fff

she is the only daughter. an oversight in a dotted ancestral line of orphans and runaways. they don’t travel. they escape. or migrate. abandon structures of poverty and death. shimmy out paint-sick windows. take trains north or south. then veer west and start over somewhere in los angeles. 

they drive used cars. go camping. drink pepsi in lawn chairs. sculpt tinfoil on transistor radio antennas. form loud relationships. and for better or worse start to stick around.

she vacates her white eyelet-trimmed bedroom to accommodate the sudden overflow of six foster cousins. on weekend visits she sleeps in the closet instead. after college she moves out of the room she cleared for herself at granny’s house. her ’57 vw bug with two-page fix-it ticket and cracked engine is for sale.

it’s may of ’93. i am the first in my family to venture beyond baja. my study-abroad program is the cost of my bum car. at the terminal my rubber-nose sneakers step forward in line beneath my jeans and sweatshirt. my weight and backpack shifting. i'm thinking of the surfer boy i’ll marry. the one who believes things don’t matter. the one who believes i do. my engagement ring already broken. not worth the cost of the repair. (it rained that day. rivulets streaming inside the rusty windshield corners of his ’68 bus.)

slipping through worlds without a ring on her finger. believing these things don’t matter. only promises. she promises herself her life will be different. promises to return ready and unphased.