Brush out the Knots
by mlhart
There are days when I miss you most. Friends sharing fleeting thoughts, the moment we thought we could take the scenic route to Alaska, you and me in that old rust bucket Topaz eating gas station jerky and drinking day flat Dr. Pepper warmed by stalled summer air.
You and me and the infinite open highway, longing for hot days on rooftops reached only by ladders and lost frisbees, your died dark hair spitting sweat on a Tuesday when you told me you loved me and broke the old motel door down just to prove it, frame cracked and fallen the same night you ponytailed my hair as I lost dinner over a bottle of Jack; you tucked me into bed, my tears wetting up scratchy sheets and said: dear, take care, dear; I’ll wake you in the morning to brush out the knots.
And when I cried the second time ’cause my daddy forgot my birthday the seventh time in my life you laughed, wrinkle-smiles pulling cat-eyes closed, and pawed my back, protective mitt soft-palm open, and said to me: we all born of the same white bread girl, it all circles back to the middle some time.
We reminisce, we do: that bless and curse of growing up poor in a ‘hood known for its breaks and enters, its eleven-twelve-thirteens smoking and swearing and drinking and dealing and getting expelled in grade seven. The unnecessary and the unwanted: a band of black sheep with the shiniest coats and darkest records holed up in the halfway house down the street from where I grew up, down the street from where you went to school, around the corner from your first kiss, around the corner from my first liquor ticket.
We walk and walk, we do – we did, we used to. Late nights in small towns with nothing better to do than blame our upbringing or our young parents or too little time or littler money or less interest.
‘Cause there’s always Fish over the Moon selling booze to underagers or Trooper on stage at The Electric Cowboy or an old flick at the cheap seats where the staff don’t mind when you smuggle in your flask.
Truth is, it was all just exposure to the elements. Learning how to make (Kraft) dinner and mix (Kool Aid) juice and listen when spoke to and nod when known better and being better for it, really.
We never did make it to Alaska, you and me. But Lord knows we turned out all right, we did.
xoxo
M.L. H’art
