return to sender
it seems, much as we fight it, that on many levels we become our parents, especially as we get older. our bodies and personalities fun house mirror them both (Dick and Jane in my case — their names for real) and resistance is futile. i see their legs when i throw mine up and over my head in the (yoga) ‘plow’ every morning. there they are, white as a flounder’s belly, my bowling pin thick and hairless calves with brown spots the size of nickels from the sun recognizable as both mine and my mom’s. the under chin, what’s left of it, is strung like a lazy hammock in a straight line from chin to Adam’s apple, just like Jane’s. the heavily lidded eyes are chestnut brown, squinting and ready to laugh just like the old man’s. my toenails are warped and twisted like mum’s. (she retained enough vanity to paint them, crushed and distorted as they were, whore red.) the back of my hands are thick veined, raw, spotted and crepe-papered like hers. the belly, distended and pale lolls out in slow motion like a poorly curled bowling ball as was Dick’s on his worst last days dying of alcohol. like Jane, i keep things neat and throw away anything i’m sick of. like Dick i chase the young. like him i like bars and dark adventure. like her i’m frugal and generous at once. like him i never hide from a good fart. like both of them i love to laugh. of course in other ways i presume differences, but i’m closer to the tree than i’d imagined. in my sidewalk self i think im young, smooth-faced and fabulously interesting. did they? i never asked.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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