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“Cute little lake they’ve got there.”
“Yes, but the sand isn’t especially soft.” I remember the small rocks they used as sand instead of a substance that can be pressed between your toes with comfort.
“No, it isn’t. But it is pretty nonetheless.”
“I like that about Texas, down there near Austin, you can see green trees and fluffy white clouds for miles.”
“I may be biased, but it is home.” A smile grows through his confession.
“I wish I had a place to call home.”
“Not a Kansas girl?”
“I don’t know what kind of woman I am. Probably more world traveler than a homebody.”
“Been around the globe?” It’s a laying your head back and chills kind of tone.
“A few times.”
“What place has the best food?”
“Depends what type of food you want. But, most of the time, I would have to say Thailand.”
“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”
“No, not anymore.” I haven’t thought straight since I got back from Brazil. But I am trying, and that is all that Rachelle says matters.
“Good, that’s good. I’ve got plenty of time, Phoebe. What about you? Do you have time for one more story? Do you have anywhere else to be?”
I would have said I have the world to see. But I’ve seen most of it. I would have said only the world to see because that’s what Enzo and I did; we were falling into a travel pattern; our love was only bright when the landscapes kept changing.
“No.” I sniffle the answer. “I’ve got nowhere to be. I have time.”
“Why don’t you start off with why you called tonight?”
I don’t say anything.
“Okay, how about something more straightforward. Can you tell me the first time you felt happy?”
“If I tell you that, I would have to tell you the first time I felt sad.”
“Whenever you are ready.”
I don’t start with Enzo. I don’t start with myself. I start with a little girl and her grandpa. People unrelated to me, only I observed.
30° 27’ 17” N. 97° 37’ 20” W
Pflugerville, Texas
I don’t know how old I am. Because birthdays back then didn’t happen yearly like most kids celebrated. If I had to guess, I am between eight and eleven. This summer and a few before, I am in Texas at an aunt’s house. My mother dropped me off here, and I don’t know what I did to deserve being banished for three whole months, but I earn it every summer, good behavior or bad.
We live with my grandfather throughout the rest of the year in Washington. My mother isn’t around most of the time; my father only comes back when he misses her. I don’t miss the strange man who I look like. My pure face and almond eyes match his and not my mother’s.
The first time I remember being happy, I also remember being sad. There are vacant core memories from my early years; there is no affection I can feel imprinted onto my skin or worn on my bones. I am a solitary being revolving around the impulses of extroverted family members.
My father’s eyes only ever briefly scanned over me. I think he was ashamed he saw his reflection. I wondered if my mother only kept me because she had something to hold onto when he was gone. We weren’t picture-perfect, but I didn’t try to earn the love from a ghost at that age.
At my aunt’s house in Texas, next door on Thursdays, a little girl would wait out on the front porch for her grandpa. She ran to him; I watched as he climbed out of his old yellow pickup truck and greeted her with a big hug. Every Thursday, I waited for those five minutes where I saw a different type of family. A diverse version of love.
