LACUNA

The linoleum is hard and cold against my cheek. I wake with the taste of blood. I do not know how long I have lain here, but it is dark. The pain through my body cuts like knives when I move. I crawl across the bathroom floor, unable to get up. When I reach the sink I try to pull myself up. The pain throbs unbearably. I lie on the floor and cry. The salt in my tears stings. I touch my face. My God, what has he done to me? This time the damage is bad. I lie there for a long time trying to remember. I fall asleep, or maybe I pass out.

When I wake, I wonder where he went. I feel no fear of him today. He will be sorry for doing this to me. He will never say the words, but I will know he is sorry. He loves me. He does not ever mean to hurt me. I pull myself up this time. The pain makes me nauseous and I vomit in the sink. It burns. I turn on the bathroom light, but I can barely see. My eyes have swollen shut. The little bit of my reflection I can see makes a scream well up in my throat. I vomit again. The room spins. My knees go weak and I stumble back to the floor in the corner. I pull down a towel from the rack and wrap it around me. I am so cold. I do not know what to do. How will I hide this? There is nothing I can say. I can tell no lie that can cover this up. Everyone will know he did this to me. I lie on the floor, mangled and bloody, wrapped in a fluffy peach bath towel. I close my eyes and fade back into the blackness.

Now I wake up in our bed. I hope that it has been a dream. I hope that I have had a nightmare, but the pain in my body tells me that I have not. I am here alone. I do not know what day it is. Have I missed work? Where has he gone? He must have carried me to our bed because I do not remember walking. I do not think I could have made it up here.

The memories come rushing to me. They slap me hard. I was asleep in our bed, this bed. I heard him come in downstairs. He was yelling. I do not know at who, but I know, for the first time, that I have done nothing wrong. I did not go with him. I could not have made him angry this time. I heard him stomp up the stairs. I knew he stood at the bottom of the bed. I felt the covers being ripped off the bed and his hands grab me tightly around my ankles. His hands felt cold. He pulled me down the length of the bed and my tailbone hit hard on the frame of the bed. I screamed, but no sound came out. I don’t think it would have mattered anyway. I did not understand what was happening. He yelled incoherently. I could smell the sickening, sweet scent of black licorice. He had been drinking Sambucca. I pulled away from him and scrambled for the stairs. I made it down the stairs and he came after me. He staggered badly, but still managed to keep up with me. I ran into the bathroom and tried to shut the door, but he pushed it open. He threw me across the bathroom and into the wall. I hit my head hard. He punched me in the face and I heard the bones in my nose break. I fell down into the corner and I tried to cover my head with my hands. He continued yelling loudly, but not making any sense. He kicked me hard. He wore boots. Again and again his boot came down on my head and face. I pleaded for him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop. I lost consciousness.

I get out of bed and go downstairs to the livingroom. My movements are slow and painful. I feel like a truck has run over me. I turn on the television. I need to know what day it is. The pictures on every channel are the same. Our country is at war. Desert Storm receives news coverage all day and all night. I guess I should care about what is going on over there, but I don’t. I finally hear a newscaster say that it is Saturday. I have been out for three days. I have missed work and I no longer have a job. My company has given me enough chances. I should have been fired long ago. I have had too many absences, too many days of showing up late or being tired or upset from a long night of fighting with him. Many days I could not cover up my black eyes and bruises enough to face my co-workers and clients.

I have no one to call. My family no longer cares. I have no friends. They all gave up on me long ago. I feel like my world has finally spun, not just out of control, but off it’s pedestal completely. My life has been pulled out from under me. I do not know what to do next. Why did I have to wake up at all? I wish he had killed me. It would be so much easier. I just want to die. I go to the bathroom medicine cabinet. I open it careful to avoid seeing my reflection. Nothing in there can help me. We have no razor blades, no sleeping pills.

I turn on the shower and let it run warm. I step into the spray or water. It hits my face and I scream out in pain. Chunks of brown blood fall at my feet. I shampoo my hair and my scalp burns. The soap, on what is left of my face, stings. White hot searing pain in each movement of my body.

I go back upstairs and climb into our bed. I lay in bed and cry. I cannot cover for him this time. I cannot protect him. I never once think about who will protect me.

Slowly the rice noodles slide into my throat, slipping past my tongue, nearly unnoticed. The sweet barley miso tingles in my cheeks. I sift the scallions from the tofu and press them to pulp with my tongue.

I am not feeling Japanese, even with the green tea stinging my mouth and Yo-Yo Ma tickling my ears. Even with the full tray of sushi before me I am not feeling Japanese. I heap the wasabi hoping to burn my way to the land of the rising sun. Even as my sinuses scream I am not feeling Japanese. Though I find the pickled ginger delightful I am still hopelessly American.

Perhaps a cup of sake, warm and sweet, would bring me to the west pacific. After the eighth cup I jump into my Toyota on a kamikaze mission to Wal-Mart.

Memories absorbing time
i smell the coffee that spilled
on my fingers
An hour ago
i push myself out of the booth
on my way to the phone
To check my box
i listen to the voice
on my answering machine
Reveling in the sound of her
i know the lines of her face
on my own skin
Inherited
i pay for my breakfast
on my credit card
Leaving a tip in cash
i notice a child in the booth
on my left
Ignoring his friend
i remember my own childhood
on my birthday
Not having friends to invite to my party
i wipe the tears on my sleeve
Exiting the diner
i lift my collar to the wind
on my neck
Asphalt underfoot
i see the house
on my old street
Left to my mother by hers

Need a ride?

He’s drunk but I am cold, tired and not about to argue with myself. I get in, fasten my seatbelt, and pray to a god I’ve never seen. Fear makes me pious. I try to ignore his erratic driving focusing instead on the snow blowing against the headlights. I am grateful to be in this car, bourbon smell and all. I trance into the hyperspace dreamscape offered by the tunnels of illuminated snow. My eyelids relax, and I am dancing through visions. I am lying beneath six-foot ferns, birds filling my ears with symphony. I am deciphering the ancient language of flora from their subtle movements against my skin. I am swinging through the trees with my prehensile tail vaguely adhering to gravity. I can feel the jungle growing in my body. I breathe in the damp air and feel the life around me becoming me. I am awake.

Twenty years of New England winters couldn’t prepare me for waking in a snow- bank five hours after we crashed into it. He is gone and I could be anywhere from Minnesota to Wyoming. The wind outside is deafening. I want to get out but I can’t move my legs. I assume they are asleep but soon realize that they are frozen. Moving my arm seems possible yet it is stone or steel. I try to push the door but can only lean heavy against it. The dense snow turns my cries for help to whimpers.

The battery refuses to start the car. I slowly pull the lighter from my pocket and attempt to ignite some of the fast food bags and newspaper on the floor. I cannot will my thumb to work even such a simple tool. Tears freeze against my face.

My eyes relax, and I am dancing through visions. I am lying beneath six hemlocks, dogs barking conversations in the distance. I understand their sounds and ride them in the wind through the branches. Melodies calling me to follow and I do.

We were trudging through the wet snow of a late February. We carried with us an odd assortment of tools: a hammer, an old hand drill, buckets, spigots, hooks, and covers. It was the beginning of sugaring season. The three of us were setting trees to gather sap.

The birds were beginning to return and the air was bursting with the promise of spring. You could hear the slosh of your footsteps and the drip of melting snow, yet nature was far from rushing out of winter.

We turned from the path to a huge maple hundreds of years old. It had many tap scars from the years past, when my grandfather’s grandfather had lived. Finding the perfect spot, on the south side with the most branching and the biggest roots, I placed the drill bit against the soft living bark.

There’s a rhythm to the drilling, and then the sap starts flowing, sweet and steady. A spigot’s hammered in, a bucket’s hung, and a cover’s attached. Then, the sound, you can hear that beautiful sound, one of the best sounds in the world: “plink, plink, plink.” One down, ninety-nine to go. In less than five minutes, we’ve begun the long road to the finished product.

When the buckets are all hung, we wait for them to fill. Then we empty them into 5-gallon buckets and carry them, one in each hand, a third of a mile. Up and down, slipping and sliding through the snow, we return to the sugarhouse, often with less than we started with.

There we pour the sap into trash barrels (clean ones!) to be transferred into the evaporator. The evaporator is relatively small, just four feet by two. It does just what it sounds like; it unhurriedly evaporates the water from the sugar in the sap. This part of the process takes the longest because about 40 gallons of sap make one gallon of syrup. This is the part where we all catch up. In the small, steam-filled room we watch the sap rolling and bubbling.

The fire must be stoked with wood continuously to keep the sap boiling and sap must be added to the pans all the time so the pans don’t burn. In time, we close off the front pans and, with patience, the sap begins to turn. The bubbles change so subtly from large and white to fine and golden.

Now is the time when the entire sugarhouse is focused on one hand as it reaches for the scooper. With an ease that comes with time my grandfather places the scooper into the pan and watches the golden liquid run off it. He lifts the scooper above the pans and waits for the sign. The steady stream slows to a drip. The only sound is the crackle and roar of the fire surging up the smokestack. And as you watch you can see the liquid chasing itself to the edge. If you’re not ready you will miss it: the liquid, so set on catching itself, has, and it falls off in a sheet. The syrup has flaked and is ready to be taken off.

As the commotion and anticipation build, there’s the slightest hint of a sigh. The end is in sight; we are almost finished. The tiny bubbles steadily climb the insides of the pans and someone shouts, “open the doors!”. The bubbles begin to recede as the fire calms. Many are involved in this part: one of us fills the back pans with sap, while another opens the syruping-off valve. As the steaming syrup cascades into the old stainless steel milk can, someone else watches and waits to let the sap from the back pans in to push the rest of the syrup out. You can see the trail it leaves as it races to the valve, destroying the golden bubbles in its path. And the valve is closed.

This is sugaring the old-fashioned way: nothing automatic, nothing to rush the experience. Sometimes we work late into the night to syrup off those last few quarts, because we realize that we are all involved in a process bigger than any single person

We’ve been doing this for as long as we can remember; all the grandchildren watch and learn from the first winter they can walk. We don’t just sugar for the syrup, we sugar for the experience.

He walked in the door, the same white door, into the same white office, to go to the same gray cubicle. Nothing ever seemed to change, even the pictures of his family, reminding him why he was here, were four years old. Same boss, same coworkers, only two of them friends. It didn’t matter how much he hated it though; he still needed it to survive.

Without this job he would be no better than those people he walked by on the way here, the same people he used to go to school with. He remembered those years, he and his friends talking about their future exploits and lives. None of them had made it to their dreams, or anywhere else they had wanted to be. Not even him, stuck in a job he didn’t even like.

“Morson you’re late!” That phrase, he knew, would be his only welcome today, said by his less-than-liked overseer, Jim. He and Jim had never gotten along. Even on his first day Jim had made it clear that he was not his friend and would never be so, unless he somehow surpassed Jim on the corporate ladder. Looking at his current situation it didn’t look like that would ever happen. Not unless Jim was knocked back down a couple of rungs to coffee boy. Even that was barely below him. He was expendable and he knew it; he also knew that Jim wouldn’t hesitate to put this mark against him on the list of judgements till laid off. God knows, McDonalds would be his next job if he lost this one. He couldn’t even remember which job this was now, six, eight, ten; though it didn’t matter now, he was here now, here to do a job.

He sat down at his cubicle, small as it was. Did a quick check through the papers on his desk. They told him it was going to be a long day. He leaned back as he pushed the button to boot up his computer, and let his mind drift again. How long had he been working here? Six? No seven months, not a one which had passed without his wishing he was somewhere else. Even that job at the bank had been nicer than this. He took a lot more complaints there, but it was from customers not coworkers. And for God’s sake it was his job to take complaints here.

A cheery chime brought him out of his contemplations and back to the real world. His computer, probably his best friend, had finished loading and now awaited his command. He logged onto the network and checked up on his email, finding the usual advertisements and nothing else. The top of his screen announced his job in bold letters, “Technical Support.” The sight of it brought a surge of hate to him. “Some friend you are,” he grumbled to his computer. A list then appeared, scrolling down names, IDs and computer types. He left his computer to get started on some of the paper work. He grabbed a pencil from the Star Trek coffee mug and had just brought it to the paper when a voice rang out

“Morson.” He quickly identified the voice as his boss. “I’d like to see you in my office for a minute.”

Crap, the first thought that crossed his mind, but then his thought turned to family and a four-room apartment with overdue rent. Both of which belonged to him. He slowly stood up and pushed his chair back. All eyes were on him. They all thought what he thought, and they didn’t care, damn them, none of them would do a thing about it, none of them would even ask him what happened when he walked back out, they just stared. He turned then, taking a slow deliberate walk across the room over to the office. His boss waiting patiently at his desk. He entered the office and closed the door behind him taking a last look through the glass and backwards letters at his peers and his desk. His eyes then focused on one last thing before turning back to his boss, a single picture barely visible on the wall of his cubicle, a picture of his son and daughter, arms over one another’s shoulders as they stood below a willow tree, smiling. A single tear fell from his eye then. A tear for all those years wasted, a tear for the time he could have spent at home with his wife and kids. He turned then.

As he left the office returning to his desk, he saw that he had been right and that no one did care for him here and it was just as well. He returned to his desk only to hit a button on his computer and pull three pins to let three pictures fall. He bent over to pick them up and then walked out the door. He carried a new respect of his boss now. The boss who had sent him home.

From the moment my favorite aunt clasped my tender, pubescent hands in her own, outstretched my arms and excitedly proclaimed, “My Goodness! Look how you’ve filled out!” I have been in the throes of a tormented relationship with my breasts. I was twelve, standing amidst the fervor of family-reunion chatter and reminiscence. But suddenly the room fell quiet with disinterest in how long-lost Cousin Ronnie from Florida was acclimating to New England weather and one hundred infrared eyes honed in on my petrified, though evidently busty, figure; they had tuned into one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Although my face had become hot as the sun, so much so that I thought my hair would burst into flames, I uttered, as my dear aunt would expect, the requisite, “Thank you.” It must have been barely audible through the tears forcing their way from my sickened stomach right up to my throat, stopping just short of seeping out of my stunned eyes. Until that instant in time, I had never imagined such innocuous members of my anatomy could be the cause of a lifetime of angst.

Having been awkwardly endowed during my pre-teen years with the chest of a full-grown woman, I quickly learned the difference between envy and ridicule, and how the two when blended precisely together could form the most crippling insult. I, in a state of misguided bliss, had not realized that big breasts despite otherwise average proportions meant that one was, in fact, morbidly obese. Thankfully several helpful, flat-chested classmates had repeatedly pointed this fact out to me on the playground so that I could immediately assume my lower position in the schoolyard hierarchy. They were even nice enough to set the exact degree of my zaftig form to a lovely singsong rhyme so I would not forget.

Another very important fact of which I was made aware was that my large chest was indisputably indicative of promiscuity. I had had no idea there was a direct correlation between my breast size and the number of boys with whom I was having sex. They translated that bit of scientific evidence into a song for me also; those children were really quite thoughtful. Although slightly off the mark to the vulgar end, they just may have touched upon some level of truth. Of all the things I was unaware of regarding my breasts, I did happen to notice that while all the girls were cutting me down, there were a proportionate number of boys chatting me up, and that had its advantages.

I suddenly realized that for every nickname those cumbersome protrusions inspired they had an equally persuasive function. Sharpening my own pencil became a thing of the past. I always had a good seat in the cafeteria, and thunderous applause resonated throughout the gymnasium during physical education class – especially when hurdles and trampolines were involved. I was actually starting to enjoy having giant breasts. Then without warning my C-cup was pulled right out from under me. I had had a growth spurt. I had shot up like a weed in mere months. My breasts, however, wanted no part of any such thing. Acting not unlike the humps on a wandering desert camel sustaining the unfortunate beast of burden with their vital fluids, my breasts shrank with each inch of height I gained. Strangely enough, just as my chest was shriveling into oblivion, what had been little more than delicate buds on the bodies of my less-ample, and musically inclined peers began to blossom into a veritable springtime of feminine curves. Nature, it would seem, was not without a sense of irony.

For the next several years to follow, I paid little mind to my newly mediocre breasts regarding them as little more than the occasional recreational devices that required costly, special equipment – with under-wire. In the dawn of my twenties, those relatively neglected, and markedly less firm, temples of womanhood moved once more into the foreground. I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. Over the course of the next nine months I watched in helpless amazement as they grew out of control, much like the supernatural expansion I had observed as a young girl. But just as I was certain my breasts were bent on world domination a new axis of power was created: lactation and the newborn. One minute I would be lugging around painful, purple bowling balls no bra could contain. Only moments later I would be neatly folding little, deflated balloons back into their packages.

Inspired by this daily ebb and flow, I came to realize my breasts were like a pair of magnates. An unseen and immeasurably powerful energy exists between the two poles of engorged and emptied breast. In that field resides the nurturing of a child. Born of that epiphany was a whole new love for my breasts. I came to appreciate them, standing in awe of their importance. Through them poured the vital nectar that nourished and grew my beautiful little boy. Without them my son would either starve or be subjected to a sub par milkshake of manufactured nutrients and cow discharge. So with that sentiment, coupled with the daily elation I experienced while nursing my baby, I endured the continuous expand/contract phenomenon for twelve solid months during which time I had also had the opportunity to acquaint myself with a whole new article of special (and quite expensive) equipment that my increasingly needy breasts required – the breast pump.

Motherhood had not only transformed my breasts from fun to functional but it had expanded my list of accessories necessary to perform all of my daily womanly duties. I had gone from a top drawer brimming with the frilly, scallop-edged, under-wire secrets of a very wealthy English woman to a kitchen counter overtaken by medical grade polyurethane tubes and breast-shaped funnels. With the hope that as soon as I no longer needed the latter I would be able to utilize the prior, I managed to keep my chin up despite the fact that my breasts were sagging further down. But soon enough my eager fingers had reason to sift through that top drawer of dainties and my breasts had once again resumed their place in the deep recesses of my mind, save the very rare occasion when my son would sleep long enough to allow for some grown-up time.

However, their furlough from the business of lactation ended twelve months later with the birth of my second child, a gorgeous baby girl. The following six months of breastfeeding felt like old hat until what had been a drooling mouth full of bumpy gums had, overnight it seemed, become a voracious cavity of knobby little puppy teeth eager to gnaw on anything unfortunate enough to pass within striking distance. My nipples had become hapless prey – at least five times a day, and my breasts had gained yet another function … chew toy. And though much wincing did ensue and I had gone through several tubes of lanolin nipple ointment, my daughter I made it through that crucial year of nurturing and bonding. Our breastfeeding journey together concluded when that lovely cherub, while at the breast, looked up at me adoringly with those big, blue eyes, clamped her vice-like teeth onto my unsuspecting nipple, flashed a pearly white smile obscured only by a mouthful of my flesh, giggled, released, then rolled off of my lap onto the floor and crawled nonchalantly away to the toy box. She never asked to nurse again.

Knowing that my second child, my daughter, would indeed be my last, there was a time of mourning for my breasts and I. It felt as if they would never again nurture or nourish. All signs of functionality had been replaced by silver hued stretch marks and slightly elongated nipples which always pointed due south, like confused compasses. No more would they expand and contract with regularity. I no longer needed to select my underwear in accordance with my child’s appetite. There remained no traces of feminine nobility, only a raisin like texture and a new daily routine of extra push-up padding and Shea butter creams. The perfectly pert and fluffy throw-pillows of my youth had been replaced with the floppy old goose down kind you tuck under the quilt of a neatly made bed, the kind of pillow just worn and soft enough for a child to hide beneath during a midnight thunderstorm…

So many things have my breasts been in my short life thus far. They’ve been a childhood call to taunt, a manipulative tool, a display case for lovely underwear, and the soup kitchen of a future generation. But today, rather than a thing, they have become a place: a soothing haven for the teary-eyed faces of children with scraped knees and hurt feelings, and a quiet cradle for the weary head of a friend in need. My heart no longer weeps for the toll time has taken on my body, but instead it cries with every soul I comfort against my breasts.

All work in Lacuna

Intro

“Thank you.” Two simple words, yet when told together, in that order, they mean so much. Just those words, said to someone, makes them feel good, it makes them feel as though they did something right, and it makes them feel appreciated. So you would see my surprise when a trashcan thanked me for dumping my garbage into it. You could say I was overcome with joy and a feeling that by dumping my trash into this simple device I was helping the world to reach a greater good.

THE FUTURE IS NOW

It all started out as a normal day, hot, boring, but as I pulled into the K.F.C./Pizza Hut/Taco Bell I got a warm feeling inside me. A feeling that this day of my life would stand out from all the other days of my life. I entered the refreshingly cool-air-conditioned restaurant, a wonderful change from the massive heat of the outside world, and headed to the counter. I decided on getting the K.F.C. Honey Barbecue Chicken Sandwich Combo (my favorite sandwich from K.F.C. since the chicken littles). I sat down at a round table and started to consume the honey barbecuey chickeness of the combo. It was delicious, so good my taste buds screamed for another bite, I obeyed the screams and chomped down upon the sandwich. Then I started in on the potato wedges, and let me tell you that K.F.C. has damn, damn fine potato wedges. I ate my meal and washed it down with the doctory peppery goodness of doctor pepper. I leaned back, stretched my arms, looked around a little, and then stood up and headed to the trash disposal unit. When I arrived at this contraption, it seemed a little odd to me, but I ignored the shadiness of it and pushed my tray against the opening. Then something strange and unusual happened, the front panel lifted itself open. And then, without any warning it happened, the trash can, this lifeless object said to me, me Brian Buccaroni, “Thank you.” Yes you heard me right, “Thank you.” I jumped back and took a look around; maybe someone was playing a joke on me. But as my eyes scanned the area for any sign of life, I realized, this was no joke. I took a step towards the trashcan. I stood there in front of the peculiar thing, staring at it, tilting my head slightly to one side, pondering the ability of a trashcan to thank someone. It made me think, do trashcans have feelings, do they get happy, sad, or even angry. If so what would this mean for the future of mankind. Would we someday have to battle these practically invincible objects to gain control of our planet, our homes, and our Razor scooters? I walked closer to the trash and pushed on the panel, once again it opened and thanked me. I laughed in spite of myself, and realized that this simple object meant no harm to me or my family, but only was appreciative of my efforts to keep this world, my world, its world, clean for our future generations, plus it didn’t have any arms or legs so it really couldn’t attack anyone, so we’re good there.

That day I found out that trashcans can be great friends, always there for you, comforting you in your worst times, celebrating with you during your best. And as long as mankind doesn’t give them arms, legs, and opposable thumbs, trashcans would be horrible enemies. Also that day, besides learning so much about talking trashcans, I learned something about myself, and possibly all humans. We need others, to share happy times, sad times, and hard times. We need others to hate, to love, and to beat the ever living crap out of, cause let’s face it, those things just aren’t the same when done with a talking trashcan, I mean you punch it and it doesn’t even get made, it just sits there saying “Thank you.” So in closing sporks are actually called runsible spoons. Thank you, your fellow human, Brian.

In this world he was one of six kids. He and his brothers wore their hair high and tight and his sisters wore theirs long and none of them had anything to say about it. His father was some sort of business man and his mother was just that, a mother. There was no crying for the boys and no back talk from the girls…not in this house. For him there were high school sports and church and after school jobs and plenty of girlfriends and middle class security. His father said that the world was going to hell on account of the spics and niggers and hippies and voted for Nixon. His mother made chicken salad and voted as she was told. Silence moved through the house, impossible to escape or slice through, not that anyone tried.

In this world he went to college, met a girl, fell in love, got married, got drafted, got her pregnant and went to Viet Nam. When he left for Southeast Asia, he believed in love. He came home different. His father never managed to crush his spirit, but war broke him. He no longer believed in anything. He stayed with his wife and had four more kids. He worked, and then couldn’t work. He attempted to ease his suffering by micromanaging the lives of everyone around him. On a Monday there would be a three page list posted on the fridge detailing everyone’s chores and a family meeting about the fucking mess in this house and why can’t people keep their rooms squared away? By Wednesday none of it mattered because he was hiding in the basement and only speaking to the dog. He jumped from religion to religion, relationship to relationship, forever disappointed, but desperate for something to put him back together. He was fragile and frightening, a devoted father and a tyrant, a model neighbor and bastard of a husband. He eventually ended up in a psychiatric hospital for awhile, got a little bit better and managed to create a life for himself, one that he could stand. But he will always be sad.

Somewhere else, he was recognized as a sensitive child. His parents saw his love for music and fostered his abilities. His father adored him, spent time with him, really knew him. His mother was strong and clear and taught him to respect women.

Even as a little boy, he was heard and valued. He knew he was cared for and safe. He was held. He married for love and valued his wife as artistic and intelligent and beautiful; as an equal partner. He shared himself with her honestly and accepted her help when he needed it.

Somewhere else, there was no war. He wasn’t terrified that his kids would find out the awful things he knew about. He gave his family room to make mistakes and in doing so, made room for imperfection in himself. Somewhere else, his wife and children trusted that he could hear the truth, and they told him who they were.

* * *

In this world she grew up in South Jersey. Her sisters were Wanda Lou and Leila Estelle, her brother, Brown Macmillan. Their last name was Thigpen. As if this wasn’t punishment enough, her mother was a loudmouth and fat. There was usually Jell-O with squares of canned fruit or sponge cake from a box with Cool Whip for dessert, which they had every night without fail. She adored her daddy who made sophisticated airplane parts for the government and kept bees in the backyard. He was always somewhere else, though. Even in his own chair, right there in the living room, he was unreachable. She had a sex club with her siblings and the neighborhood kids where her sister Wanda had actual sex with boys. She was the middle girl and she liked school and she wasn’t any trouble to anyone.

In this world she went to college, met a boy, fell in love, got married, got pregnant and sent her husband off to war. She had her first baby in the Philadelphia Naval Hospital with an epidural and a bunch of strangers. She audio taped the whole thing and sent it off to Viet Nam where the soldiers wore it out listening over and over to what hope sounds like. The man she loved left pieces of himself overseas, but he managed to get his body home which was better than the alternative. She loved him and saw his pain and she sacrificed the rest of her life in a wasted attempt to fix him. She lost one sister to cancer and her brother to the Mormons. They cut pieces off of her mother until she died one morning getting onto the toilet. Her daddy passed away respectably in his sleep and she still didn’t know him. She had more babies, kept her mouth shut, tried to read her husband’s moods, and taught her kids to do the same.

A few years ago she joined women’s workshop that met once a week in the evening. Her husband thought it was ridiculous and told her so. He gave her the silent treatment and eventually she found that it was easier to just quit than to defend herself. She figured that maybe he was right, maybe it was stupid. They are still married and she tells herself and her children that no relationship is perfect, we all make sacrifices.

Somewhere else, her dad didn’t ration his affection. Her mom never dressed her in humiliating holiday outfits. She never jumped through hoops to prove she was loveable. She went to college to uncover herself, not to escape the crushing weight of South Jersey. She met a man there who adored the things she was and didn’t need the things she was not. She always knew she was enough.

Somewhere else, there was time for painting and singing and writing, not just working and making lunches and keeping the peace. She was opinionated and confident. She taught her children to find their voices and use them. She told her husband to go to hell when he cheated on her. She was big and brave and true. She loved with abandon and it never let her down.

* * *

In this world I was an only child for six years. It suited me. After that, I was the oldest child and not pleased at all. While my parents spent their time and energy trying not to be their parents, I busied myself with creative ways of hoarding precious attention. I spent most of my childhood wishing I was someone else, anyone else, and getting into trouble. When I was eight, I got caught stealing and went to a psychologist who wanted me to draw magic marker pictures of my family on a newsprint easel. When I was ten, my babysitter fell in love with me and made me promise not to tell anyone. When I was eleven, I met a creepy old guy at Sacandaga Bible Camp who kissed me with his tongue and wanted me to call him Uncle Linus. At thirteen I started using drugs and throwing up everything I ate.

In this world I quit school, left my family, got high, moved frequently, got jobs, had boyfriends, got pregnant, had abortions, lied, cheated, robbed people and went to jail. I spent time in mental institutions and detox hospitals and shelters. I was raped, mugged and two times, at the New England Medical center emergency room, I died, and the nice doctors shot me in the heart with adrenaline and brought me back to life so I could get high some more. I sold my soul and hated myself and everyone else.

And in this world, not somewhere else, I found redemption. I peered over the edge of my choices and jumped off into the waiting arms of grace. I got honest, asked for help, stopped using, took risks, made mistakes and kept on trying. Right here in this world, people held me while I healed. Here, I began to understand my responsibility to myself and my family. I decided to change.

Somewhere else, the phone rang on Lily Farm Road at 3:17 am on a Winter Tuesday. A mother answered and her greatest fear was realized. A father was consumed by uncertainty and regret. One sister vowed she would never trust again. One sister’s anger hardened and cracked her in half. One sister quietly accepted that she was alone. The brother cried and cried and tried not to drown. Somewhere else, people shook their heads and commented on how sad and such potential and what a waste.

Somewhere else, it was just too late, but in this world, I lived.