Untitled, 4/10/2019

Momma, I wanna buy a shiny new pair of roller skates. Remember the ones I had when I was little? They might still be in the basement somewhere. There were three or four pairs down there. I was too little to fit in any of them before first grade maybe. One of the pairs belonged to Daddy. Could’ve even been rollerblades. Daddy’s pair were dark grey and blue with stunted wheels. I’d sit on the rocking chair and rock and roll and rock and roll those blue translucent wheels. The basement couches were blue, too. We had a sectional that’s survived only through pictures from 1996 to 2004. Pictures filled with my sisters as pre-teens draped over each other, a film of smoke clouding the lens. Pre-teens with greasy foreheads and metal braces and big old white sneakers. The blue sectional sat on a blue carpet surrounded by white walls. Dark mahogany wainscoting ran wall-to-wall from the bar inlet to the laundry room. I couldn’t roller skate on the carpet. I tried plenty, but my feet were too small for the skates and the carpet too dense for the wheels to ride across smoothly. Mom, sometimes I try to remember what I did in the basement before I could roller skate. You would do exercises down there before your knees wore down. Alex and I stuffed plush toys in the treadmill and broke it during a preschool play date. A big storm flooded the basement and you and Daddy had to wait weeks for the carpet to dry. I spilled apple juice on the VHS player with “Rugrats Paris” still in the slot and ruined the player and the tape. One day Bela and I played hide and seek and she hid behind the sectional and when I went to go look for her, I held a tiny play stool in my hand and accidentally hit her right in the head and she had that lump on her forehead for a week. Another storm flooded the basement and you and Daddy finally decided to rip up the damage. I watched the documentary “The Secret” at least ten years after the carpet was ripped up, and in hindsight convinced myself I willed the carpet removal through manifestation. The carpet jammed at every turn of the hot pink wheels. Every play date down in the basement was cursed. And so my anger caused the storm and the water damaged the rug and two weeks later I was gliding from laundry room to bar inlet and back again. I was seven. I had a growth spurt. My feet filled out the white leather of the roller skates. I drew lips and eyes on the wooden beams in the middle of the room holding up the house and kissed splintered, permanent markered lips in between laps. I sang to Hillary Duff and Jesse McCartney and made out with the thick husk of my supportive boyfriend, named from the ruins of that Rugrats VHS tape. Mom, is it okay that you didn’t raise me? I was raised on pop music and the scratchy sound of magenta wheels on water-damaged concrete and grape juice in between hurried breaths and make believe families and make believe lovers. I was raised from the bottom and skated back up.