she swore to my mother that her bathing suit was not lost:
--“it ran away to Grandma’s”
She repeated this mantra on into the night,
deflecting my mother’s attempts
to gain another answer for its disappearance.
Then, as the sun rose, the words changed:
--“it ran away to Grandma’s... and I will, too!”
My sister walked night and day,
carrying a blanket, three Capri-Suns, and some Nature
Valley Bars (which she HATES).
But after traveling highways and railways,
my Grandmother proved her hypothesis correct;
smiling, holding a well-worn, violent pink and green
swimsuit.
(“See? Told ya”)
At once,
the Children’s Science Consortium took notice of the
discovery of mobile swimsuits,
and utilized them in a whole series of experiments.
(“Can swimsuits walk dogs? Carry toys over to
friends’ homes? Taunt bullies?”)
My sister led the experiments in a friend’s backyard,
yielding an army of swimsuits
tailored to tend to children’s needs (but mostly their
desires).
The streets were filled with swimsuits (trunks, one
piece, two piece, board shorts even)
helping fill out baseball teams,
playing jump rope,
selling lemonade and cookies (they got a cut, of
course).
Kids raved that it was the greatest discovery
since Hula-Hoops (which really wasn’t saying much).
But my sister,
ever-stubborn in her youth,
was glad to have simply proved my mother wrong
just once.
When she came home in the summer evening,
she let my mother hold her in the old rocking chair,
let my mother gently pull knots out of her hair,
with fingers that knew their time in hair would end
soon (“Shh, Baby, shh”).
And my sister fell asleep there,
dreaming of an intentional community for lost shoes.