She said that you’re fucked at cell division, that it’s all downhill from there.
—Anne Lamott - Some Assembly Required.
Grow up with me, let’s run in fields and through the dark together, fall off swings and burn special things, and both play outside in bad weather. Let’s eat badly, let’s watch adults drink wine and laugh at their idiocy, let’s sit in the back of the car making eye contact with strangers driving past, making them uncomfortable, Not caring, not swearing, don’t look. Let’s both reclaim our superpowers, the ones we all have and lose with our milk teeth, the ability not to fear social awkwardness, the panic when locked in the cellar, still sure there’s something down there, and while picking through pillows each feather, let’s both stay away from the edge of the bed, forcing us closer together. Let’s sit in public, with ice-cream all over both our faces, sticking our tongues out at passers-by, let’s cry, let’s swim, let’s everything, let’s not find it funny, lest someone falls over. Classical music is boring, poetry baffles us both, there’s nothing that’s said is what’s meant, plays are long, tiresome, sullen and filled with hours that could be spent rolling down hills and grazing our knees on cement. Let’s hear stories and both lose our innocence, learn about parents and forgiveness, death and morality, kindness and heart, thus losing both of our innocent hearts, but at least we wont do it apart. Grow up with me.
The gardener is the quintessential optimist: not only does he believe that the future will bear out the fruits of his efforts, he believes in the future.
—Joyce Carol Oates, A Widow’s Story