~Childhood is measured out by
sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows”—John
–My childhood smells of cinnamon, brown sugar, and vanilla.
Chocolate chip cookies.
Sweet butter melting on an avocado colored stove.
When I remember those days…
I evaporate into bubblegum pink carpeting.
I disappear inside an oak bunk bed with thick patched grandma quilts.
I hide inside Sylvia Plath’s poetry.
I smoke Marlboros because I think I’m a cool girl…. think I’ll live forever.
I get grounded for burning a hole into my bedspread.
I get grounded for carving boys’ names into the wood.
Bruce. Matt. Dave. Whatever. I can’t recall.
Kay and I share boyfriends.
She gives me her leftovers like a side of dressing.
Jerry. Kyle. Pete.
…because we share everything.
They all love Kay. They all worship
Beautiful, high cheek-boned, pouty lipped, soft spoken, Kay.
… but nobody loves her more than me.
Our mother is a stay at home mother. A Saint. A Goddess.
She stirs, pours, mixes, and bakes before we get home from school.
She is the Leave it to Beaver mother. the Partridge Family
mother. The mother everybody desires to own, love, and wrap their arms around.
She cranks Patsy Cline on the old stereo on Saturdays while we do our
“Now that’s a voice,” She says.
She dances around the yellowed linoleum in bare feet,
pink toenails, pretty peddle pushers.
Sometimes we dance with her.
And she cranks up Patsy to full volume twisting and singing Crazy.
Her hair smells of Aqua Net &
clean sheets against our faces.
Kay & I whirl round and round with the Goddess giggling & holding
while chocolate chip cookies melt inside the oven
while soft petunia breezes billow thru windows
while time stands still.
The Goddess at 17. Kim. Kay. Love Forever.
Dear Reader, tell me
one of your favorite memories.
****A NOTE: Also, please know I am having difficulty leaving comments on
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