texts my 9-year-old nephew and I wish my brain would tell me something wholesome instead of, the apocalypse is now and we are already zombies, scrolling through memes while the republic drowns in a firehose of sewage spray-painted Mar-A-Lago gold. His is just doing its job. Taking him outside to run lawn laps with his guys, hold his snaggle-toothed girlfriend’s hand, risk another fractured arm, tripping by the swings. How many times have I berated my brain—cauliflower-bland, self-sabotaging, couldn’t recognize a hint if it ran you over with an Abrams tank—when it was keeping me from belly flopping off the highest diving board, Assistant Professor of Literature jobs I would have hated, flirtations with floppy-haired cads straight out of Jane Austen. Or my introverted “rather be home” retreat, crowd-cowardice, conserving energy for a sleepy snuggle with an orange blossom-scented kid or a hot bath with a book whose dastardly villain careens his car into a cask of corn oil, a gaggle of geese, and a shallow ditch, ends up plastered in feathers and goo, a present for the police. The geese are unharmed. The officers get married, move to Fiesole, have a Cathedral view. I want my nephew to follow his own star—perhaps the CZ stud he requested for his birthday, glimmering in his left ear? I can’t fund his college education, secure his soccer stardom, or slake his Pokémon obsession, but I can reply, “Ok, have fun! It’s good to be outside.” He sends a thumbs-up emoji and doesn’t text again for a month, which delights me. Bless him, his brain, his bliss.
My stupid brain is telling me to go to the park so I’m going now
