When we
were little, my brothers and I had to figure things out for ourselves. We lived
by
the
interstate with the surf-sounds of traffic and the downshift of diesels in a
self-storage
facility
that was so vast we never saw our parents. One day we went out looking for them
and
that day never ended. We’d pull up the doors of the storage units like huge
roll-top
desks
and find Air Force wives dressed like astronauts sitting on rented leather
sectionals.
Sometimes
we’d find aging ballerinas in ill-fitting tights or men in gray suits wearing
football
helmets,
but usually we’d just find dead mice and echoes.
Once I found a hidden corridor littered
with deer hunting magazines and Playboys. We lit pages to find our way,
but the corridor
seemed to lengthen with our footsteps. Finally, it led us to the local mall
where we bought
a pewter dragon that was holding a magic crystal, but by the time we got back
home, the
crystal had chipped off its glue base and was lost among the dead deer and
nudity of the corridor.
The next day we opened up a unit and found Langston Hughes. Please, I
asked him, We
live on Peter Pan, and lose our keys and shoes frequently. Are we right
unscheduled? Will you tell us some
true thing? There was a
silence, strange and profound as the absence of birds.
When we were little, my brothers and I had to figure things out for ourselves.
When we were little, my brothers and I had to figure things out for ourselves.