Free Study in Perfect by Sarah Gorham

county” thrill. Our backpacks are lined up in the hall, bike rack strapped on the car, and the cooler ready to go. I’m hardly here anymore, projecting myself South, two hundred miles down Route 42, 43, 90, 65 toward home and the mail at work.
    My good-byes are not so sensual as my hellos. I narrow them down to three stations—the pier, kitchen, surrounding spruces, hemlocks, and white pines. All get a brisk “See you next year.” Then I turn my back on the thousands of beloved details: theblue enamel mugs, the cast-iron dachshund by the front door, the rowboat, seatless, splintery, battered by cousins and uncles and severe Wisconsin cold. I turn my back on my grandparents too, whose death feels a little too close right now.
    It’s small compensation, but our subconscious lags a few days behind real time. This means that the benefits of vacation do linger, more than just physically. Sure, we’ll be more relaxed, able to bear that crisis at work or school with greater flexibility and confidence. Better yet, we’ll have a cache of dreams that plays out deliciously, of cherry pie and inner tubes, the stony beach, and wide open skies and water. For a while, we’ll feel like we’re still breathing pure northern air, our ancestors close by, and sleep is a serene cove we gladly swim into.

PERFECT
Solution
    A toddler’s pink-and-white-striped dress, with gauzy apron, and purple-ribbon tiebacks. Hand-me-down from her cousin, already well worn, nevertheless worn every day whether or not her mother would allow it. The dress had a name—”Pollo,” like “Paulo,” a close derivative of “pillow,” for she slept inside the dress, not needing a pillow. On the yoke, two oval strawberry stains and one long drip of indeterminate origin. Apron semi-detached in places, where she stepped on it while attempting to rise from a sitting position.
    It was a slip of mother, like her mother’s slip, a second skin without the hurting patches. She lifted the dress over her face and her stomach calmed. She lowered it and knew what to do next. Could you wear a pillow, a glowworm, a blanket? The dress was her forest place without the scary journey.
    She listened to the dress and, in time, refused to wear anything else. In her parents’ world, this was impossible. What would people think—that she was poor, unbeloved? They cajoled, distracted her with party shoes, firmly enforced timeouts when the battle grew intense, and still the child would not take off the dress.
    What is the perfect solution but a pair of disappointments, two less-than-perfects, a middle-making. Not throwing the dress away, not wearing it forever. What, said her father, if Pollo were a pet, like parakeet or fish? Would you crush it in your sleep? Wouldn’t you want to pat, preserve, and keep it happy?
    She could have her dress, but only if she carried it in a brown paper bag. And so she did for five years, and then some.

A Drinker’s Guide to

The Cat in the Hat
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    He taught at a community college in rural Maryland, an evening class in introductory literature that ended at ten p.m. The commute home was an hour over single-lane highways to another small town in nearby Delaware. But first … a package store for a six-pack and a pint of Seagram’s. The drive home was cool and black and empty of traffic. Blinking yellow lights at most intersections, a few lit farmhouses, and once in a while a long low chicken barn, set back discreetly from the road, so the smell wouldn’t overwhelm. He sipped Seagram’s from the bottle, washing it down with beer.
    His edges wore down slowly. The mechanics of clutch, accelerator, and brake were liquid, headlights spanning into ditches and deep pasture. Even Christian rock was sweet at this speed. On his way to distinct inebriation, he savored the leather grip, the steering wheel swaying along with the music, eyes drifting rather than darting from