Remembering

By Ruth Aroni

I remember sunny days and pink roses and skinny girls with smooth legs and bald old men crying in the night.

I don't remember where I left my virginity or if I ever had it to begin with or if it was on the bus after I got off and walked to my apartment.

I have always tried to be clean and neat and tie things in bundles and smile at handsome men who I hoped found me attractive although I never did get picked up by one.

I don't see why you are always telling me to change and get better and do better and look for another answer when I'm fine just the way I am.

I have never sat in first class on an airplane, drank a martini, sat through three movies in a row, eaten less than two chocolate chip cookies at a time, danced the tango, or used a hula hoop.

I wonder why the sky is blue, why Nuns wear black and white, why I love to dance so much, what it's like on the moon.

I do not want to shut down, lose my sense of humor, miss a sunset, lose my teeth, miss love, break a red crayon, burn my mouth from hot chocolate, get a ticket.

I tried to fry an egg, laugh at your jokes, wear pants that were too tight, rob a bank, run for school president, make friends with someone small.

I try not to let my ground turkey spoil.