in. Although that girl will never return. I’m almost tempted to turn around and tie it to the trunk of the tree, letting it know it can finally rest. Maybe mumble an apology as if the passage of time were my fault. Suddenly the grass seems pricklier than I remember, but I still lie back in it, as if to try and soak up the last bits of memory I have here. Trying to keep at bay the knowledge that before long, the water is going to get colder as the sun sinks down.
