from an emailed reply: just now

I wish I could drum. Could play any vital instrument [I’m really trying desperately not to make a blow-job joke just here] well. I’ve always wanted to learn something emotionally. That had strings. Like the cello. But I gave up piano lessons after two years. Kept having nightmares about the metronome and getting my hands caught in the hinges of the piano bench. My mom’s given our piano away now. I’m not sure that I miss it, really. Never started anything else. But there was a span of time, when I’d always carry my dad’s old drum sticks around with me. In a make-shift pocket in the inside of my jacket. In my school bag. I liked touching them and thinking about the back beats for all of my favorite songs. I probably tapped them out at inopportune times – like during maths class or on the long bus ride home. I think I was probably always that weird kid. Who was doing something furious and unexplained with her hands or feet – in her mind. I think my dad called them his chops. It made me think of those bad 70’s sideburns that my brother and I referred to as pork chops. It made me think about my black chop sticks that at the time I used to eat everything. But I never took lessons after giving up the piano. Couldn’t even play that, probably, now. Even if I tried.