5 or 6

I was an onion in the health pageant. I was five I guess. Maybe six.

I remember long walks home with my mother, looking down at my shoes taking steps. Navigating those steps over cracked concrete. I remember when the big bag of Ruffles Potato Chips had two long skinny wax paper bags of chips inside.

I was five I guess. Maybe six. I remember dark green coffee mugs and mismatched dishes – green rims with a rose in the center. Light blue and white with gold swirls. And those great big Tupperware salt and pepper shakers that trapped moisture and made mush.

I was a tiger for Halloween. I was five I guess. Maybe six. The costume was big on me. I was so little. One neighbor gave me very long whips of licorice that she had special for me in a paper bag on top of her refrigerator. All the other kids got candy out of her big bowl at the front door. But she took me by the hand into the kitchen for my special treat. Even though she resembled the jointed die cut cardboard witch that hung on our door she was really nice to me. She had a shrill voice that was always screaming at one of her kids or a neighbor or her husband. She made me a little nervous. But I was little. Five, maybe six. Looking back I realize she was a nice old lady that went out of her way to give me potato chips and candy.

I don’t miss my late father. I don’t miss the celery kid or the kid that played the doctor in the health pageant. I don’t miss the neighbor that gave me potato chips or the family that ate off of mismatched green or blue dishes. I don’t miss being five. Or six.

I miss my stuffed animals.

A gray mouse, a pink dog. A couple of bunnies. I miss the stuffed animals I talked to and slept with. I miss how much love was in me, how much love I could give them, never expecting anything in return. I miss that pure giving for the sake of giving, because you can’t help it, because you have something inside of you to give.

I was Raggedy Ann in a costume contest. I was five, I guess. Maybe six. My friend was a King. His mother put the bathroom rug on his shoulders and made him a scepter and crown. I wanted to believe Michael really was king. Just like I wanted to believe the little girl across the street that was making her First Communion really was getting married because her dress looked like a little wedding dress to me. Just like I wanted to believe Molly was really a witch, and that all my stuffed animals could feel my love.

I was five, I guess. Maybe six. I could love without expecting anything back. I could wish and believe. I was an onion and an animal and a ragdoll. I was little. I was starting.

Avenue A

He held a potato chip in his fingers. It looked like Africa and he wanted me to see. He wanted me to see the sign. But it wasn't a sign. It was a potato chip that looked like Africa.

He never fit in. Much of his life was an exercise in proving just that. And in the evening he would retreat to his basement apartment that smelled like bleach and regret. He spent alot of time in that cellar, scrubbing, trying to wash away mistakes and moods, and the things the mice left behind.