Breadcrumb #392

COLLEEN ENNEN

Pull impatiently on your father’s hand.

    Wait for the crossing light, your mother will say.

    Try to be good. Fidget. Watch the red and brown leaves swirl; listen to them crunch under your new boots-a-half-size-too-big. Feel the cold on your cheeks and nose; feel the warmth inside your knit mittens and knit tights.

    I hope it doesn’t rain, your mother will say.

    I don’t like the look of those clouds, your father will say.

    The light will turn green.

    Skip when you cross the intersection. Wave at the police officer with the whistle and yellow vest. Phtweeee! his whistle will shriek. There will be many families all smushed together on the other side. You will see other children running and laughing and drinking hot chocolate. Ask your father—pretty please—for a hot chocolate. He will grumble about the price, but he will buy it. It will be watery and hot and so sweet sweet sweet. Hold with both hands, careful.

    You will hear the music first. Dart forward, around the knees and hips, and under the bags of the strangers. Do not hear your mother shout. Press your quivering body to the barricade.

    The turkey will be thirty feet tall and riding a truck. It will have two small pilgrims on its back. A woman holding a pumpkin will hand you a red balloon. Another woman will give the boy next to you chewing gum.

    Wish you had been given chewing gum instead.

    Look up. Beautiful giants will swim across the sky, lead by long strings. Charlie Brown. Babar. Kermit. Shriek with delight. Clap.

    Santa fifty-feet-long will loom over you. His shadow will stretch half the block. Santa six-feet-tall will follow on the street with his sleigh and his reindeer and his Mrs. Santa. Wave at him until your elbow hurts.

“His shadow will stretch half the block.”

    Time to go now kiddo, your mother will say.

    That’s the end of the parade, she will say.

    Ask to say just five minutes more—But look there are more balloons! Please just to see those? Point down the street. There will be a host of shining white figures floating uptown.

    A new part of the parade maybe, your father will say.

    I didn’t see anything about it in the paper, your mother will say.

    The shining white figures will come closer. Watch them. When they reach your block you will see that the figures are children. They will swoop and twirl and play. Shriek with delight. Clap.

    There’s no strings, your mother will say. Her hand will be on your shoulder.

    Where are the people controlling them, your father will say.

    A shining white girl about your size and age will pass overhead. She will be dressed in old fashioned clothes like the costumes you have for your doll.

    Wave at her. She will wave back.

    Smile at her. She will smile back.

    Hold out your arm and open your mittened hand. Watch your red balloon float up up up to the shining white girl. Watch it pass through the space of her chest and keep floating towards the blackened clouds.

    The screaming will start further up the block. Your father will lift you to his chest. He will try to push through the crowd but it will be too thick.

    Hurry, your mother will say. Her hand will hover over your head.

    Above you the shining white girl will burst. In a spray. Of blood.

    More inverted pops—like gum sucked in through your teeth—will sound up and down the street.

    Shriek with delight.

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Breadcrumb #19

TRAVIS SAMUEL

It's like holidays and heroes. Done well, you celebrate all year. When it is done wrong, you only get a month. 

     He tried remembering the first time they met. They allude to it sometimes, but the details remain unclear. There was the “hello,” the smile, the drive, the police, the restaurant... Maybe the restaurant.  He was not sure. 

     He remembers that night. Rolling around on the empty apartment floor. There was lots of space then. There was no need for what they called “adult” furniture. A futon and a small table in a well-lit apartment was all that necessity mandated. 

     The cat enjoyed being the same height as the two of them. He jumped, batted, and clawed as the figures wrestled, secretly testing the other for strength while stealing subtle exchanges of warmth. 

     When their bodies could no longer take the impact of childhood merriment, they slid through the side door for air. They leaned on the perfectly polished railing of the balcony that was home to the plants that decided not to finish growing. The untroubled darkness provided enough light to see the outline of the family of spruce grouped together hiding the local road. They were alone, and life was beautiful.

“They were alone, and life was beautiful.”

     The turtle was there in his Rubbermaid container that seemingly held the essentials of a hospitable habitat. He had just begun digging a suitable space to avoid the coming winter and refused to acknowledge the shadows hovering above him. 

     He found the turtle while hiking the Appalachians and hastily named him Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson was the only animate creature he found on that climb, though he would cautiously stop at the sound of dry leaves crunching under him hoping to catch a glimpse of a white-tailed drawn from a daybed. 

     Upon reentering the apartment, the drinks, physical activity, and calm of night rendered them exhausted. The pressing yet unspoken expectation of respect and virtue interrupted their initial slumber as they anxiously tossed and awoke nervously before allowing sleep to dominate the remainder of the evening.

     The sun shined on a new day with optimism and hope. They survived the first test. They said their good-byes with all of the faith dreamers were allowed to possess.  

     A cloud of fury and anger holds them captive now. The slightest incident is cause for a breakdown, which leads to yelling, screaming, and, most disheartening, the need for space and time. Most times, neither knows why they are arguing. What goes unsaid is usually what needs to be said to bring the appropriate resolution. But neither wants to risk being the one to end it.

     This is why they are as they are. No one wants to be the bad person. There are no shoulders to cry on when you are the bad person. People shun you, poke fun, or speak freely. 

     People don't understand love. They can't comprehend the push-pull factors that leave you in a perpetual state of suspended movement. They can't see past your smile or “good riddance."  You don't have the right words to transfer the hurt or pain to inspire empathy. 

     So, you put on your brave face, operate with calculated precision, clutch the last of your sanity, closely carry your pride, silently petition for a redo, grasp for a new world, and demand understanding all while refraining from noticing that you did holidays and heroes the wrong way.

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