It was to be a Day of Discovery.
That’s what the sign said, anyway.
I love museums, but being thirteen, I was obligated to roll my eyes, just a bit,
at the window of bubbles.
the bike that powers a windmill,
and to edge away from the huge doorway that announces your height and weight.
I had gained twenty pounds and six inches overnight
and stood uncertainly in my new size 8 ½ shoes.
This too, was new, that my older siblings were out with friends,
and I, the middle child,
too old for the younger kids, to young for the older kids,
was pushing the stroller, in charge of the matzah and eggs and chocolate and cheese.
My father was last up the steps, past the sign.
I heard him breathing.
He leaned against the wall, hands out like a man who was blind,
Trying to make sense of the world with his hands.
I unwillingly caught a glance between my parents.
I looked instead to a one way mirror, and stared at my eyes, my chin, my nose.
Were my eyebrows getting thicker, my nose longer, my chin red?
This whole year had been a fun-house mirror, and I turned back to my parents,
Which was a mistake.
There was a man and he was bringing a wheelchair. It was yellow, and
who was it for?
“Do you need a wheelchair at all, sir?”
but how ridiculous, he will say no--He is not old
or someone else
But then he sat down
(on that silly--does he see it’s yellow?--)
and suddenly, he was.
He was there in the mirror, too,
and so was I, a child adult in height,
features strange and unfamiliar,
a glint of silver earrings, (forbidden by my school) visible when I shook my head no, no.