Semi-Finalist, Frank McCourt Memoir Prize
I sat underneath a dying tree alongside the ambitious lane leading to what was once my childhood home.
A rainbow donut in hand. Not a chic donut. A regular glazed donut from a poorly lit grocery store topped with tasteless rainbow frosting. My birthday breakfast every year growing up in this town. Despite the gourmet donut trend, this is the only kind of donut I've ever liked. And as I'm sitting here now, I'm certain I never liked it at all. I was simply fascinated by the blended colors, the flaky dough, the creamy frosting…every aspect of it made me feel rich, Rich, on my birthday.
A fucking 35-cent donut made me feel rich on my birthday.
And now here I was, forcing myself to eat the cheap delicacy while surrounded by rotting crab apples. Savoring the last few pages of Patti Smith's “Woolgathering” the same way I once savored the last few crumbs of a shitty birthday donut.
Even after twenty years, the road leading to this house is still gravel. The alfalfa field, still alfalfa. But the structure itself is no longer deteriorating. Instead, a real bell of the ball country home mansion stands in its place and a tennis court sits where the barn with the caving roof once weighed heavy. Many times I thought about that roof completely crashing down. Romanticized about rescuing my dolls, most of them already headless or missing a leg or an arm. I'd dream about being the hero, carrying them out one by one. Giving CPR to Gina Honeybottom. Telling the family of Headless Helen, "There was nothing I could do."
The crunch beneath my feet comes to a startling stop as I reach the end of the alfalfa field. A wave of silence I’m not yet prepared for. I trace my fingers along the barbed wire that punished my thighs over and over, then gaze ahead as I straddle the bouncing metal one last time.
The playhouse at the end of the apple orchard feels unrecognizable. I worked so hard to make that old spider-infested playhouse look like one of those fancy fuckers behind Home Depot, now here it was flaunting Mediterranean blue shutters. As if a playhouse has any business sporting shutters.
The basketball hoop where KC explained sex during an unfinished game of H-O-R-S-E has disappeared underneath jet-black asphalt, making the driveway look like a Kmart parking lot. I suppose if this were my driveway I would fancy myself to a lot of driving. Or maybe I'd just start parking my car in the sea of darkness, simply because I could.
Is there a chance the demolition of the basketball hoop happened simultaneously with the demolition of my very own virginity? I can see it clearly, the removal of the long, slender, phallic looking pole with the cylindrical net attached. If detached, the pole could slide right inside its open counterpart. I assume a pair of construction workers dug the pole out of the cement the very moment Tedd Peppers spit a disgusting mix of chewing tobacco and saliva onto his fingers and slathered it all over a borrowed condom. Could it be true they tossed the pole into an empty truck bed just as Peppers proceeded to shove the foul-smelling blend inside me, causing me to bleed all over my father's very bland, very beige couch? And were they already pouring the asphalt by the time he slid off the bloody latex and plucked it inside a sweaty Piña Colada Fuze bottle and left it sitting there for me to contemplate while he went down to smoke until red taillights illuminated the dusty road?
What happened to this home?
I expected to see my purple banana seat bike lying perfectly balanced on one pedal near the Bleeding Hearts. But neither it nor the Bleeding Hearts were there. I can remember dragging my ankles until they bled while coasting on that bike. Reopening the scabs over and over — scars to remind me. Something about the pain. I liked watching the blood trickle down into individual streams between my toes. Even with socks. Come to think of it, I may have enjoyed that more. Especially with my fancy Sunday socks. I’d sit by the garden and eat fresh peas while I carefully slipped off my jelly shoes and examined the blood soaked ruffles.
I make my way to the canal where my mother paid us 10-cents a pop for each tooth we pulled out of a rotting coyote. But something keeps me from staying in this moment for long. I head to the sunflower fields. As I climb the mountain I picture my home as it was, and shudder. I still have nightmares of this place and all that it was and wasn't. But visually, it's breathtaking. I picture all the flowers. The garden. The large porch. The doorstep.
"The doorstep," I murmur — as vivid memories race.
The doorstep, where groceries were left anonymously.
The doorstep, where angry coke dealers came knocking.
The doorstep, where my father came and went and never came again.
The doorstep, where Bleeding Hearts bloomed and bloody hearts bled.
The doorstep. The wishing well. The undertale of tall pines and rising mountains.
Racing wildfires and souls unwinding.
Misconception and swollen nights.
An otter creek tire swing made for two.
A mother who will never swing.
A child who will always watch her.
Eyes always watching.
