Monday, July 16, 2007

November 17th, 1980 (My First Mountain)


I was just shy of three when my brother was hatched. Another born strong,
healthy. How could this be? Our parents smoked cigarettes and grass,

drank copiously, did blow, gambled at Bingo halls. Probably didn’t
eat very well either.

Brown hair roofed his miniature head like Indiana’s
spring pollen
powdering automobiles. I was still so small that I wouldn’t have to
share toys or conversations.


Lots of Tupperware products, pudding and jello containers, a rectangular one for brownies rolled out of the cupboard every time I climbed the mountain that lead me to cereal, bowls, chips, and crackers.

I assembled a lift to reach the countertop’s summit. After the flag was planted,
I went for milk and a spoon.

Hey mom, we’re out of
fruit rollups and zebra cakes.


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