anatomy

I should tell you about my mother, father, my brother — my aging springer spaniel. I should tell you about my house, my neighborhood, the old tree that used to stand in my neighbor’s backyard but was later replaced by a swimming pool, a patio, a flag pole with two flags: one irish and one american. I should tell you about my brown eyes, my brown hair, my high waist and my small feet. I should tell you my age, my race, my hometown, my name. I should tell you my favorite meal, my favorite snack, my weight. I should tell you what size bed I sleep in — twin, full, king, or queen — would that help you to understand? would that give you an idea of who I am? the texture of my bedroom walls, the make of my kitchen cabinets, the doorframes, the picture that hangs above the banister, would you like to know? I should tell you if I listen to music, or collect baseball cards, or if I used to collect baseball cards, or if I consult the thesaurus when I need another word for fracture. I should tell you what I store in my garage, in the attic, what brand of hand soap I prefer. I should tell you how often I clean the dishes, how often I replace vacuum filters, how often I drink coffee. I should tell you how often I exhaust jars of peanut butter. I should tell you how many lampshades I own, how many times a day I brush my teeth, how many times I nap in a week. I should tell you how often I clean the top of my refrigerator, if I prefer collared shirts or crewnecks — my prayer technique. I should tell you how long it takes for me to finish showering, the rate at which I eat. I should tell you how it sounds — my feet against the tile floors in the kitchen, the ceramic in the bathroom, the wooden beams of my back porch, old and cracked, weathered, and painted a shade of gray.