riley nissenbaum ☀︎ ten, done

Momma wasn't really into the duck business.

Thank god, right?

It seemed real borin'. Like bein stuck at the pub playin' for the drunk folk at the bar rail, or paintin' the walls of the barn. There ain't no purpose to feedin' ducks, but there is a purpose in what I do here now. A star, brewin', I'm bound to be the most famous girl in the district, excusin' Safrron. Pretty woman like that is always gon' be the star girl, but that ain't stop me from dreaming, huh?

Momma decided she was better off runnin' some little salon, doing hair, shootin' the shit and bein the mixing bowl of every ounce of drama and goss'p in this part of ten. You know that Scott is cheatin' on his girl Mallory? She was all fuss'd bout it last time, momma came into the kitchen blaring off about how Scott was found with some boy in their shed and I yawn because - that ain't new, Ma. It was gon' get revealed to the poor girl eventually, but it's all in that puppy love that my Poppa always talked 'bout.

He found it back in five with some girl - some pretty, blonde thing that talked to him with a lustrous purr, warm and vibrant, wrapp'd him around her darn finger like a darn thimble. Poppa said that she was like nuthin' else. Like them orange sunsets or coffee ice cream, stuff was somethin' only gods could produce.

I ain't no girl for Sunday at the church, but I do believe when somethin' was meant to be. Daddy gave me a guitar at a young age, about eight years old, before he had gotten that cancer and died four months later. Happn'd fast - quicker than I could blink. He was gone - and I ain't ever gon' get the things he would tell me about whenever we want to that farmers market down the road. Take me around the booths, gettin' the groceries for the week n' tellin' me about all the things he couldn' wait to do with me when I'm older.

Daddy was traditional; imagin'd me in white, veiled, walkin' me down the aisle to a handsome young boy who would never hurt his little girl. And I never wanted to hurt 'im, yet deep below I always understood one of us would be unhappy in the end. I'm not sure if I would'a followed his dream, married some pretty boy, settle down, have kids. Dunno what I woulda been doing with my life, though. Probably raisin cows or some stuff like that.

I ain't built for that, so daddy's death saved me from livin' some other life. I don't think I coulda ever told daddy I liked girls the way he wanted me to like boys. The man had a heart'a gold, but a mindset that turned it to stone.

After he died, I put ma' heart into that guitar. Under the tree with our good ol' girl Macky. Bailey named her - that's my big brother, big old doofus nam'd the dog after his fav'rite meal at the time - Mac and Cheese. Silly fella' was only three, so not much else fill'd his mind beside for food. He ain't any diff'rent now, though. Bails is pretty much the same, just tall 'nuff to not let all that eatin' get to his belly.

The beer has, though. Big guy needs to put down the bottle, and momma tells him too, but he ain't listening. "Don't need ta be sober to feed a cow," he'd say, which is some silly excuse to keep drinkin' his life away. No wonder he don't got a girl. Not that I have one maself - he just need to get to settlin before it's too late, you see? That boyish charm is fadin' more and more each time I see 'im.

I try to write ma' own stuff, but it's kinda hard. A lotta that good stuff comes from experience. I don't got experiences, not many at least. Can't write 'bout love, the only love I got was from ma Daddy, who's dead, and my momma, but writin' bout family only gets ya so far. Playin' jus gets me places, it fulfills that hole my daddy left when he died. It fills silence, gives the background to a story that's unfoldin', like them dates I see at the bars or pizza places. Them ones are writin' themselves.

I want ta' be a star, and I'm bound ta' be, but I gotta figure out how ta' write my story, let alone a darn song, first.