Timeline
1962
As Khrushchev and Kennedy’s waltz picked up a Cuban salsa beat, I was born inhaling the tailwind of a mushroom cloud. I didn’t let anyone sleep.
1966
Love tapped my shoes in ballet class. I followed the teacher’s son across valleys of the moon and began shooting stars from the tips of my fingers.
1972
I no-longer wanted to play with dolls. Mrs. Unruh said I could become an astronaut instead.
1976
It was our nation’s bicentennial. All the cul-de-sac homes had half baths where rose scented soaps rested on white china plates. The fireworks were safe and sane.
1980
I believed I was beautiful. The sun set purple behind a basketball court. I wasn’t alone.
1984
I believed I was smart. Even so I met a man who had serrated teeth and made love with knives.
1986
As he gnawed the remains of my shin bone, the sun filtered orange, red, and purple through pansies blooming light. I didn’t realize it then, but God was keeping watch.
1989
Television waves carried the fall of the Berlin Wall. Worldwide, half moon scars appeared on the forearms of favorite daughters.
1993
My father said the one thing I will always thank him for, “It wasn’t your fault.”
1997
I picked up a pen filled with gunpowder, tears, and the consonance of the letter “s.”
1999
Even though the height of Haight Ashbury was no-longer, Dan played sunrise and sunset on a guitar at the International Café. Left of the moon and under Orion, we hung upside down from trees in
2000
2000 years we’ve been waiting, and still we believe.
2003
Afraid of atomic molecules vibrating free, we were once again a nation of Empire and oil fields burned.
2005
I met a man who kissed my soul and so began many days like this.
2009
“Fine,” he said. “We’re all just fine.” Not better. Not worse. Just as. Still shooting stars from my fingers, I stepped down from the moon and began to cook dinner.
