watch them on the news coverage, my mom thin and reedy,
the cords in her neck like spindly tree branches, always
flexed. I see my dad grown ruddy with fear, the eyes a little
too wide, the smile squared. He’s a handsome man,
usually, but he’s beginning to look like a caricature, a
possessed clown doll. I know I should feel sorry for them,
but I don’t. I’ve never been more to them than a symbol
anyway, the walking ideal. Amazing Amy in the flesh. Don’t
screw up, you are Amazing Amy. Our only one. There is an
unfair responsibility that comes with being an only child –
you grow up knowing you aren’t allowed to disappoint,
you’re not even allowed to die. There isn’t a replacement
toddling around; you’re it. It makes you desperate to be
flawless, and it also makes you drunk with the power. In
such ways are despots made.
This morning I stroll over to Dorothy’s office to get a soda.
It’s a tiny wood-paneled room. The desk seems to have no
purpose other than holding Dorothy’s collection of snow
globes from places that seem unworthy of commemoration:
Gulf Shores, Alabama, Hilo, Arkansas. When I see the
snow globes, I don’t see paradise, I see overheated
hillbillies with sunburns tugging along wailing, clumsy
children, smacking them with one hand, with the other
clutching giant non-biodegradable Styrofoam cups of warm
corn-syrupy drinks.
Dorothy has one of those ’70s kitten-in-a-tree posters
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