After Brainard

I remember many first days of school, and that empty feeling

Joe Brainard

I remember gum in my hair, after getting off the school bus.

I remember white sweatshirts inside out.

I remember wearing shorts with sweatshirts with the cuffs cut off.

I remember touching the thigh high boots in the back of Shoe Pavilion and that sexy feeling.

I remember the pink strands of Big League Chew.

I remember that tight feeling in my stomach when my parents started fighting.

I remember trading my younger sister Halloween candy, being sure she ended up with all of my Tootsie Rolls and Tootsie Roll suckers.

I remember the scent of Pine-Sol and hot water.

I remember refusing to eat French toast when I realized that the bread was dipped in raw eggs.

I remember thinking fat people drank beer and skinny people drank wine.

I remember walking into art galleries with paintings so big I was afraid I’d fall in.

I remember the sound of a cassette tape clicking off.

I remember finishing a book, and then the dullness of real life.

I remember thinking If I held my breath every time I saw tampons or maxi pads commercial I would not start my period.

I remember the smell of rain in the cottonwood trees in early summer.

I remember watching Mr. Rogers putting his dress shoes back on, and feeling hollow because the show was over.

I remember my grandfather’s big ears.

I remember my entire sixth grade music class refusing to sing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” for the substitute teacher and how much trouble we were in.

I remember getting lost in mall parking lots.

I remember holding my breath when I saw alcohol.

I remember microwaving baloney and Kraft single sandwiches in the microwave.

I remember the figurine of a giraffe sitting in an outhouse in my grandma’s bathroom.

I remember wondering why Redbook magazine was called “Redbook.”

I remember being confused by the blond mermaid on the “Chicken of the Sea” brand of canned tuna.

I remember wondering what “make out” meant.

I remember leaf walks in the Fall.

I remember red felt-tip pens and drawing on my arms with them and getting in trouble for it.

I remember hating sex scenes in movies because I knew that afterward my mom would give me a lecture about the perils of premarital sex.

I remember that feeling of betrayal when the boys who were supposed be my friends put gum in the lock on my locker.

I remember thinking Sesame Street was a disappointing rip off of the Muppet Show.

I remember telling kids at church my cousin had a tattoo of a naked lady with big blue boobs, because it seemed so racy.

I remember seeing a mountain lion in the ditch by the road while riding the school bus, but no one believed me.

I remember the smell of my grandfather’s grey wool suit.

I remember thinking if I read my bible every night I would not start my period.

I remember my mother getting ready to go out on dates with my father, and me watching her put on her makeup. She was so beautiful.

I remember the embarrassment of having to shower for junior high gym class and the P.E. teacher saying to the class, “Everyone has different plumbing.”

I remember the dangerous sound the paper cutter made each time it sliced a stack of paper.

I remember my sister crying every night when my mother brushed her waist-length hair.

I remember in all the games we played with the neighborhood kids, we always pretended we were orphans.

I remember thinking once periods started you bleed every day until you died.

I remember thinking people who had their clothes dry cleaned were rich.

I remember, after Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother’s house, all the women in the kitchen cleaning up while the men fell asleep watching tv.

I remember wondering how hard the wind had to blow, to blow you off course.

I remember looking at the sky and feeling a great loneliness inside me.

I remember camping in my backyard with my father and he turned on the portable radio to a show called “Hearts of Space” and I wondered if I would ever see that heart.

I remember the magic of clip-on earrings and clip-on ties.

I remember my mom rocking me on her lap in front of the Christmas tree at night singing every carol she could think of.

I remember crying in the janitor’s closet at church when I felt particularly redeemed.

I remember Zoloft, how it tasted bitter and stuck on the back of my tongue.

I remember girls with hair wet from swimming all day in the river.