LGBT, Gay, Writing, Poetry, Journal, Snark


Mom and I went on a trip about the time I was 4. She diligently packed for both of us, me supervising to make sure all the essentials went. I even had a checklist she helped me write. Blankie (quilt my great-grandmother made for me before I was born), my favorite clothes, my rubber ducky, etc. Everything made it into the suitcases. Rubber Ducky was in our carry-on because I simply would not be parted from him.

 All seemed well. We got to the airport early and checked in at the counter. This was going to be one of those smaller charter flights. Don’t remember what company it was, but I think we were trying to get somewhere in a hurry and this was the fastest available to get out of Dodge… er, San Marcos. Now that I really think about it, I think this is the first time Mom left Dad and she wanted to make sure we got to California fast.

Regardless, we still had to go through the security checkpoint. The lady behind the booth thought she was being kind and had me come around to watch our bag go the ginormous machine thingy. It was no kindness! There was my Ducky! And he was inside out! I screamed the scream of purest horror and desolation. They had murdered my Ducky!!! Trust me, I have an extremely penetrating scream and lots of eardrum piercing volume back then. She sat there stunned at my hysterical sobbing and finger pointing at the screen. Mom just rolled her eyes and comforted me the best she could.

Out popped the bag and I tore at the catches until they popped. I lift the lid and dig around. There is Ducky! I get me hands on him and clutch him to my chest, stunned. Somehow he is now right side out and not a mark of his horrible ordeal to be seen. Mom does her soothing murmuring that, see everything is ok. That they didn’t hurt your Ducky. I slowly stop my wailing and glare at the X-ray lady. Mom shuffles me off.

I called Mom to verify when this happened. She doesn’t remember it, but my places are off. She said the only charter flight we took was to see my Dad when he was stationed on San Nicholas Island, off California when I was between 2 and 4. And I wouldn’t have taken Ducky. Ducky she remembers though. Hmmmm will have to ponder this more. I do remember my melt down pretty clearly, regardless.

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