Nostalgia literally means the pain from an old wound. It’s a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn’t a spaceship, it’s a time machine. Goes backwards and forwards. Takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It’s not called the Wheel, it’s called the Carousel. It travels the way child travels. Round and round, back home again. To a place where we know we’re loved.
Isn’t there a little part of all of us that wants to side with Betty Francis, Supermom? Wasn’t it great how she volunteered to chaperone the trip to Pappy Cyrus’s Potato Farm, and then didn’t just stand by, smoking and trading jokes about Ms. Keyser’s cleavage, but actually gulped down a warm bucket of straight-from-the-udder cow-juice? There’s a version of Betty that never would have bothered, that would have stayed home, trading shots of straight-from-the-can Reddi-wip with her latex-entombed dark passenger. She’s at least making an effort now.
And sometimes that effort ends when your idiot kid trades your lunch for a bag of fucking gumdrops. There’s a reason she got rid of the first four Bobbys. No respect whatsoever for Mommy’s property. Who did the brat think that second sandwich was for? Why do kids ruin everything? Mommy needs a cigarette.
I’m at the Roosevelt, looking at the back of Bobby and Sally’s heads as they watch TV. I’m not letting them change the channel because watching the news makes me sick and they can see it. I think about you and how I behaved and my regret. I know it’s my fault you are not here right now. I understand why you feel it’s better to go on without me and I know that you won’t be alone for very long. But without you, I’ll be alone forever.