“I’m telling Dad on you,”
“I—” I said, accidentally shaking the fish so its body kind of wiggled. “I just found it like this, I swear.” These were my summer weekends. Nine years old, I became Judy Garland at the edge of the pond’s swampy water, trying to decipher this new, strange world. We decided. The breeze, the hickory, the sun bearing down, we ditched the pond. I held the fish behind my back as if not to appear suspicious to the bluejays darting between trees. The riding mower roared distantly. We moved, steadfast for the toilet, across the acre toward the house we’d been avoiding all afternoon.the largest personal settlement in the history of the state at that time. Half of this went to his pro bono lawyer.
When it was raining, or when we were waiting for lunch, I’d recline in the La-Z-Boy in my uncle’s room and assess the inventory: two rotisseries stacked in the corner, a contraption that diced onions with the press of a palm, collectable metal trains, small tubs of Nickelodeon slime, custom football jerseys, Shrinky Dinks, shoes that lit up when you stomped in them.
I’m thinking about this twenty years later in the rain in Melville’s Nantucket. The water is gray and turbulent and full of crabs, jellyfish, bioluminescent plankton that flare when the water stirs. No Pequod, but I can imagine it on the water's far horizon.
I’m sorry, this story made no sense to me. Not sure what it has to do with food, or home. IMO only
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