Friday, November 14, 2003
never thought i'd say this
there's a path behind my house. my real house. my real house in texas. i remember walking my dog on adventures, where i'd play the detective and every piece of discarded garbage was a clue. for days on end i would find more evidence for an obvious car robbing or a rape or a burglary. sometimes he'd chase away the cats i'd try to coax in closer, scolding him taught him no lesson. he couldn't understand that i liked all animals as much as i liked him.
on that same path, i waded in the creek, trying my skirt with a hair scrunchie. touching slimy rocks with bare feet and avoiding glass as we slipped by laughing.
further still was the walgreens where my sister and i would treat ourselves to bags of chips and soda, when our mother refused to drive us anywhere.
to the left pass the william's chicken was the popeye's chicken, fast food rivals stare down, and i'd dream of their buttermilk biscuits and red beans and rice.
to the left right and inbetween were grocery stores where they knew me by name and would ask how my mother was doing if she waited in the car. we got so embarrassed about being recognized we started to drive a half an hour to another grocery store. there we could be anonymous, not small town celebrities.
then there was the thai and indian restaurants that we would visit frequently, greeted by warm smiles. the health food store and the place that sold us the good organic produce. places that i took for granted.
miles to a wal-mart or target. bags too heavy to carry on the T.
the library where they have seen me grow up and where i've spent a lot of time getting really close to the stacks.
the used bookstores that my mom and i spend hours collecting goods at and leave with arms full of books and magazines and cds for future reference. our goal: mini library.
the music venues i know like the back of my hand.
the indie kids i see at every show and make out with too drunk to remember afterwards.
a real mailbox with a red flag and the postman waving hello.
me too exhausted to stay there any longer trapped in the house and waving goodbye from the airport terminal. never thinking i'd want to be back there so badly.
¶ 12:57 PM
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there's a path behind my house. my real house. my real house in texas. i remember walking my dog on adventures, where i'd play the detective and every piece of discarded garbage was a clue. for days on end i would find more evidence for an obvious car robbing or a rape or a burglary. sometimes he'd chase away the cats i'd try to coax in closer, scolding him taught him no lesson. he couldn't understand that i liked all animals as much as i liked him.
on that same path, i waded in the creek, trying my skirt with a hair scrunchie. touching slimy rocks with bare feet and avoiding glass as we slipped by laughing.
further still was the walgreens where my sister and i would treat ourselves to bags of chips and soda, when our mother refused to drive us anywhere.
to the left pass the william's chicken was the popeye's chicken, fast food rivals stare down, and i'd dream of their buttermilk biscuits and red beans and rice.
to the left right and inbetween were grocery stores where they knew me by name and would ask how my mother was doing if she waited in the car. we got so embarrassed about being recognized we started to drive a half an hour to another grocery store. there we could be anonymous, not small town celebrities.
then there was the thai and indian restaurants that we would visit frequently, greeted by warm smiles. the health food store and the place that sold us the good organic produce. places that i took for granted.
miles to a wal-mart or target. bags too heavy to carry on the T.
the library where they have seen me grow up and where i've spent a lot of time getting really close to the stacks.
the used bookstores that my mom and i spend hours collecting goods at and leave with arms full of books and magazines and cds for future reference. our goal: mini library.
the music venues i know like the back of my hand.
the indie kids i see at every show and make out with too drunk to remember afterwards.
a real mailbox with a red flag and the postman waving hello.
me too exhausted to stay there any longer trapped in the house and waving goodbye from the airport terminal. never thinking i'd want to be back there so badly.
¶ 12:57 PM
|
