Hot cars skidding on melting tar, grilled cheese slathered in burnt butter, leaves scattering the porch: annotated pages.
Glitter in the sun, the seashells, we’d grab them on the pier. I’d stare out at rippling water; my distorted reflection fascinated me. Curiosity rather than disgust. The icing stuck on the roof of my mouth. I never knew how to let black-and-white cookies sit. I’d dig my feet into the sand, hot hands on my stomach, giggling so hard I’d almost puke.
Now it’s what’s your major, where do you go to college, postgraduate plans? Pass by Dortoni’s, can’t let icing stick. There’s no bathing suit, just sad nubby things like dad’s sweatshirt, oversized. Sorry for wasting money on a clarinet, limp noises pumped through a wooden slab.
Wake up, energy drink, makeup, change, join a Microsoft Teams call, another 3, walk to the gym, run around my neighborhood, dinner, wash, scroll through Instagram, and 11, crying in the corner, where the hamper is. Forced her to audition in front of the jazz band. She didn’t get the solo. Never good enough at the tenor saxophone. Run up the stairs, back hit the wall. Crumple into a ball.
Everything came down to a three-walled room, abandoned piano. 12 hours. Enough for a professional. Chapped lips bleed when she plays for a while. Her small fingers learn blisters. Five years and she still can’t get the solo. No, not even on clarinet.
Types feverishly onto cracked screens. Trying to fill sheet music with words. And the stickiness finds its way—hits the roof. She’s somewhere, searching for Disney skies in pastel clouds. Sometimes weaving bracelets, embroidery thread, forgets the pattern, places it onto her left wrist.
I only know gold now.
Wake up craving wooden reeds slathered in burnt butter. Grab a Monster, used to hate soda. Rub face in paint, cover the moles. Use the big words she didn’t know, stretch legs instead of swim, eat broccoli—pan-roasted—olive oil over cake—oven-roasted—icing.
But flowers dance in the wind, and I stick gemstones to every new journal. I love dollar-store glitter pens, smell of grandma’s powdered cookies, piggy bank she bought me. Knew I hated polka dots, got it anyway. “Have a good one, Gram,” obscene for a funeral, a searchlight in an electric pool. Mom hasn’t been all right for eight years, but she laughs now, barks on the floor with the dog.
20 and don’t know how to drive. I like walking by the old Waldbaum’s, it’s shut down. The memory sticks like crunchy branches. I’ve never been in love. Mom grabs Indian food she isn’t eating. Hip makes it hard to walk, but she goes in for me. And there’s nothing sad or nubby about her shirt. We roll through rows of houses; she smiles, says she likes driving this way back. I do too. Look at the moon arriving in pastel, Disney clouds, her slender fingers point. They find a way into my palm.
Sometimes I play Chet Baker on my record player. Gram’s favorite too. I never knew. I recline, head hits crumpled index cards. Words stuck into my pillowcase. Read:
And this is all of it.