In this morning’s sun, we discussed the possibility of milking chickens. Biologically impossible, but we laughed so hard imagining the motions of our fingers on their tiny udders, and our success at producing the “just a splash” of milk he always asks for and never gets in a coffee shop. These are the trail markers of intimacy, the inside jokes that are born on vacation mornings in farmhouses where you never have to wake at dawn for chores.
There was also that acrid cheese spread in the cooler as the family drove to Florida from Pennsylvania in the mid-70’s. My nose still scrunches up as I remember Disney World on a tight budget — our fermented milk sandwiches from the car overshadowed by the cool kids — the burgers and fries at the next table. The acridity was/is so real, the heat and sweat of the lines, too, but my memory of no-frills Disney is more than half full, while my brother’s is more than half unfulfilled.
My own milk never came in. It was all powder and water in plastic bottles; and I have mammary glands, not like those chickens. Are there chickens who can’t lay eggs? If so, I hope they have support groups and find other ways to matter. Longing is just a to-go container that can’t be recycled, that will never go away. I’m not crying because it spilled. I’m just wishing I could laugh more, that this land of milk and money could touch the sweetness one more time.
As first published in Scapegoat Review, Spring 2023