My Bra is Your Playground
I just took a 4-hour journey wedged into a 12-inch-wide span of space between two little ones in car-seats, and SO GREAT was the love of these two for each other that all they wanted to do was clasp hands in a show of kinship – which they accomplished by having the one reach his hand under the left straps of my bra and sundress while the other reached his hand under the right two straps until – success! - they could touch at last, cutting off my airway only a little.Then, because I’m routinely forced by the older tyke into making Stalinist-style confessions on the theme of Naughty Things I Did as a Child with an emphasis on Acts of Peeing in Strange Locations, I was thinking hard for the full 120 minutes - during which time the littler child gently patted me on shoulder, arm and torso with hands painted in the fresh juice of the berries I had been foolish enough to pack for the journey. Then, as I struggled to free-associate, pulling forth this and that bright scrap from the costume trunk of memory, my chief listener, now riveted by my talk, dreamily pulled the UPC labels from the small toys I had also brought along, affixing them to various places on my body.‘Who’s the old lady in the stickers?” I told him people would say when we got to our destination and they saw my many bar codes. I was wrong though. When we got there and I toppled from the car so red-skinned with touching and berry-mash that I looked like I had been molested by angry seagulls what they really said was ....“Who's the slasher victim and why is she on sale?”++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++The painter:
The collage artist:
