Ukulele festival

There is a ukulele festival this weekend. There is a ukulele festival and people giggle when I tell them I'm going, and that I'm looking forward to it.

There are clothes strewn all over the apartment because I cannot afford to do laundry. All this week I am having cereal for dinner, reusing the milk from one bowl to the next because I can't afford $2.03 for a half gallon of 1% at the store.

The idea of a ukulele festival calms me, it is a goal. I can't fix my mother's problems, I can't be the friend my friends need me to be. I can't make my fucking cell phone work.

I can get lost a ukulele festival. I can mingle in the crowd, be a flaneur among ukulele enthusiasts, forget for a moment about having to wash my underwear in the sink and dry it on the shower curtain rod (because using a washing machine costs $1.50). I can just stop and listen to and learn about ukuleles.

I can forget how my mother has been shipped from one couch to another all these years, the same way I was shipped around all those years ago. Back then, I had my youth around me to protect me and keep me from falling down. Her youth is behind her. I cannot fix her problems.

I can go to a ukulele festival. I can attain one goal this week, I can say for the rest of my days "Oh, that sounds like a ukulele. I was at a ukulele festival once. It was fun." It will be fun. It must be fun. It is my Friday night salvation and I will not be swayed from my meager, fetid goals.