The website said there were exploded bits of the holy in everybody,
so I put them on my bucket list. The lobby was welcoming, concierge
and maître d’ were all I could ask for. Lots of fun activities like parades
and pools and playgrounds. Food: consistent and potentially plentiful.
I really wanted to like this species, but other kids left a lot to be desired,
the ones the doorman called “common,” who tied me up back-to-back
with the only other only child. And that mean teacher, the sun-warmed
mayonnaise of her smile, put me in the hall twice for talking too much.
Middle school IF I COULD GIVE IT ZERO STARS I WOULD—whispers
in the backseat and getting ditched. And no one warned me that guys snap
their fingers at waitresses, drivers tailgate, fools talk in the train’s quiet car,
and doctors speak in acronyms, moving their mouths without sharing info.
I came back to downgrade my stars to 2 after wading through the cereal
shelves and finding only three healthy ones. Why is everyone staring
at their phones while sightseeing? Why was that meeting not an e-mail?
Looking back, I might’ve qualified for a refund—never had sisters, aunts,
brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, or brothers-in-law. Never walked into
a bar alone, had a one-night stand, cooked a Thanksgiving turkey, skydived.
But when I hear my mix tape, meet the librarian who made a Reading Trail
through the park posted with pages of funny kid books, interview the boy
who got his class to shave their heads with the kid on chemo, when I garden,
decorate the community club for an eightieth birthday, think about my kids
and what they will look like when they’re 80, knock wood, when I pass
the turnoff for Shades of Death Road and hear yes, triple rainbows do exist,
when I see the silver carp rock-skipping themselves across the lake surface,
when my friend came with me to write mom’s Christmas cards from hospice:
Would come back. Would hurry back. Totally coming back.
