The Summer Judy Fell Out of Window and My Hair Turned White
An autofiction*
When we were small we used to leap down the stairs, taking the steps two by two. We interrupted, talked over, spoke in singsong or staccato depending on what the situation required— our voices louder than bombs. We wore puffy flight jackets, men’s sweatshirts, baggy jeans and sneakers we found in dollar bins that pinched our feet. Better to be bigger, we thought. Better to take up more surface area before we were accustomed to geometry, before protractors and the definition of circumference. Before we were faulted for all the space we occupied. Before we learned we were worthy of space at all.
What did the situation require?
Who had the wrench for the johnny pump? Who was willing to create an ocean in the street? There’s was always someone who had tools, slim men with cigarettes tucked behind their ear. Boys who sipped 40s from brown paper bags. Women who stomped down the stairs in sandals, tiny arms wedded to their legs; mommy, can I get a… Women who stood over hot stoves adding garlic to the rice, shouting look at the rain on my face while we huddled around the one fan in the house. And then the water blew and sprayed the streets of the muck and the sadness, the cheese doodles and hypodermic needles.
