The Maynard
Fall 2019

0:00

 

 

Dear Jennifer,

Suspicious vessel, that’s what the doctor called it. As if it was a dark ship cutting a dangerous wake across my left lung. The awful churning, this cough rattling beneath my ribs. Almost immediately I thought about that late April day when we gathered our change and walked the mile through our neighborhood to the store. As we passed houses of boys who’d ignored us and girls who’d excluded us, our secret elevated us. Which brand would we choose? We practiced how to slap the pack against our wrists the way you’d seen your parents do. At twelve we embarked on our earliest uprising. Walked that mile back with the weight the pack heavy in my pocket. Every car sent our heads down, a thick guilt rouging our cheeks. We rationed the pack for a week, snuck into the woods beyond our houses, lit each cigarette with the affected elegance we’d seen in movies. We waved them around like wands, just the magic we’d need to be mature. It took years to break the spell.

Further tests are called for, the doctor’s face contorted into kindness. With practiced ease she moved the pen across the pad, a warped wand waving before me.