The Quality of Light in Mt. Oliver It begins where the pavement crumbles around abandoned trolley tracks ~ Mt. Oliver, where even the bars burn down. The Goodwill is now a Rent-a-Center but the sidewalks are new. Brownsville Road is the main drag. It will end where it begins to be called South Park Road at an intersection where a Burger King is closed down. The owner lost his franchise gambling with his mistress. I thought I was every girl in America, a future model, 12 years old with lipstick on my teeth, and yet my smile never knew the difference between wanting and being, walking in painful shoes that made my legs look good, unashamed of wearing panty hose with hotpants, walking past the endless bars and churches and the cemeteries where I'd learn to say no that sounded like thank you to boys named Michael who would turn me on to my first beer, my first dope, my first regrets: acquired tastes are the source of all desperation. But just to be 16 again ~ listening to Bob Seger sing "Main Street" out of someone else's car, making love to Michael on a hill without knowing how steep it was till we caught our breath at the bottom, wishing the moon would just close its eyes, at least wink. And here I am age 33, walking down this same street and men annoy me with their horn blowing, as if I'd get in, as if the moon didn't stare holes in me, as if my heart wasn't a sieve. Disgust made me patient and patience keeps me here. But there's no shame in getting picked up if you~re left off right. I love silk cemetery flowers, purple, folds full of snow. I continue walking, dressed like someone who thinks she's a movie star, as compared to how a real movie star would dress. The difference is supposed to be some kind of embarrassment but here hair reigns high and nails grow long and proud and we~re not pretending that we~re pretending. It~s this difference that makes Mt. Oliver feel like home, feel like no and thank you. I see a grave digger taking a nap on a coffin whose corpse waits for the ground. There is a difference. (okay so this has very little structure but i still love it so call me an asshole and get it over with) copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer