Sunday, June 10, 2012

I remember...

…most Sundays, pretending to put offering in the wooden plate by crumpling my fist and then swiftly pressing my hand flat onto the other bills. 

…sitting by the popular blonde boy on the school bus as he cried into his forearm.

…being downstairs at the dance studio, pointe shoes squeaking on the basement floor, the rosin leaving powdery imprints.

...being downstairs at the dance studio, hoping I wasn't getting my period.

...babysitting the little girl who wrote on her face with permanent marker and pooped on the carpet during naptime.

…sitting across from Kate in her apartment downstairs from mine, her fiery red hair rivaling her burgundy fishnets.

…Seattle rain on the slicker Kate lent me, the same one she wanted back later that school year.

…the looks they gave me for wearing my platform heels and short skirt and deciding to stand up straighter and sway my hips.

…when I believed that meat originated from white packages in the deep freeze.

…the alarming revelation of my first French Kiss.

…hearing my brother whispering with his girlfriend and wondering if they French kiss.

…for the first time in a dozen years, my doctor recalling I’m adopted when we got to the part about family medical history.

 …when going to Grandma’s house meant crayons and comic books and TV dinners with corner compartments sticky with cherry cobbler.

…when going to Grandma’s house meant awkwardly hugging her in her wheelchair and yelling to be heard and wishing to be anywhere but there, surrounded by the smell of loneliness.

…sitting backstage, waiting for my entrance, hoping somehow I would return a different person.