Died

You’re an idiot. You’ve always been since the day you were born.

That’s what your momma told you: seven years old and you knock a glass of milk on the brown crusted tile of the kitchen. “You ain’t no baby,” she say. “What are you mentally retarded?” She grabbed your knotted hair, and made you lap up the the creamy liquid with your tongue: like a cat. Like Mr. Robinson’s kitty.  You had found it when you were helping him feed those lethargic spotted cows. Meow meow. There it was: brown and speckled with tiny white pieces,  nestled deep into the hay of the broad, red barn. Poked it three times with your long, dirty fingernail. The kitty wouldn’t even open its eyes. You wrapped your stocky, sausage fingers around it’s bony head, and muffled its sharp cries. A soft crack  left the kitty as you ran towards Mr. Robinson, its now limp tail and body swinging like a sack of bloody, butchered meat. The kitty couldn’t even open its eyes. You were sad it couldn’t see. “You was dumb from the day I met you, I shoulda got rid of you when I first felt you kick. I knew you’d be trouble”. Your momma is cracking your nose against the tile, the saliva spraying from her mouth and splattering on your neck. Pretend you’re a kitty: scrunch your eyes and seal them tight. You can’t see.

High school: your words weren’t wordy or significant, numbers didn’t add in your head, and your voice screeched like exploding fireworks in the cool summer sky. You wrote poems, they were bad. The teacher said so. Remember the one about being deaf? There was another long one about butterflies, and a short one about fuzzy kittens. How did it go again?

Fuzzy kittens in the red barn

something something alarm

something hay something

That’s all you remember. The rhythm was extremely important to you: words weren’t. You handed it in on October 12th.

October 14th, red pen: “Andy, This is all wrong”.

It didn’t make sense. You wanted to publish the poem, and show it to your mom. Become a writer. Maybe write a novel of your life one day too. The story of your story. Or the story of your life. But that’s a cliche, right? You remembered that was bad: be original, be unique. But you’re not original or unique: just ordinary and common. But that’s not so bad. Your first and only girlfriend told you that too. She had mousy brown hair that was gelled to her head like a space helmet, no like Luke Skywalker’s helmet. Her left eyebrow twitched when she was nervous: “This is all wrong”. A kiss scared her away. You had forgotten to put on chap stick that morning “This is all wrong”.  You didn’t think so, but what do you know?

Fifteen years later, and you are still an idiot.

450: your SAT combined score. You had studied for months. Momma told you this would happen. Idiots are idiots are idiots. You had 13.50 under your bed, you had been saving from the money from working at the grocery market: after you had given momma the money for living with her. Was that enough to put in college applications? “You a stupid boy if you think any college would want you” she said. You knew it was true.

You were lucky her boyfriend found you a job at a factory. “You should take it, cause its meant for boys who have trouble thinking like smart people” she said. You thought about it. You would wake up every morning at 4am and move big bags of flour across a warehouse with a tiny yellow vehicle. Six failed driving tests, and they still wanted you. You felt honored, and they said 25 was the perfect age to join the company. Potential to move into management. Salaried jobs. But for now you were gonna be paid 1.50 over minimum wage. Sign some papers and start work. Pick up extra shifts: smile. Your momma is so happy. You even brought home a honey glazed ham for Thanksgiving. Life moves like a steady leaky faucet. Day becomes enveloped by night and Day bleeds through the black night sky.

Wake up. Work. Come home. Smile.

Wake up. Work. Come home. Smile.

Wake up. Work. Come home. Smile?

Wake up. Work.

Work. Work. Work. Work. Work. Work.

Forty-five years old, and  your momma died three years ago.

You are driving to work. $1.75 over minimum wage. That’s not so bad. They say you have potential. Maybe you can be a manager soon. Get more money. Re-bury your momma in a nicer cemetery plot.

Then you see it: a tiny brown kitten crossing the busy highway. You don’t think.

You screech on your brakes, and turn your wheel roughly, colliding with the median in the other lane. The kitty scuttles across the street. You smile. Then you see it. Your companies 18 wheeler, angrily driving straight towards your car. You turn your key. It won’t start. Try again, no luck.  The flour truck slides towards your rusted Honda and you close your eyes. You wonder if it is gonna hurt.