As a kid, I knew something other kids didn?t: My parents were judging me. My grandparents were, too. They were judging me as mouthy or smart, annoying or erudite. The fact is, that sense of being monitored still governs my relationship with my parents and grandparents. I try to be good. (This is hard: I?m a 32-year-old married woman.) I call my mom every day. Once or twice a month, I mail letters to my grandma.
The local post office may never be my favourite place, but it reminds me of being a kid, when my mom would drag me along to run errands. It was always a pain, but there were always perks that my mother alchemized into our magical suburban landscape: a sample of American cheese at the grocery store, pretzels at Home Economist, DumDums at the bank. Usually, the post office is a pleasant place, especially when my favourite clerk, Gary, is working. Gary has replaced his ID badge with an unflattering driver?s licence that some schmuck left behind. He has conversational Spanish, Farsi and Mandarin in his pocket, plus an occasional ?Buon Giorno.? He has sharp titanium eyes that tolerate zero crap, which?I?m sure he?d want me to tell you?doesn?t mean that his jokes can?t be pretty crappy. But I?ve liked him ever since I ordered a sheet of celestial stamps. They looked like oil paintings?the planets of our galaxy?suspended in a midnight-blue sky.
?You know which one is my favourite"? he once asked, handing me a vellum envelope.
?Which"? I asked.
?Uranus.?
Oh Gary, i...