Cabooses

My mother sewed us little muu-muus to sleep in, which we called cabooses for some reason. After Johnny transitioned, I opened our drawer and looked at them that first night. We shared a bedroom. We shared everything.

That first night was strange. I was alone. It was my turn to open the drawer with the cabooses. I looked at them, folded neatly, one on top of the other. They were the same size, we wore them interchangeably. I was on my haunches, looking down at that open drawer at pieces of fabric sewn together to cover our young bodies.

Johnny no longer needed his. Was he cold?

I put one caboose on, leaving the drawer open. But he is not here. Will he return?

I close the drawer, other caboose now out of sight. My stomach hurts, and my face. My chest is tight. Mom comes in. I get in my big-girl bed. She sings my songs. Our eyes leak salt water. I wipe my nose on my caboose. She lies down next to me and we talk about John. He’s not cold. He is fine. He is everywhere. Still, we miss his body.

It’s not our fault, his transition, but we won’t know this for many years. I want to go back in time and not play Batman so he won’t trip and hit his head. I want to go back in time and catch him when he falls off the jungle gym. I want to go back in time and run far far away from fighting adults. Together. I won’t try to stop them this time, I will go with John when he beats feet beyond the sound of screaming.

My mother sewed us cabooses, simple muu-muus of loose cotton for us to sleep in. It’s okay to wear two.

Bookshelf:
Romy & Julio
Diary of a Reluctant Traveler: 15 months on the road from coast to coast to coast
Sea Change: stories & splashes
Shoulds are for Saints: the true life adventures of Suzy Le Speed
Dance First …ask questions later: poems & paintings