Thursday, June 23, 2011

Lines On Strength

By Rebecca L. Morrison

When you called me, Mom, I knew

what you had to say well before I

slid my thumb across the touchscreen

because, Mom, the last time you stayed

up that late was December 31, 1999.

I wore silver sequins, and Aunt Amy

was moonlit and crying. There was no

Y2K bug, and here we are, Mom,

and we're doing okay.

When I answered, Mom, you were

crying because you knew what they

had to say when you saw the number

on the caller ID, and I was crying

because you were crying and,

in your voice, you were twelve

years old, and we had won

the space race, and your father,

watching, told you it looked like

it could be any cheap lot in

Hollywood. After 90 years of a

spinning world, Mom, I bet

the vertigo sets in, and all we

can do is lay down

and close our eyes, like those

times I rode the Tilt-O-Whirl

at the Clarke County fair.

I laid down, strapped in,

and, screaming, closed my eyes --