Maybe the salmon understand where they are born and where they die. Maybe they swim out to the open ocean and trek through miles for their purpose.
But I am not a salmon, and I do not see my purpose in trekking mile after mile, pining on hope. I cannot borrow my salmon friends certainty.
I am not a muse, nor a clothes hanger made of human flesh, consumed one bite after another. I cannot hack away at myself to fit through the needle’s eye on a whim for love.
I see endless blue skies. House after house on a suburban street. The sound of children’s laughter and low mechanical humming: the AC system, the septic tanks beneath the home. Sprinklers in the summertime.
These are the sounds I aspire to, not flashing lights and mobs murmuring, packed together like anchovies outside commercial buildings.
I want to fly in the sky one day. I want the tune of a propeller slicing through the air, even though my own heart has already been sliced in two.
Or perhaps it was my womb.
Everybody looks at the Friday column:
Johnny’s gonna be somebody!
And I nod in agreement over sangria at Aunt Ethel’s luncheon, catching a glimpse into the future I desire, so close yet out of grasp.
Sally says, “Johnny will be somebody.”
I agree.
Esther asks, “John is somebody, isn’t he? Isn’t he yours?”
The garden falls silent. Everyone sips quaintly from their tea glasses, distracting themselves with cucumber finger sandwiches and key lime pie, waiting for my answer.
“Johnny can’t be mine, Esther,” I answer earnestly.
I hope she won’t press.
“And why not?”
The women in their white dresses and Sunday best turn toward me.
I answer embarrassingly, “Johnny can’t be mine. Didn’t you read the paper?”
I point at the headline.
Johnny’s gonna be somebody!
“We all know someone who’s going to be somebody. And I know Johnny. But that doesn’t mean Johnny knows me. On the contrary, I could bet he doesn’t.”
I pause.
“No… Johnny knows my mouth. He knows that thing I like when I’m on my stomach. But Johnny doesn’t know me.”
The women are shocked by my honesty, but I feel pleased with myself.
“And if Johnny’s gonna be somebody, then Johnny gonna need somebody.
And I’m not someone.
I’m just Sabina.”