Life Debris
Hot Air and Memories
“Tell me a story from your childhood.” he said, his voice close to my ear as we lay enfolded in each other for the full thirty seconds before I move my body away.
“I can’t remember a thing.” I told him. He knows this is only partially true. I remember an assortment of things — of times when I was a child, encased in the clouds.
Me: “I was riding my yellow banana boat bike on my birthday, a bird pooped on my head.”
Him: “I’ve heard this before.”
Me: “Yeah, well its a good story.”
Breathing.
Me: “I was flurrying through the house we were visiting and went through the screen of the slider door — the screen crashed down underneath me. The adults, including my father, were sitting in the room, spectators. I remember being absolutely mortified. The now me would have gotten up, laughing and apologizing, and would have curtsied the hell out of there. The child me wanted to die - to disappear forever.”
Him: “so you’ve always been a clutz….(silence from the other side of the bed)…kids do that all the time. Your dad probably didn’t think it was a big deal.”
I settled on the white noise of the fan. He may have fallen asleep, while I was trying to pry open the crumbly compartments of my childhood.
