Prologue:

To the Curious George who had once accompanied me through after-school nap times and morning-time adult chatter, I praise you for staying so youthful. Your skin is admirable, and your complexion is runway-worthy. You must have met Bill Nye—perhaps at one year’s Oscars? I mean, you two were practically inseparable through the two screens that I had before me. Well, that was before Mom’s hand came in and turned off the iPhone 4s—and as the once-audible smartphone powered down with Orpheus’s journey down to the underworld, I watched as the dreaded 3-by-3 passcode screen popped up—my thin film to success. Yet, how old was I when I first realized that George was right: continuously taxing the colonists, though denying their voices in Parliament? Wow. Wrong George. The “right” George would have inspired me to eat a banana. The “right” George would have appeared in my Common Core math workbook as the monkey that divides 91 bananas amongst 13 zookeepers. Yet, the “right” George would have wanted me to be bolder with life’s choices. 

Father’s Warmth:

“Do not go gentle into that good night . . . [for] old age should burn and rave at close of day.” As I analyzed my father’s dissipative vitality, I dreamt of accomplishing the next Sisyphean task. Academically, I challenged myself to be the best. Athletically, I, again, challenged myself to be the best. But, I noticed, over the years, that these victories have oft been Pyhrric. Dad’s validation was what I was working towards—not a personal nor objectifying motive. Nonetheless, certain endeavors became a sunken cost. Math became a burden, working towards creativity that I had never sought to master—receiving Amazon packages of workbooks that I had never requested. I wish I could have spoken up about this dejection. Instead, I spiraled into anxiety.

Peace:

During these moments of anxiety, I pride myself on fabricating moments of bliss. One of these moments was our bi-monthly trips to Costco. 

Aisles after aisles, I looked for him—frozen food with the Tyson nuggets, check; pre-packaged meats with the cooked rotisserie items, check; Kool-Aid with the G2 Gatorade adjacent, check—though I gradually gave up the quicker that I walked. 

Unfortunately, if you had not already realized, I was a phoneless seven-year-old sniffing the Downy beads in the detergent aisle. However, no matter the visits, I would always end up in the aisle for books. Harry Potter interested me, yes it did, though I could only finish reading the prologue and reviews from The *insert U.S. state* Times or Post before scratching the cover to see what sound its texture made. They smelt good. That’s about all that I remember about those Potter books. Diary of a Wimpy Kid was a close second for favorites. I liked that kid, Greg; he knew how life worked, from the perspective of a reclusive seven-year-old. But, those yellow stacks of money-shining pancakes—the ones usually perched right next to the Amelia Bedelia, Geronimo Stilton, and Roald Dahl books—were the planets that gravitated towards me, the largest star (UY Scuti, not the sun lest I look like a jerk) in the universe. And those books were by none other than Curious George.