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1:30 p.m. - 2010-10-26
Center of the Universe
Or at least that's how I see it. He would undoubtedly tell you something different if he hadn't died in 2003, leaving me with my crazy blueprint and a stewardess cap he sewed by hand when I was maybe seven. My mother and I had taken a plane back to Rhode Island for a brief visit. Fleetingly, I thought I wanted to fly. My Dad made me an entire stewardess outfit, complete with the tin TWA wings they give kids so they will be brave and not cry or throw up. What I really thought I wanted to be was a ballerina. Later, they said I never told them and maybe I didn't. Suspecting they didn't have money for lessons, I would wake up around 7 on weekends and practice my ten excruciating positions from a ballet book. I would walk around the block with my ballet bag, returning late enough to convince my friends that I was "taking ballet". I like to think that I was robbed of this vocation by a misplaced, but noble respect for my parents' imagined finances. In truth, I was awkward and shy, not at all an athlete and hopelessly lazy. I would lay on the couch like a pudgy queen, ordering my mother to bring me lemons and salt, potato sticks and peanut butter. And she would do it. I was the center of their collective universe. We lived in a small duplex on Orange Drive in Hollywood, relocated from Rhode Island's snow and lack of employment. The owner was a retired teacher, Mrs. Rowe, who loved the sound of childrens' laughter. The backyard was truly enchanted, surrounded by morning glories. I had an imaginary friend named Marianne, who lived in the laundry shed, and two real friends, both named Susan. They were carefree. I was rather serious, in my taffeta First Communion dress and mother -of-pearl crusafix. At least, that's how I best remember that little girl, with the long braids and too short bangs. Trying to perfect her genuflect, trying to fly under God's radar. Blessed Sacrament Church was a little scary, with it's cold marble walls and mesmerizing Latin chants. God loomed above the altar, taking notes. I didn't know Him then. Not really. I had my god and he wore a Lockheed badge. Like I said, he could fix anything. If need be, my father could petition for me, complete my homework, do my penance. Even though my father never set foot in a church, certainly God would have to respect his initiative and take my part. One Christmas, Susan D. got a brand new 19" Schwinn. I watched as she fearlessly flew up and down the street, skinny legs resting on the shiny handlebars. I got a 14" second-hand bike. My Dad had painted it purple and plastered it with decals. Susan watched jealously, as he held the back of my bike seat while I struggled to achieve a cautious balance, trying my best to trust God, my training wheels and true north, my Dad. I was loved beyond question, in that Garden just west of Eden. Even the air was somehow different, fragrant and alive with the low lull of whipporwhils. It sinks like India ink into the soft folds of my blueprint, stirring expectations impossible to fulfill.

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