If Dad told me that the sun rose in the West, I would have found a way to believe him. (“What an imagination!”)
If Mom told me that the sun rose in the East, I would have found a way to gainsay her. (“Well, at this time of year, the sun’s position is actually more towards SSE …”)
First-grade me is standing next to the bus driver on the school bus. I’m holding onto a pole. We are at my stop, and some kids get off. But I stay there, telling the bus driver, “I’ll show you where you go next.”
So he drives away, to numerous other stops around Queens before he comes back around to mine. I climb down the steps of the bus, to begin walking as usual towards our apartment building. That’s where my own memory ends. Other people have told me the rest of the story.
Imagine the hysteria with which I am greeted — at the bus stop. Mom is there, waiting, beyond agitated — understandably so, I now know, as a parent. Where have I been? Why didn’t I come through the front door at home when I was supposed to? What happened?
What had happened, apparently, is that the bus driver was new and did not know the route. I did. Don’t ask me why I knew what stops came after mine, but I did. I was a smart little kid, even though I had skipped kindergarten and entered first grade earlier than usual and was a year younger than everyone else. And I guess, even at my young age, I was allowed to walk home alone from the bus stop. Even in Queens. (It was a long time ago, and many things were different then.)
Family lore has it that Dad paid a very stern visit the next day to the principal. Imagine that conversation. I wonder if the bus driver lost his job. I wonder if I ever took the school bus again.
What are you supposed to to when your
Assigned
Assumed
Acknowledged responsibility
All these years
Happily or not
Has been to put 3 meals a day on the table (or in the lunchbox)
60+ years x 3 x 365
Not only are they not there any more for those meals
(And even if they are, they graze instead)
(Sorry, Mom, I already ate)
You can’t remember how anyway
What are you supposed to do
Writing class “flash” prompt; 10 minutes.
The stubbly grass dusted with overnight snow
Powdered sugar on a crumb coffee cake
The sun struggling for freedom against a pall of clouds
A tongue of light darting out for a taste
I know it’s not the same
That a dog is not a person
But when my dog
(Elderly, diabetic, so diminished)
Unable once again to rise up from his bed
His legs spayed uselessly akimbo
Raised his eyes to mine
I knew what he was saying
And a few days later
On the last day
When he did rise and stagger to me
And laid his forehead against my leg
I knew what he was saying
There was a large statue of Mary, the Blessed Mother, in the main hallway, and smaller statues of Mary in all the classrooms. It was the custom to keep offerings of fresh flowers in front of these shrines. Not from the florist, but from people’s gardens.
Early in my second-grade career, I wanted to partake in this tribute. As I waited at the school bus stop one day, I saw my chance. There was an empty lot nearby that was abloom with what I thought were the most marvelous flowers. My family having recently moved to this suburb from the city, I had no garden and had never seen flowers growing in such abandon — tiny, brilliant yellow, arrayed up-and-down on long bristly stems, looking like brooms that a witch in a fairy tale might use. Witches held no negative meaning for me, so I meant no disrespect to Mary. (I now know such brooms have a a name: “besoms”.)
Somehow — I wouldn’t have had scissors nor a knife — I pulled together an armload of flowers and hauled it onto the bus. The theatrical shrieks from the other students began almost immediately. Seems that my beautiful flowers were called “goldenrod” and no one liked them because they made you sneeze.
In my mind’s eye, I see little-girl me, watching my teacher stick my offering — which had already begun to wilt — into a large vase. She scurried out to the hallway statue and, over her shoulder, told me not to bring wildflowers to school anymore.
