Started In June

04 - Finding Mom

Flies buzz loudly, circling the juicy remnants of an apple's core turned golden and brown from exposure to the air. A paper juice box squeezed and crumbled drips the last bit of grape juice onto a magazine cover beneath it, turning some woman in a sports bra and yoga pants a shade of purple. When flies land on the cover, they're not interested in woman's tips for a better summer body in four weeks, but the sweet nectar they can suck off the pages.

Everything is dark and quiet; the laughter I'm used to hearing quieted down hours ago. My head lays against a crumpled paper bag. A piece of gum clings to my hair.

I don't belong here.

I reach for the juice box and use it to pull myself up. Next to it, paper bags, bottles, cans, cartons are crashed and stacked in an uneven pile pretending to be stairs. With a firm hold on the juice box, I reach for a can, but my arm doesn't make it there. My right arm is broken at the bicep, jagged edged and cracks fissure up to my ball-jointed shoulder. Reaching for something a little lower, my fingers wrap around the twin handle of a shopping bag. My legs slide underneath my body and I pull myself up. My stub reaches for whatever it can grab and helps me to my feet. I'm not very far from the top of the can, but it takes me longer to get there because I can't use my right arm.

The garbage has no lid, but it has a plastic canopy. At the can's square edge, I sit and scan the playground for my mom. Blue, rubber chips, a blue slide, yellow monkey bars, and a brown structure. I've been here every day for as long as I can remember, but the place looks unfamiliar to me covered in the shadows of night, under the stars and the scarce street lamps outside the park's gate. The moon moves up through the trees and shines dim, white light over everything.

There are no lights in the park, but underneath one of the slides, a yellow light flickers. Gripping the edge of the garbage can, I begin to slide off--faster than expected. I panic, reaching for the edge with my other hand. The sharp edges of my arm scrap against the can's plastic body. I fall to the ground. My plastic cracks. Standing up, my walk is uneven, but not that bad. The slide looks a lot farther from down here.

The rubber chips around the playset are soft and bouncing. Stepping on them is like walking on a bunch of little trampolines. I smile and the broken pull in my step becomes invisible.

Coming closer to the slide, there's a man in a torn, thick jacket. A crinkled plastic bag sits next to him, the glass head of a bottle sticks out the top. Between his fingers is a lit, rolled piece of paper with green coming out one end. In his other hand he holds a lighter, the flame now put out. He lifts the paper to his mouth and breathes in. The end of it turns bright red, orange, yellow and dims when he removes it from his mouth.

"Wow. How did you do that?"

His eyes widen, fingers clench the roll and now his bottle. "Who said that?" He looks around quickly. "I wasn't doing anything. Just catching a break," he mumbles, moves the bottle behind his back, and presses it into the playset.

"I'm just looking for my mom. Have you seen her?"

He finally notices me closer to the ground than he was expecting. I'm not very tall and it's easy to overlook me. I'm only peeking around the closest metal bar, ashamed of the purple stains now littering my dress.

"Your mom?" He moves onto his knees and crawls closer.

I step back, getting behind a new bar just a little bit farther away. "We came here to play earlier, and I think she left me by accident."

The guy laughs a throaty laugh. "Sure, left, by accident, 'cause that happens." He reaches back for his bottle. He takes a sip, wipes his mouth with his arm.