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Friday, July 22, 2005

 

On the drive back to the Fort Garry I saw one verison of myself riding shotgun in a shitty 80s Buick. Frizzed out perm and fake nails. My husband was blue-collar weathered, a mean looking SOB whose idea of romance would be a 2-4 and sending the kids to the neighbours. This version of myself smells like potato salad. She cries more than she laughs and her laughter is usually in jaded tones.

I looked into that car, into that life as we waited for the light to turn green and all I could think was: I have my mother to thank for the fact that I am in this car, headed straight down Broadway rather than that car, which turned south.


posted at 9:28 AM


 


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