by: Lindsay Popper
Tell me the one where the student body president lets himself fall in love with the boy who goes to therapy twice a week to try and rub out the part of him that loves boys, and at the end of the story, let that boy love him back.
Tell me the one where the girl he pretends to love now learns the difference between loving and fixing, the one where the two wheelchair-bound elders in the nursing home across the street lock eyes across the bingo table, the one where your mother learns to love the way the skin hangs around the ankles that have held her up for all these years, and the one where the tired woman she passes every day on her way to work finally quits her job to move to the place where she can see the ocean.
Tell me the one where the night workers at Denny’s and the professional football players and the kindergarten teachers all make just enough money to take care of the people they love, the one where all the lost dogs find their way home, and the one where the people barbequing in the driveways we pass let us pass by holding hands without giving us dirty looks.
Tell me the one where the holes in every heart are sewn up by steady hands, and the one where those hands go home to brush the hair of dying mothers, to pat out pie crusts, to hold nails and swing hammers under we’ve built ourselves a world where we can live.
Lindsay Popper rides bikes, bakes bread, hides poetry in public places and maintains an identity as a plumber by enthusiastically fixing all leaks and clogs when she stays over at someone’s house. As a grad student at Boston University, she spends much of her time figuring out how to answer the question “so, what are you going to do with a Masters of Divinity?”; she spends the rest of her time wondering about the moral and ethical implications of lying about her life path at parties.