The streets were littered with dead

iridescent green-blue beetles.  Like

Egyptian ones.  Kind of.  I never saw

a morbidity so beautiful.  There was

death everywhere.  It was like the

sidewalks were encrusted with jewels.



An old Armenian woman slapped my brother's hand,

and yelled at him for crossing the yellow caution

tape on her lawn.  We had no idea what she said.



We went door-to-door selling paper hats to strangers.

Some musicians invited us into their apartment and we

shouldn't have gone in.  I went on to start a T-shirt

company on the playgrounds.  I only ever sold one, for

twenty-five dollars, but I never got the twenty-five dollars.

After that, I started a jewelry company called, "Bead It,"

and I made up for the missing money at a yard sale.




My brother and I stole our friend's cat

when she wasn't home, and threw it into

the streets.  It never came back.



We rode on our small stomachs on our skateboards,

in the oily parking lot, or sometimes with jump

ropes tied to our belt loops. Our mother forced us

to skate when we were little and once I hit a rock,

and chipped the corner of my front tooth on the

sidewalk.



Things I remember:


cockroaches and cakes,

kissing under tropical trees,

spy notepads and under staircases,

what the flu feels like,

listening to jazz on the radio to fall asleep,

navy blue and darkbright yellow uniforms,

dating a 5th grader (as a 4th grader),

my tortuga Daisy in a red bucket,

used syringes & things in dumpsters,

optimistic lottery tickets & pancakes,

Halloween (a pretty pink dress and a red devil mask)

a man hitting on my 3rd grade self as I walked to the Goodwill,

& red roses after school.