Citgo Sign.

            I used to live by myself, in an apartment in Boston. Don’t ask me where in Boston – that’s not important. What is important to know is that I couldn’t see the Citgo sign from my window in that apartment, and no matter how much I loved everything else about that apartment, I couldn’t live without that view. Not seeing the Citgo Sign was a real problem.

            Now, though, that doesn’t matter, because I don’t live there anymore. I loved the yellow paint in my apartment, and the one wall that was all red brick. But pretty soon I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I had to move back in with my mother.

            My mother was always so freaked out about the idea of me living on my own, in the big city. I think part of her real fear was that I was living alone with no prospects of a husband in sight. She’d sit in the living room in her floral recliner, framed by the green curtains against the yellowing wallpaper. She’d sit there, and she’d tell me that I wouldn’t make it on my own.

            “You’ll never make it on your own, honey. Why don’t you just live here with us, where I can take care of you, until you marry a man and move in with him?” she’d say.

            “Yes, Momma. I know it would be nice, but I can’t live here because you don’t like fish,” I’d say.

            She’d look at me, all puzzled.

            I always wanted a pet fish. But I knew that she didn’t like them, so while growing up I never asked for one. When I was living on my own, though, I was thinking about buying one.

            So much for that idea.

You can imagine how overjoyed she was when I called her up and had to ask if I could move back home.

“It’ll only be for a little while, Momma. Just until I can get back on my feet, find a new apartment,” I’d say.

“Oh, of course, honey. Don’t worry. Come on back here, and I’ll take care of you, until you figure things out. It’s no trouble.”

Living with my mother meant making some changes. Now, I had to get up earlier for work, because where I slept was no longer down the road from the flower shop.

            I’d walk down the hill, away from that house, to the bus station.

It’s like I’m in high school again, I thought.

I’d take the 107, pushing the yellow strip on the side when I passed the church. After the church, the bus would come to the stop closest to the train station, and I’d have to get off.

“Why don’t you just wait a few extra minutes, and then you can catch the 110? That will take you right to the train station,” my mother would tell me.

“Yes, Momma. I know that will take me there. It’s just that I enjoy the walk,” I’d say.

“Well, alright then. I’m just trying to help.”

“Yes, Momma. I know.”

So I’d walk down the street a little, until I saw the entrance to Oak Grove Station, walk inside, swipe my Charlie Card, and get on the Orange Line. The color of the train was so faded that it always seemed more like the Yellow Line to me. Then I’d get off at Haymarket. Or somewhere. Honestly, I’m not sure which stop it really was. I just had a feeling at some point that I’d sat on the train long enough, and I’d end up getting off right where I needed to.

“You know, those little maps are free at all the train stations. You can just pick one right out from the little boxes next to the donut shop. Then you’d know your stop’s name,” said my mother.

“Yes, Momma. I know that I can do that. But I don’t mind not knowing the stop name,” I’d tell her.

            Why bother looking at a map when life pulls you in the right direction anyway, all on its own? No need for any extra hassle.

            So I’d grab my purse, look down or straight ahead to avoid eye contact. That was one thing about taking the train. You had to avoid eye contact. I’d walk up the station stairs until I felt the wind of the Boston streets on my face again, blowing my brown curls in every direction. I found my way to the old floral shop, and I’d spend the day there.

I’d listen to people who, all day, decided to tell me about their loved ones, living and not living, who would enjoy these flowers so much.
            “Oh, and little Beth just loves tulips! And these are so pretty. Just look at the yellow color of these! Oh, she will just love them.”

The ones who talked the most were the older people. Often they were grandparents, on their way to some birthday party for people like little Beth. Or they were going to a social event or something, with their friends or family members. Why were flowers so necessary for all of these things? I don’t know, but I’ve never asked either.

I usually found my eyes drifting over to the clock at 5:00 p.m. Perfect timing. I’d handle the final customer, help them out the door, and lock it. I’d turn the sign around, so that it told everyone who happened to look over that Flora’s Flowers was now CLOSED for the day.

What a stupid name. The woman who owned the store wasn’t even named Flora. Oh well. I loved selling and arranging flowers for people, so it didn’t matter that the shop had such a dumb title.

“You know, if you would just go out and buy yourself a watch, you wouldn’t have to look over at the clock at work. You could just know what time it was by looking down at your wrist. You’d save your neck and your eyes the trouble,” said my mother.

“Yes, Momma. I know that. But it’s really no strain to my neck or eyes. And I do it out of habit now anyway, so there’s no sense in buying a watch,” I’d say.

So I’d walk back from the door, past the counter, and hang up my yellow apron for the day. And then I’d walk back down to the train station, my entire day in reverse. Sometimes, I wondered what it would be like to actually walk backwards when my day was ending.

When I finally got back to my mother’s house, I’d walk upstairs and into my bedroom. I always took a moment to stop and look out the window. From here, I could see the Citgo sign. I used to watch the Citgo sign from that window when I was still in high school. The giant red triangle looked like heaven to me. I used to look out of that window at night, watch the Citgo sign light up the sky, and wonder what life could be like outside of my mother’s yellow kitchen and pink frilly sheets.

I’d strip down, climb under the old pink frilly sheets in that twin bed, and close my eyes. I’d keep them closed until morning.

One day at the dinner table, after about five months of living back home with my mother, I decided I was going crazy. I told my mother I was going mad, and she just looked at me. That puzzled look again.

“You’re just feeling lonely. You spend too much of your time alone, and that isn’t good for anyone,” she said.

“Yes, Momma. I do spend some time by myself, but I used to not mind it so much. I think I have to move out again,” I told her.

“Now, now. Don’t be rash. Just wait a little while longer. I was talking to Janice today – you remember her, right? She’s the one with that cute son, Jeremy. Apparently, he’s not married or seeing anyone. And he was always such a nice boy, don’t you remember, honey?” she said.

“Yes, Momma. I remember Jeremy,” I said.

Jeremy had always pushed me down in the sandbox, and I got sand down my pants. When I cried, he laughed. My mother apparently didn’t remember this.

“Well, I told her that you were available tomorrow night, and so Jeremy will be here at 7:30 to pick you up! Oh, isn’t this exciting! Do you know what you’re going to wear? You should wear a dress. Don’t be afraid to show a little leg, honey. Oh! What are you going to do with your hair? I assume you’ll at least try something with it?”

And she went on like this for a while.

And I stared at her.

“Yes, Momma. I have a dress, and I’ll brush my hair and wear it down. But Jeremy was never very nice to me,” I said.

“People grow up, honey,” she said.

“Yes, Momma. I know that…. It’s just that I don’t think I can face him when he knows that I live here still. He’ll make fun of me again,” I told her.

“Nonsense! Now, go upstairs and iron out a dress for tomorrow. Oh, this is so exciting! I’ll have to call Janice back!”

And she walked into the yellow kitchen to reach for the phone.

Great.

I walked upstairs, but I didn’t pull out a dress to iron. I meant to. I really did mean to humor my mother, honest. But as I was going over to my wardrobe, I looked out that window again. And I saw the Citgo sign. Its red, glowing triangle was shouting at me.

That was when I knew I couldn’t stay with my mother anymore. I had to try and find my own life again.

So I pulled out a suitcase, and packed my things. I walked downstairs, and into the kitchen.

“Mom. I’m leaving,” I said. And I turned around and walked out as fast as I could, before I could see the hurt and the shock melt into her face and stick to her features.

I walked right out of that kitchen, out of that house.

I slept in the back room of Flora’s Flowers. It was great for a while, because it smelled so wonderful. But then I began to develop headaches from the overwhelming stench that the yellow flowers began to give off. I’d never noticed how terrible they smelled before. It was suffocating me. How could I not have noticed before? Eventually, I looked in the newspaper and I found a listing for a one-room apartment. It was not as nice as my first apartment. The view was very limited; from the window, I still couldn’t see the Citgo sign. But it was better than dealing with those flowers, so I moved in.

I lived in that apartment for six months. My usual routine continued. My day began, and then it went in reverse, and then it began again.

But I still felt like I was going crazy.

Maybe my mother was right. Maybe I am too lonely.

As I was walking to Flora’s Flowers one day, I decided randomly to go out and finally buy a fish, to keep me company. He was so cute and so yellow, that I just couldn’t resist him when I saw him in the store. I named him Gabriel. I loved him whole-heartedly for an entire two days.

However, I soon realized that I didn’t actually care about him. He was just a fish. I had no reservations about eating sushi in front of him.

I hated that apartment with the limited view. I hated Gabriel. I hated the idea of going back to the yellow flowers every day, smelling them. Ever since I began to notice their stink, I couldn’t help but notice it all the time. And I hated those old ladies who came in to tell me about their little Beths and to buy those horrible sickly-looking, yellow flowers.

Later that night, I walked back to my mother’s house. I let myself in, quietly put my suitcase in that old bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room and looked out the window. From here, I finally saw the Citgo sign again. Its bright red triangle was a blessing.

I walked down the hall, and climbed into my mother’s bed. I snuggled up next to her. I could smell her through those frilly sheets, and she smelled like yellow bread, baking in the summer time.

She stirred against me when I put my nose to her neck, but seemed to know instantly that it was her little girl.

“Oh, honey. I’m so glad you’re back home. Don’t you know I’ve been worried? Don’t you know I’ve missed you? Don’t you know I love you?” she said.

“Yes, Mommy. I know,” I said.

My eyes closed, and just before I fell asleep I felt my mother kiss my forehead goodnight.