Making Things

published in r.kv.r.y quarterly literary journal · vol iv no. 2

from "Further Down Lincoln Street: Stambaugh, Michigan Summer 77"

The house was mustard yellow, and the wood smelled of it. From the front porch I could look up the hill and see the Lincoln Street house on top where we used to live, the house where I put Lisa Gasperini on the back of my big wheel and we coasted down until we stopped about right here in front of the stinking mustard house that I would live in. I was spending most of my weekends at The Roller Rink in Caspian where I regularly won candy bars during the pee-wee speed skate. It was the perfect opportunity to practice flying and close my eyes while getting lost in a music I wasn’t accompanied too, the BeeGees and Disco. The music was good for flying because it was full of heavy string orchestras and regular beats. It made everything fold into each other and told simple stories of people surviving and getting the person of their dreams. The mirror ball in the center of the rink threw stars and lights that rocketed off my polyester clothing and I was a solar system on wheels racing around a galaxy I had created every weekend night, while Mother’s world was still revolving around not being alone, and trying to keep her mind of off drugs and drinking—