Don’t Tell A Soul

Recollections of a young woman upon her return from visiting family in Western Massachusetts 

Kevin vacuming the cat; I could watch that video all day. Crunchy towels. Bees nest in the basement, be careful going outside. Red Rose lasagna, and Pajer’s grinders. Friendly’s. Foliage in Vermont. Bash Bish Falls. Drive to NY with two ten-year-old boys in the car who know I “won’t put up with any shit” and will “turn this fucking car around”. Knightsville Dam. Ski lift and alpine slide. The Virgin Mary of East Springfield. Pictures of people who think they see baby jesus in the streaks on a magical window. Whiskey sours. BBQ chicken and cheesy potatoes at Auntie Lissa’s. Photo albums at my grandparent’s new condo. My mom: nothing but a pretty blue vase of ashes buried in the dry dirt? The rose headstone looks beautiful and I brought the flowers you like. Am I talking to nothing? Dad’s birthday. Marble cake, and the presidential debate. No need for a drinking game with this crowd. Lisa, come with me, he won’t ask me for the money if you’re there. Katie’s birthday too- Max’s Tavern, and it couldn’t have gone better. Number of times John Couger Mellancamp was heard on Rock 102: 4. Number of times it was “Jack and Diane”: 2. Ah, the big suburban grocery stores, with their wide aisles and superior variety of selections. Lots of fat people, and grown women in pajama bottoms. At least the men don’t wear Crocs here. One-way streets, and narrow roads. Every one’s car is a piece of shit. California doesn’t exist. G—– doesn’t exist. Boston never existed, I must have never left because nothing has ever changed.