Month: November 2014

should have, would have, could have

I’ve always wanted to be able to tell people that I work in an aquarium.

Not because I like fish or anything. To be honest, I haven’t been to the aquarium since a class trip in fifth grade, and that started with a series of unfortunate hair-pullings between Amy Fildner and me and ended with gum in Amy Fildner’s hair. I did what I needed to clinch my rightful victory. Mr. Hasser disagreed.

I didn’t get to see much of the aquarium.

No, I don’t work in an aquarium. But I’d tell them about being flooded by light, light reflected through water, and serenity, and things I can control. I would tell them I wave to a whale when I get to work, and then maybe wave to a shark. I wouldn’t tell them I feed the shark, because I like to stay alive in my fantasies.

I would tell them I’m an astronaut if they’d believe me. I’d tell them I was the first woman on the moon, and I’d accuse them of being sexists when they don’t look that impressed. I would tell them that the night before my last trip, my husband intertwined his fingers in mine and said he would miss me.

“I’ll be back soon,” I would tell them I’d said. I would tell them I kissed him softly and whispered, “See that up there? If you just can’t make it, you know where to find me.” There would be a wink in there. I would tell them there was a handsome astronaut in the International Space Station that tried to woo me by giving me a flower, or a packet of space mashed potatoes, or something. But I stayed faithful because I love my author/dancer/doctor husband.

I would tell them all of that, but no one would believe it. I pant when I walk down the stairs, and, more often than not, I trip on my way down too. I also don’t have a wedding ring, or a tan line where a ring would have been.

Sometimes I want to tell them I’m the CEO—or CPO, or maybe even CPEFQO—of a business. It’s a hedge fund in New York, I’d say, one of the biggest hedge funds in the world. I would blush when I’d tell them that my cookbook, Balancing Success and Diets, just made it to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, to show how humbled I am. I would tell them that my assistant spilled coffee on my dry cleaning yesterday, but I forgave him because the mistakes I made built me up to be the person I am now.

I’d base the details of the spill on a stint last October when I accidentally poured a cup of coffee on a customer. The customer was a real asshole, and she wasn’t so happy about it. I would have responded better, especially if it was my assistant who spilled coffee on me, and if I was a CPEFQO.

“One day,” I’d tell them I told my assistant, “You’ll understand what I mean.”

wearing on the edges

The dust is gathering on the shelf around me, and I really wish someone would open a window. No one’s opened me in months. I worry I’ll forget what it’s like to be looked at. I’m not in the shape I used to be.

It wasn’t always like this. Usually, at least three or four times a week, her hands would pull me by my leather binding. Right when I got off the shelf, she would use her other hand to support my pages. She would blow the dust from off my cover each time, even if she had taken me out earlier in the day. She would hug me to her chest, cross her arms over me, and carry me to the orange velvet couch.

My first memory is with her. It was dark right before I met her, too. She ripped the paper from my face and smoothed out my leather. Her hands were soft and warm. “This will be perfect,” she smiled.

Soon afterward she filled my first page and started opening me daily. “This is his first time eating solids,” she started saying. She would touch her hand to my pages, careful enough not to leave a strong print. She would giggle. “Isn’t he wonderful?” Then, “He’s a great big cousin. Look at that!” Then, “His English teacher said he never would, but I knew better!”

True, during that other stretch of time when she didn’t open me, I learned to get used to the silence. Or so I tried. Luckily, one day, she took me out and smoothed her hand over my leather again. She opened me, and this time there was a young girl there who had never been in my pages. “This is his first time eating solids,” she smiled, pointing once again. She laughed. “He asked me not to show you the ones of him in the bath!”

The young girl pressed her finger to my page. “That’s you?” the young girl giggled at him. He nodded, his cheeks flushing red. They flushed the same color on their first date. “He was so nervous,” she would say when she showed that one. “Aren’t they just adorable?”

She started to fill me with images of the girl and the boy. Soon, the girl wasn’t a stranger anymore.

And then, “This was their first dance! He swept her right off her feet.”

And then, “He looks just like his father! Look at the way he curls his toes!”

Her hands started to feel colder on my pages. Still, every time, she would blow the dust off of me and smooth out my leather.

The last day she took me out, it was more slowly than usual. Her grasp was weaker, and her hands were shaking. “This was his first time eating solids,” she sighed. Her voice was shaking too. “Wasn’t he wonderful?” The girl, older by now, leaned over me and a drop of water fell on my page. Then she closed me and pushed me back on the shelf. I’ve been there since.

Except I feel something on my spine now—is that a hand? Yes, it’s her hand! She pulls me out with two hands, takes a deep breath, blows the dust from my cover, crosses her arms over me, and carries me once again to the orange velvet couch.