A friend tells me on the phone, “Yeah, I like your funny stuff. But whenever I see something like, ‘Texas, 1978,’ followed by descriptions of children running through closets in italics, I tune out. Sorry. But I like when you talk about tits. Write about tits more.”
I laugh. It’s funny, it is. I enjoy the caricature of myself that I’ve created. And I do enjoy bosoms, irrespective of context.
Texas, 1978
She comes home every night for a week talking about another cancer patient.
‘Even little kids?’
She pauses. She faces the prospect of sharing the realities of the world with someone who deserves at least a few more years of fantasy. How does she explain death to someone who talks to stuffed animals, who asks endless questions about reindeer on the roof?
‘Sometimes,’ she says, ideals giving way to exhaustion.
A friend shows photos from the weekend. “I’m coaching my son’s soccer team!” The photos, adorable, show happy faces, determined faces, faces red from cold wind, lips red from warm chocolate. It’s funny, how I write, but it’s also how I live. The photo of the child on the soccer field is a memory for me, as well. One that looks right, but isn’t. Like fresh water through day old coffee grounds.
Texas, 1983
There’s only a few minutes left in the game. We’re winning.
“Have you played yet?”
It’s hard to answer. I know the answer. But there are too many muscles involved to speak. Chest muscles interfering with neck muscles. I shake my head.
“Isn’t the coach your dad?”
The whistle blows and we celebrate, joining each other on the field as a team. Everyone has a role. At the end of the day, some are meant to go home with uniforms unsoiled. It’s the other team that lost.
A friend offers me an Altoid strip. I pull the white, paper-like wafer and place it upon my tongue. It reminds me of something.
Texas, 1979
Father Conrad places the thin, white wafer onto my tongue. He makes the sign of the cross and I walk back towards my grandmother, who is crying. She has a new camera for the occasion. It fascinates me to no end. Long and thin, she attaches flashcubes to the top and tells me to adjust my tie. I unclip it and try again, not really looking, mesmerized by the flashcube, wanting so much to press the shutter and make it flash. She takes a picture.
It’s been 20 years since my last confession.
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