I’m only happy when I’m winning. Traveling city to city to pedal my wares to oceans means I need a car to move forward. Last summer my grandmother looked for nearly an hour at the refrigerator before finally asking “What are you?” I turned twenty-five
and lost my car keys. The summer before, I made my father-in-law ride shotgun to listen to the rattle of my driver’s side; I turned twenty-four if it helps to keep up. He couldn’t hear anything over me saying “There it is again,” and the crickets in the hollow we were driving through were chirping. It was extraordinary to hear with his window down
to let out his cigarette smoke, and he couldn’t hear it. I hate to admit that save for the lost at sea found clutching at a wave, or a spooked cow giving milk, I am mostly unhappy. I stare at the pale spades snow crabs walked a long way on just to bake on a foiled pan in my oven. I call that a tie.