Sunday, March 17, 2013

Why I Landed a Helicopther in My Grandmother's Hair

As the name implies, quickly is a nimble journal out of Kent, Ohio, full of energy, going somewhere, all sneakers and kites. White lettering on a dark background is a bit dizzying, and I think that's what they want from us. Thanks to the editors for including my poem "Quiet Study Lounge." 

I'll tell you the truth. It's autobiographical. I know! You never saw that coming. But in case you are the woman with the shock of pink hair, I know I'm exaggerating. A little. And to my grandmother, I am sorry for landing my brother's remote control helicopter in your hair. 

It was kind of spontaneous. I was surprised he was giving me a turn to fly it in the first place. I mean, that must have been his favorite Christmas present. I think that was the year you crocheted me a gold, red and royal blue cape, a kind of dress-up poncho sweater cape, that I loved so much. I remember twirling around to make it billow.

So I was flying the helicopter around, probably wearing my cape, and in those days remote control meant it was still tethered to a thin cable. It was airborne, and then you walked in, and I imagined how fun it would be to just touch down on your head and then fly off again. This is why they don't let children fly real helicopters. And of course your hair was all teased up, probably specially styled for the holiday, and didn't the feet of that little whirly machine try to spin up your hair like cotton candy. I switched it off and watched in open-mouth horror, preparing to die. Or something like that.

But you were quite gracious, and acted like it was a mistake, and I didn't correct you. So this poem is dedicated to the patience of grandmothers.

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