It All Comes Out In the Wash
The universe loves to lay bets on a seesaw. Watch for it the next time a bird takes a flying dump on a pedestrian’s head, and you laugh. Yours is coming when you least expect it. Splatter. The clock turns, and we start all over again.
Pink House
Tea snackered with white sugar. Danish sugar cookie tins. Bench seating in the kitchen. Why did I sell this house? Low carpet. Shag carpet. Linoleum floors. Pink cabinets. Pink house.
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
I once rubbed poison ivy all over my body at summer day camp because the girl I liked said the plant in question was not poison ivy. She was smart, and I showed up the next day with Calamine lotion all over my body. Side note: I love the smell of Calamine lotion. I once slept over at her house, in a bunk bed, when I was less than ten. I can see the room. I have a photo of her and me on the beach. It’s sweet. I believe this story to be accurate, but I worry about what happens when it fades.
What’s In a Name
Jonathan Greene. Lame. Jonnie. Jon. Lame. Why couldn’t I have been Jox Hundred? What were they thinking? And what was I thinking when I named my kids? Basic. I am so basic. What’s in a name? Do you want to be rescued in a superhero movie by Zee Thousand or Jon Greene? No contest.
Summer
A turkey sandwich on a kaiser roll on the back lip of a car’s rear drawbridge. The smell of suntan lotion and the feel of sand sticking to your skin. A revolving door at our house; never knowing which guests would sleep where and when. The summers before, when we were shipped away for two months of absolute bliss on our own in the Berkshires.