Things We Did Before Google
Danielle yells my name at the gate louder than usual and I trip
over my dad’s shoes, stumbling out the door. Her eyes are euphoric
bouncing balls - in her arms a new pair of neon green rollerblades
with four gel wheels that light up when she spins. I rush back in,
grab my worn-out pair - the one I keep under my bed, two sizes too big,
passed around too many times. We sit on the sidewalk -
her feet slide into her birthday present, and I stuff
old stretched-out socks inside mine to make them fit.
We pull the buckles as tight as Rose's corset. No helmets
or elbow pads, we wear scabs and scars. Holding hands
to get up from the curb, we stand as tall as a captain. We skate down
to the video store as if we were in a Gaelic Storm at a third-class party.
We've been waiting all 1998 for Titanic to dive right into our VHS players,
months opening our arms singing Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On
in perfect gibberish. We know things take a while to come to Brazil.
A semi-open box labeled new arrivals stands on the counter at the store,
and I can hear the flute melody echoing from the inside. Robbie steps out
from the backstage of his store in full theatrics, sound effects
brought to us by his bamboo curtains. Bravo, give this man an Oscar.
Hands behind his perfectly postured back, Titanic - the double VHS,
still sealed with plastic film appears before our eyes. We grab the box
as if it were a life jacket, saving our afternoon. Three consecutive hours
of swooning over Jack, drenching ourselves in the ocean
of our newfound grief. We pull together our change, skate down
to the drugstore, and pick up some red hair dye. We want to be Rose
Agape
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