I built a meditation womb down in my basement, and I installed a phone so I can call my mom and creep her out.
“Guess where I am?”
“Ginny, where are you? Are you okay?” I can hear my mother sitting up in bed, preparing to shake my father awake.
“I’m in the womb, Mom. I’ve crawled back into the womb.”
“The calls are coming from inside your womb,” I intone in my closest approximation to a spooky voice.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Go to bed, Ginny. Good night.”
I’ve done this for the past three years, same date, same time, but my mother still hasn’t caught on. Four years ago at this time, I was on a rooftop at the edge of the city, hoping the building was tall enough. It was so cold that my snot was threatening to freeze to my face. I must have walked around that rooftop twenty times, thinking of everything and nothing. I would think about all the things that had driven me up those stairs and just when the pain seemed that it would hit critical mass, I’d be interrupted by some stupid, random thought. I would look at the fog of breath coming from my mouth and remember how, when I was little, I used to use that foggy breath to pretend I was smoking.
After too many turns of that game, I stomped back down the stairs, paused in front of the building and looked up.
“I can’t fucking do anything right,” I spat.
On the one-year anniversary of that night, I called my mom and made Jason Vorhees breathing sounds down the phone line.
For Year Two, I sang a little song.*
Now I have to start planning for the fourth anniversary.
*”Older” by They Might Be Giants