When I think about my stage show, I hear it starting with a sound. A startling sound. And then I’ll walk out. Slow and awkward. Maybe I’ll sit in a big comfy chair. Dark green velvet sounds nice. And I’ll start my story time for adults.
I think I’ll start as a five year old me. Kindergarten, helping my mother set the table nightly, learning to love beets as they were the first food placed on the table every night. And I do love beets still. Meals of tuna fish on iceberg lettuce boats and pizza, quite delicious and still a comfort food. There were sleepovers and lunches at my grandparent’s house, a mile down the highway. Old Russian Jews sitting around the vinyl tablecloth, each with a bowl of blueberries and sour cream, a spoonful of sugar, and two slices of rye bread and butter. My grandpa’s chair was closer to the refrigerator but my grandma still had to get up to get him anything else he needed. I questioned that situation one day and the slightly angry smirk on my grandpa’s face was overshadowed only by my grandma’s proud grin. And yet I’ve grown up the same way. And it feels ok.
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