amphibi.us

If I had a time machine, I’d go back to convince my mom to abort me.  Yeah,
I could do something cool like cave in the hull of Christopher Columbus or
convince Kurt to just stay single but my life’s turned out to be a peeled
beer bottle label.

I could go back while mom and dad rolled around in the backseat of his 1987
rust white Toyota Corolla, the tape deck chewing on some *NSYNC.  I would
watch my father’s brow and cheeks like a volcano and then startle him so he
seeds the upholstery.  He’d yell “It’s a stain!” and not in that circle of
life way, either.

But my father was such a skeetapotamus so I’d wait a few months and then
kick mom in the stomach.  Even if that didn’t work, I’d end up in jail for
awhile, long enough to meet younger me while he’s on a field trip for
at-risk youth at the county jail.  I’d shake him so hard, I’d break his bad
habits like a mason jar but I didn’t listen either when I was his age.

I’d probably go back as a Jehovah’s Witness since I knew my mom was always
nice to them, even let them pitch their brand of salvation.  When she opened
the copy of *The Watchtower* I left behind, she’d find a letter with some
photos (little sister wearing a steering wheel around her neck, her older
self wearing bruises like eyeshadow), three-hundred dollars.

How would I know it worked?  I’d feel my skeleton crack, my stomach chew
itself from the inside, my shoulders touch my sternum and brow, like the
hand of God was crumpling me up like a wad of paper, before throwing what’s
left of me and my name somewhere forgotten.

© J. Bradley, 2010

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