Another cafeteria dinner. One whiff and I’m four again, hopping and squinting in the garden
sprinkler. It’s hot and we’re down to our underpants, withered wet against our bottoms. We’re
jabbering in our own half-heard, half-invented language. Then I stop, puzzled. I don’t know what
to call them. Those doll eyes stamped on our chests, staring unabashed. We all have them. Two
each. There. And there. Seeds, not yet things, not yet named. What are they called? And then I
remember, squealing the joy of it. Brussels sprouts!
About the Author: A former editor, teacher, and letterpress printer, Megan Benton lives on an island near Seattle. Her work has appeared in Chicago Review, American Quarterly, and other publications. She holds a Ph.D. in the history of books from the University of California, Berkeley; her first novel is in search of a publisher.