Trying and trying all that summer.
That “summer of ’76.”
That “bicentennial summer.”
“Happy Bday America,” Jeri’s “cute grandbrat,” Melinda, had scrawled in red, white, and blue “sidewalk chalk” across “driveway,” and, all summer long, Lloyd did his best not to wash “that saying” off, with the hose, out there in “elephant bells” (loose at the bottom, tight at the top) or, sometimes,pre-work, getting in some early watering, in full cop regalia, before heading down to the station for his dang shift.
The bride, re-situated, rushed out of the pantry.
Into the arms of the groom, who had somehow lost the two old ladies.
Such a kiss.
Such a kiss they shared.
That seemed to promise many happy future days.
And put me in mind of other kisses, from my bygone days.
Of wishing to kiss; of having kissed; of having kissed too much; of having kissed not enough, of lying in “antique four-poster,” purchased by “Mother,” “on credit,” at “Sears,” her “favorite store,” while imagining being kissed by “Phil Everly,” “pop star”; of longing to be kissed (by someone, anyone, please, God) at “junior high skating party”; of sitting in “front seat” of Chevelle, swollen-lipped, joyful, having just been kissed, kissed, kissed by Daniel Masterson, “lab-partner in biology,” who, leaving Chevelle as if in a daze, stumbled toward “front door” being held open by his “quizzical-looking mom” (“Valerie”); of (ah, yes, here it was) being kissedby Lloyd,for “very first time,” at “stock car race” at “Raceway Park,” and all at once the “bleacher-seats” beneath us seemed to fall away and my hand was on his “blue-jeaned” leg, there beside “mustard stain,” my young mind running wild with thoughts of all the things we might (could, would) do, back in his “Impala,” away from all these—
Golly.
Goodness, gosh.
I used to be a person, a full person, with many small memories, small, lovely—
Such as:
In “front entry,” on “little credenza,” “photos” of “Mom,” “Mom and Dad,” “me and Dad,” and just “Dad” leaning against Chevelle with “cocky look” on face, because “had dimples,” because “cute” and knew it.
And:
You held “Barbie” by her legs and “whack-whack-whacked” her against the much-larger “Mrs. Briggs” doll, “Barbie’s” way of “pitching a fit” because “Mrs. Briggs” had said no, she was not allowed to climb out of “bathtub” to “go on date.”
And:
“Me, Mom, Dad” at “St. Monica’s,” my little body warming up but just on one side in the many-colored light beaming down from “stained-glass window” showing six gaunt gray “Apostles” pulling a net of fish up into their already fish-tilted boat.
Could make left wrist (but not right) crack by giving it “good hard pop.”
In terms of times tables: nines and elevens, easy; twelves not “my cup of tea.”
In “big hallway mirror,” I looked “so long and pretty,” like (Big Deb, mom of my best friend, Little Deb, would say) “a dang gazelle.”
In terms of favorites: Color: green; Season: winter; Candy: “Smarties.”
Dad, watching me looking up all reverent at those Apostles in that tilted boat, gives me a double-pat on the shoulder, as in: You’re good, kid, sure am fond of you, Jillie.
Oh, I felt just sick. I did not want to be THIS THING anymore, this stiffelevatedTHING, but wanted, instead, to be me, sweet ME again, all the way, and for this whole awful dream (of having been blown up/killed/sent all over the place three hundred and forty-three times in all, so far, to a bunch of dyingdopes who didn’t appreciate meat all) to be DONE, so I could be ME again back in that beautiful living body I knew and loved so well and had always so much enjoyed having.
ME, ME again.
With father, mother, friends.
Husband.
Suddenly I knew what I needed to do.
