fiction – cozy does it

I’m listening to Vampire Weekend’s “Only God Was Above Us” studio album this morning in search of some spark that’ll illuminate a handful of half decent words to string together. I haven’t written in a few days and I think there might be a little rust underneath the snow of this particular page. Forgive me if it bleeds through.

April’s been wet and the drains are backlogged and working overtime. The car appears to be covered in one word in particular- a fuzzy, yellow, sneezy one called pollen and that means spring is actually here whether the weather’s gotten the memo or not. There’s some green machine projecting a droning hum somewhere outside. I set some “Prep School Gangsters” on it to scare it off.

Maybe today’s a good day to hunt down some magnolia blooms and cherry blossoms. Cloudy days make colors pop and the green will be speckling sparse branches, like pointillistic optimism. A little fresh air could be just what my brain’s looking for to get the juices flowing. I’ll take my music with me on a drive, inviting my Vampires into New Jersey, to aid me in sucking up a little of the inspiration that my surroundings never fail to provide.

Someone told me last week that they once heard New Jersey described as “the armpit of America”. I’m not a good person to say this sort of thing to. Besides, I like to think of it more as the sassy hip, but hey; I’ll let people think what they want and maybe it’ll keep the crowds down on the beaches this summer. I throw “Mary Boone” on, feeling love for my bullied state. You could do a lot worse, if you ask me.

I’m looking forward to the temperatures warming up, to the windsurfer’s kite sails floating like low, neon clouds above the shallow white caps of cresting waves. I’m looking forward to bursting green, to when the trees turn from windows to walls, and the little yellow warblers go flitting into tangled brambles, unscratched. I’m ready to unbundle and feel the breeze on my arms. Soon. Patience.

I’ve jumped to “Connect”. This one makes me think of people driving cars in old movies, you know, the ones where you see an open top convertible winding its way along some picturesque, coastal road on the side of a mountain and a graceful woman sits in the passenger seat wearing lipstick and a silk scarf around her hair that both come across gray in the absence of technicolor. I wonder what colors are preventing her fly-aways and staining her lips and getting her from A to B. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose, but it’s fun to think about. If my brain didn’t work this way, maybe I’d get more done, but then I wouldn’t really be me.

I’ll leave you with that image while I hitch a ride on this imagined adventure. I have a feeling it’ll lead somewhere interesting. I hop into the backseat of the convertible and see the leather upholstery is cream with tan stitching and the car’s gleaming cherry red hood sparkles in the sunlight and curves so smoothly you could slide right off it. There is a blue and periwinkle body of water on our right and the mountainside is freckled with grass, poppies, and miniature wildflowers in shades of orange, purple, and goldenrod. The air smells clean and sweet, a little like the Chanel No. 5 eau de parfum that my nana used to wear.

The woman turns back to greet me with a Hollywood smile and I see her lipstick is an orange shade of red. Her eyes are a warm brown, lighter than mine. Her scarf is optic white, edged with gold and blooming with ornate, silk-screened flowers in rich magenta and royal blue. Her hair is black where it is neatly swirled at the nape of her neck, and I see it is flecked with red when she turns back to look at the view. I don’t ask where we’re headed. I’ll see for myself soon enough. I feel excitement in my bones, a lightness in my chest and a smile on my cheeks. I hold down my hair in an effort to prevent a mess. Who am I kidding though? The mess is part of the adventure.

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue,

The kitchen’s brown and white floor tiles – cold on bare, little, pink toes in the early morning,

Gray light filtering through embroidered curtains,

Casting an emerald jewel over the sink where the shamrock stained glass hung.

I remember the table under the windows topped with a lamp, pristine cloth, and occupied, melamine ashtray

And fearing the swipe of Inkspot’s front claws as he perched on the table with prideful defiance,

A gleaming panther in the cold sun, daring enough to live a little in spite of the photos displayed on the wall beside him-

An homage to pets long gone.

Shannon the Great Pyrenees liked to sleep in the walkway between the kitchen and dining room,

Our languid polar bear babysitter.

We’d climb over her, she- a mountain of white fur and a waggling pink tongue,

But she never seemed to mind us when we buried our little hands in her fluff,

Or scaled over her one chubby leg at a time, running in circles around the first floor.

We’d sneak slices of yellow American cheese from the refrigerator in the laundry room

And watch cartoons in Brepa’s old chair,

Presided over by the oil painting of the Madonna and child,

But we never let them choose the show,

Their gazes clouded with many decades worth of nicotine stains.

I wonder what they liked best on Nickelodeon.

We knew how to turn the silver dials on the brown TV set

Because there were limited options that we could wrap our molding brains around.

We bounced on the squashy, springy seat cushion of the arm chair,

A pile of giggles and twirled pigtails,

If we were lucky enough for Aunt Arlene to curl our hair the night before.

I remember the hi-fi along the back wall of the dining room,

The one with my mom’s baby teeth marks in it

And the concealed Ouija board beneath.

I remember studying the countless framed photographs up the wall along the staircase

And Aunt Arlene telling me not to complain about getting my tangled hair brushed

Because Natalie didn’t complain about getting her hair brushed.

There was a mirror by the front door,

But I’d have to jump to see anything other than the reflection of the ceiling in it.

Shadow was a stray tabby who’d visit from time to time for a snack.

“She made her way around the block”, the parents would say,

Whatever that meant, I’d think, trying to decipher the mysteries of adult conversation.

Shadow had kittens in a box on the porch one time.

“Mine” was gray and had six toes on his paws, but he died quick,

I forget his name.

I never thought about death before that,

But I guess Jersey City’s a tough enough place,

Let alone for a fresh feline.

At the time, I thought it had something to do with his extra toes and was relieved to have the normal amount.

The living room had the quilted, Irish hanging tapestry, embroidered with names of family and friends.

It was also where we named Sunshine,

The orange tabby who replaced Inkspot once his photo was added to the display in the kitchen.

We were four little girls laying on the floor, swinging our feet back and forth in the air,

Deep in thought in a matter of such importance,

Round cheeks propped up on plump palms.

I remember watching Sister Act and My Fair Lady a lot

Because those were the only VHS tapes available in the house.

I remember Katherine, Janice, Carol, and the McGinns.

I remember holding my breath when the Marlboros announced their presence on the porch,

Tom’s banana toothpaste in the morning and at night,

And squeaky clean hair.

There were St. Patrick’s Day Birthday parties

And the train set beneath the Christmas tree –

The shelf in the second floor bathroom- overflowing with haircare products,

Car rides with no seatbelt in the middle,

The tiny American Flag on the antenna, flapping in the wind,

The Garden Song on a loop-

We are made of dreams and bones.

The greatest of the Greats

Had patience for us beyond what she had for our parents.

She curled our hair

And loved us to pieces finer than the scrambledest eggs you’ve ever eaten.

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue

With a life so much bigger than I could see.

The view was higher than I could jump.

I’d have to grow to appreciate it.

I’m tall enough now to look in the mirror and look the past straight on in the present,

Able to recognize the magic of a moment,

The lasting quality of the fleeting,

The memory of the lost.

The feel of cold tiles,

The scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray,

And ringlet curls-

Links to a past, present life that seems so far away now.

Tag: fiction

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