“The universe works in strange ways,” was something my mom always used to tell me when I called her at 4 am from my dorm room nestled in the Berkshire mountains. “It always gives you what you need when you least expect it.” I would curl in on myself and listen to her sing me to sleep before she hung up and it would be like being home again. I didn’t expect it to actually make any sense.
When I was born it was late fall in 1995, The leaves on the trees morphed Changing colors until they descended from their limbs they called home Nature went to sleep as I began life. When I learned to read I sat on my Grampa’s lap, His plumber’s hands
Switch a few pronouns around and we’re singing about how we hate both of their boyfriends.
We’re driving. Through Boston in August. The rain pours on the car and I sip my root beer smiling at the way the lights of the buildings and cars get muddled and watery through the windshield turning the road into a washed-out watercolor painting. Our playlist is on; switching between
© Brigid Downey 2021
