As a child, taking Crayola crayons that have been strewn across the preschool desk. There are many so many colors. I can smell the wax and the paper that wraps them. The desk is light-colored wood, but thick. It smells also like bologna and there are kids playing games, playing outside, and others like myself, at the art table drawing a picture.
I think any time a kid puts down some artistic attempt, it’s triumph. There are grasping to make sense of their outside world and put it on a page, however feeble it looks. Drawing and coloring a picture of family; Dad is always the tallest, Mom next to him, and then me, and a sibling perhaps; A dog. The picket fence is white and they are all standing, smiling outside of it. The house is behind the fence. The grass is green, the sky is blue, the clouds are white and puffy, and the sun is shining with a smile. Where do these imagines come from? This to me has just always been the stereotypical kid drawing a family picture. Does it ever deviate?
Close family ties because blood runs thicker than water. Family drama, family dysfunction. We are the sum of our parts for better or worse. Family secrets, buried in hollowed out floorboards and closet baseboard space. Breaking Bad. Walter White and the cash that ensues. Blue meth, American myth. Cultural phenomenon. Personal lean. It is 2020. Red, white, and blue balloons fall from the ceiling. Some confetti has escaped prior. Celebration. American Family. Like football, beer, and grilling. White Money and a house that smells clean and so nice and sweet. Cornhole and Bob Seger. Superficial comfort, but deeply on edge. What makes this normal? Great well-behaved kids. Too good to be true.
Ghost hunting and communicating in a seance with children gone too see. Ghost Adventures with Zak Bagans. God, I used to watch that show a lot.