16

 

Sixteen

 

When I got back from Oregon there was no hiding from

the twin blue stripes on the EPT.  It was a line tying him

to me, me to him.  I decided not to address it.  It would

go away.  I was not meant to be something’s mother.

 

At sixteen I realized my independence from my family

didn’t guarantee sanctuary.  I often remember how

his face smelled like beer and his hands fumbled and

flopped as if they were filled with water.  And I laughed

and hiccupped because we both smelled like beer, and after

three years of slow dancing around sex, this was what it had come to.

 

Balmy summer night that has bound us in both memory and life.  When

I learned sperm could still swim through beer-filled bodies and that

running away could not fix problems.  His answer was simple, but

it was not an answer I wanted.  Another night brought blood and

the realization I had wanted something.