Marisa Crawford
Me without Makeup

Me without Makeup

In the kitchen, there are various sets of graduated hanging baskets.  On the street, all the claw machines play the exact same carnival song. Take a left after the first claw machine.  If you reach the second claw machine, you’ve gone too far.

A boy on the basketball court is wearing a reversible t-shirt with removable felt letters. I’m wearing the same t-shirt in reverse, with the letters rearranged. I look at him and he gives me the Wonder Years wave. When I turn on my phone, it exclaims, welcome! And balloons soar and confetti pops and fireworks burst in the air. Are you there, God? It’s me. Did you know it was me? You didn’t, did you. The magnetic poetry on the refrigerator spells out a “your mom” joke. It takes everything in me just to screw in the light bulb.

A perfect blue wave crashes into the shore on a Starbucks sugar packet on the counter.  I knew it was you because I saw up my own skirt in the mirror clipped onto your shoe. We stayed up all night to see the end of the Freddy Krueger movie. We spent all winter watching re-runs of shows set in previous decades. We drove around listening to the Wind of Change by the Scorpions, on repeat.