(A statue of) Benjamin Franklin sits across from an offshoot of my Alma
Mater's English department, shooing pigeons with the butt
end of his cane.
Four years ago, I screamed to see him there. I was a freshman, it was
week-one, so the small grounds of our private college seemed wider, and
the building's faces were yet unfamiliar to me. (Now I could tell you
what you're looking at based only on the cheeks, if they are a painted
blushing brick, or a weird pastel orange.) It was dark when orientation
let out; I thought Ben was a real man.
About a year later I found a (statue of a) woman. In my ex-sorority's house,
this woman stands high up in an architectural niche. She is dressed in
a formfitting romantic gown, which might be sheer like Zsa Zsa Gabor's
lingerie if she were real. Sometimes I sense she is envious; I am sure
she's watched us teeter drunkenly through our corridors of Spanish
tiles, laughing, having the best of times. She wonders what the sun
feels like when we tan, because the sun cannot touch her cloudy
I'm graduating now, but before I leave, I intend to set Ben and this lady
up. They could waltz on the lake that borders our campus, in a swirl of
bats and mosquitos, or something.
I'll let you
know how it goes,
- - -
Read CT's story, "How Barbie Came to Live in Our Barn."
w i g · l e a F