Milestones

Milestones

Milestones 1920 1440 Thomas Mixon

Born early, cried late, was posed in odd positions for photos I’d later lose. Not on purpose; when I was dropped off early for school, at age seven, and it was too early for even the early drop-offs, I was told to stay on the tire swing, until someone came out and unlocked the entrance. This was challenging in several ways. For one, it was early, and probably fall, so it was still pretty dark out, making seeing all the way up the hill, from the playground, to the gate, near impossible. Second, staying on the tire swing required me to use both hands, because I was clumsy, which was, depending on who was talking about me, either due to genetics or a lousy attitude. But I needed at least one hand to grip the posterboard that my baby photos were adhered to, for an all-about-family project, which I was slated to present that day, and I was told explicitly to not let go of the posterboard, because the photos were important, even though I couldn’t remember them being taken, and the creature in them looked nothing like the older me. Third, fourth, and fifth, Davie Cuff and his two fists, which were all approaching, which ordinarily wouldn’t be an issue because, for starters, I was fast, on a track league that my father coached called the Louisville Leopards, a strange name considering we didn’t live in Louisville, or pronounce it the way Dad did, or ever encounter a leopard. Once, I saw bobcat from the window, and my father crept out of the house, with a fishing net, with some plan he never explained and, I imagine, based on the lack of bobcat stories later, never succeeded in.

Anyway, we lived in Brasher, which was about six hundred trees or so away from Louisville, if you went out of our driveway the left way. It was hard to keep count, my father drove fast, and we didn’t go there often, usually just to the graveyard to stand, never sit, in front of my grandfather’s grave for about seventy-five breaths or so, which I know wasn’t accurate, but I only counted the big ones, but didn’t make them too big because I was explicitly told, “A sigh for the dead’s an invitation.” And then, “Cut it out.”

I asked my father why we weren’t called the Brasher Leopards. He said, “Marketing,” with his mouth, but he used the same eyes that he used whenever I exhaled too loud in the graveyard, a kind of nearsighted look, more than squinting, like he was about to cry. I had written, under the ‘Father’ section of the posterboard, that my father never cried, but my mother made me cross it out. I asked her, “Why doesn’t Dad get glasses?” She responded by crying, which I was going to write under the ‘Mother’ section, until she did it, then, in front of me. I knew she cried a lot, but never when she thought I was awake, and actually seeing her do it, rather than just hearing, made it less real. I was explicitly told to only write things that were true, on the posterboard.

So Davie Cuff had his fists out, pounding one set of knuckles into his palm, which I wondered if he had been doing since he left his house; one of his hands was the same kind of purple as the photo my mother wouldn’t let me use, the one from Florida, where I was playing on the beach last year and got sunburned. I had remembered the sunscreen, but was explicitly told I needed to “Toughen up.” My father didn’t say, “Put down the bottle with the coconut smell and picture on it,” but I knew that’s what he meant.

His longest sentence, in fact, was seven words. It was the one he said at the graveyard. My mother told me it’s something his father told him. But I don’t think I’m going to tell my son this, in the future. The first reason being that I’m not sure I can make a baby, because Davie Cuff, before I could formulate my plan, punched me hard in the testicles, and it still hurts to this day. Another reason is that I don’t think children should think too much about death, because, a) if you think about death, you’ll probably talk about death, and b) if you talk about death too much, your teacher will say something to your mother, and she will threaten to tell your father before getting her tears everywhere, before recounting how sweet you were, as a baby, which you cannot confirm for your all-about-family project.

When Davie hit me, I admit it, I threw the posterboard, involuntarily, into the woods. I could barely breathe, let alone run. But then I remembered that the boy was “dumb as milk in a bag,” which my father said about many things, because he hated many things, and also Canada, where he was born, which nobody had to tell me not to write down.

I squeaked out, “Don’t move Davie,” and was glad he listened, because I had no backup plan. I gasped, coughed, finally said, “Didn’t you hear that?” He replied, “Huh?” I said, “It was a leopard.” To his credit, he said, “You’re fucking with me.” And I said, “Why do you think I’m wearing this?” It was my Louisville Leopard track league shirt. As he bent down, trying to read the words, I kneed him as hard as I could, in the face. He stumbled backward and cried like a fucking infant.

My teacher asked me where my project was, once class began. I told her, “A leopard ate it,” which made everyone laugh. Except her, and also Davie Cuff, who was in the nurse’s office. And also me, because I couldn’t find the posterboard, between the trees, six hundred of which I knew I’d see, later that day.

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