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Sara Rice has cerebral palsy. I assumed because she had a disease she was a kind person, in the way we are all, when confronted by the headlights of death, prioritized. I introduced her to my friends, cooked her a meal from a centuries-old recipe. Sara Rice belittled my interests, hit on my boyfriend, ripped off my front bumper with her bare hands. I asked why she did it. She said she wanted to see if she could. Sara, I don’t know where you are these days. I’m sorry I failed to imagine you.
Like items into a purse, Jo gathers herself inside of herself.
During our first years together, we offered each other copious tangible examples of our love. A vintage pencil sharpener, the kind you crank. New ways to make a hamburger. This grew tiring. Eventually, humanely, we allowed each other rest from being impressive, which was comforting until it became uneasy, something we weren’t sure we’d invited.
Then the bookshelves: two five-tiered towers of unfinished wood that Derek had put together with nails and a high heel. He wasn’t all bad. It’s impossible to hate a person you truly know.
“Many times, we speak a different language from our parents. We address our mothers from a stubborn set of assumptions and never really try to translate into their understanding. This is akin to executing perfect tennis strokes on different courts. Gives a whole new meaning to mother tongue.” He chuckles softly.
“How did you learn to garden like this?” “My sister,” she says. “She must be so proud.” Claudia is too tired to protect his experience. “She’s dead.” “But you,” he says, “texted her the other night?” “It wouldn’t be fair if everything had to end when someone dies.” He seems to expect a longer explanation, but she can’t help if it’s not simple for him,
New York was thrilling and expensive and I spent most of every day feeling successful for staying alive.
