...Who was bringing up three very lovely girls.
All of them had hair of gold, like their mother,
The youngest one in curls.
Here's the story, of a man named Brady,
Who was busy with three boys of his own.
They were four men, living all together,
Yet they were all alone.
(the brady bunch theme)
-
something that was, something that will be, something about someone, something about me.
-
He was singing to himself as we walked by, this music city in the shadowed afternoon. I thought I recognized the tune. A walkie-talkie full of static pressed to dark sweating lips. Small white children, frightened and suburban, gathered near a van, near a park, near hysterics. Mumble mumble strange looks (don't give those eyes to me! no no sir) unlike this ...mitigated panic.
I skirt-walked past, pretending not to see. Pretending to be lost in hip conversation, hip conversion. in this heart the social gospel dies.
Hours later, short term memory is a lost cause. If I were more cruel (read: more mindful) I would've walked on the other side of the street. He isn't singing now, not to himself, not to nobody no-how.
I keep walking. A small distance taps me on the shoulder, quietly lets me know, my companions have been mired, snared.
Sometimes, he whispers, I think about killing myself.
{insert her awkward glance and attempt at cheerful... ness.}
I am frozen with my icecream cone. Unexplained like his clean blue shirt, I am somehow four feet tall. My favorite purple jelly sandals, empty Belle pocketbook, while Cappucino Crunch dribbles on my dirty fingernails. Regression, baby. The sight of those stuttering desperate eyes hurts my head. Let's not think about it.
She's doing her best, maintaining a sunny disposition in the face of a demented weatherman. Asking the questions, dancing that pinprick razorblade line of a conversation with instability.
I'm waiting, a safe ten feet away, and I wonder how long this takes.
Posted by samantha at March 15, 2004 04:30 PM