Jay
Whenever I make a homemade pizza on a Saturday night I'm immediately brought back to my grandmother's house circa 1978.
Whenever I make a homemade pizza on a Saturday night I'm immediately brought back to my grandmother's house circa 1978.
Once, when I was 10, I crawled inside my big orange suitcase (I'm very tiny) and showed my brother, who promptly locked me in it and left me there for an hour.
Someone had a piano that was broken, and someone else had a bunch of land, so that inevitably led to a very well-attended piano burning party late one night.
My mom frantically searched for me around the house to finally find me finishing off a big stick of butter.
I was watching anime with my son on his thirteenth birthday when I got the call that my brother died of electrocution at age 33.
The most prominent memory I have of my grandmother is the night she tried to kill me.
He draws me pictures on my toaster strudels just like my mom used to do.
My only crush in the seventh grade rejected me in an overkill fashion, "I'm like the frog on the lily pad, and you are like the dirt at the bottom of the lake," he said.
I really think that if he didn't die in the plane crash, my grandmother and mother would have turned out so differently.
Everything became clearer as I looked through old school projects and saw I listed the school librarian under the category of "best friend."
I slammed my body into the hood of my truck on the night you died and the dent is still there.
I seriously never thought I was going to crack up in the middle of my first kiss.
Even now, five months later, I can still see the skidmarks on that stretch of highway.
After he died I've always avoided the cherry tree orchards.
Despite coming out as a lesbian more than 10 years ago, the straight girl in me still dwells on memories of Chris and Mike and Kevin and wonders if they ever think about me.
Having to leave behind long-sought posessions many times I realized finally that only the memories of moments and the people remembering me are things to last.
I often think it odd how one of my clearer childhood memories is of slapping my two year old brother's face as hard as my seven year old self could manage.