Fragile

There are some fragile things -- things that don't seem like they should be fragile, but are. Mostly you don't think about fragile things. It's almost as if to think about them would be all at once to crush them. Like my mother's satin pea coat -- stiff and hanging in her closet all these years. As if she would have worn it all these years, with her three rowdy boys. 
"Aren't the clouds nice?" Marilyn said the other day, when we were sitting on the roof. Marilyn is my girlfriend, and she likes being in high places. 
I looked for a while before I responded, noting the crumpled cashmere clouds in their constant state of change. 
"Yes," I lied. Clouds are one of those things you don't think about often, but when you do, you realize that you have absolutely no control over them. None at all. 



On Friday, Mom wore her pea coat. She said it was brown but it was definitely black.
She looked weird, all dressed up like that.
     "Dad and I are going to the symphony," she said, "watch your brothers." 
"Ok." I nodded. I figured it must be some sort of special occasion, but I looked at the calendar and there was nothing written down. As soon as they pulled out of the garage I told the boys to go play croquet in the yard or something. Our yard is a great yard for croquet because Dad mows it so often and keeps it fertilized. It is thick grass -- good grass for pulling out and tearing up. 
When I drove away I saw our house in the rear view mirror and it looked so small, like a doll house made of marshmallow cream that could dissolved on your tongue. 



I read Of Mice and Men in school and it made me mad when they shot Lenny, but I'm glad they did anyway.
I guess it mostly made me sad. I think Lenny saw the world how I do. I don't think about it too often, but when
I do, I realize how little control I have.
       I try not to think about this while I'm driving, though, because I can only think about a few things at a time. My mind is like an admissions counselor -- it only lets in the good, professional thoughts usually, but a few nasty ones can slip in if they pay enough and lie about their ethnicity. 
It's my girl, Marilyn, see -- I think she's cheating on me. When I visit her we eat celery and brainstorm our five year plans. 
"What's your five year plan today?" she asked me when I arrived, and I kissed her, and she handed me a piece of celery. 
"Um," I wasn't ready. I hadn't been thinking about this. "You go first," I said. 
"K," she munched, "next year I'll graduate, and then go into flight attendant training, and then own a hot air balloon company, and start a jazz band, and I'll be fat cause I'll eat chocolate cake every morning," she giggled. 
I laughed too, in my own laughing way, but I couldn't stop thinking about when I saw Marilyn and Robert Lewis together at a baseball game last Saturday, beaming and eating chocolate cake with bare fingers. Funny how it works that way -- with guys who pass through town every once and a while, smelling like adventure and chasing the wind, while I'm stuck here watching my brothers play croquet. Well, I'm here now. 
"Say, Marilyn, you know that big old Ferris wheel up on 10th street?" She nodded and her brown eyes reminded me of my mom's pea coat. More black than they are brown. 
"Well, I hear they're tearing it down soon -- what'd ya say we go explore?" 
So we did, after she finished her celery and got a blanket to bring with her. Sometimes I feel like a chaperone with this thin, willow wisp of a child following me around, her doe eyes emerging from her blanket clad body, whites of her eyes like shadowless cement, like white coals, like my house in my rear view mirror. 
But we left everything in the car when we got there, and we climbed up the ladder of that Ferris wheel. The rungs were stiff like unwashed skin. When we got to the top I told Marilyn how beautiful this art is, and how it's a part of town and has always been here. How it is big, and strong, and unchanging. 
But truthfully I could feel the wheel trembling a little, like a spider when you blow on her web. Marilyn kept saying, "I feel closer to the clouds." It is this wonder that I like about her. She is not content playing croquet or eating chocolate cake, as much as she talks about it. She likes being in high places, even if that means being stuck in a spider's web, like Jack in his beanstalk, or like a little white mouse in Lenny's pocket. 
"Tell me about your five year plan, again," I asked her, looking at the crescent moon. But that was before I realized that she was no longer beside me. She had slipped through. I could see her long white legs on the pavement below, her neck at an odd angle. 
People are fragile, too.