Ironman (Dried Papaya)

Flying home after spending Thanksgiving back East,

I strike up a conversation with the mouselike woman in the next seat,

traveling alongside her daughter, who has just competed in 

an Ironman triathlon down in the Yucatan.

They are from Canada, but now reside, like me, in Portland.

The daughter is perhaps twenty, her bright orange hair 

glowing pale against her deeply sunburnt skin.

She wears a t-shirt and shorts and all through the flight

she keeps standing up and stretching in the aisle,

flexing her thick, muscular thighs despite 

the flashing fasten seat belts sign.

There is quite a bit of turbulence. “We’ll be hitting

some isolated pockets of bumpy air,” warns the captain,

his voice tinny through the intercom. 

 The stewardesses finally force her to sit.

She fidgets in her seat like a restless thoroughbred.

At one point the young athlete produces a plastic baggie 

full of long, translucent orange strips of fruit.

She takes one out and bites into it, then waves the bag at me,

across her mother’s lap. “Papaya?” she offers.

I decline but she shakes the bag, and I don't want to be rude,

so I gingerly pull out a piece and gnaw on the end.

It’s thick and squared off and rubbery.

I’m hungry, having forgotten the box of beef jerky

my mother bought me for my trip back to the West Coast.

I can see it sitting right where I left it

atop the low bookshelf of my sister’s old room,

which is finally after all these years being converted into a guest room. 

She moved out years ago, but recently fled the time zone

to relocate for a more lucrative job. She’s the favored child,

the baby, the successful one in the family. 

She’s the one winning the race while I remain winded, 

trudging far behind. The possessions she abandoned 

in her old room when she graduated

are being boxed up and stashed in the crawl space. 

The walls will be given their first fresh coat of paint in years.

I awoke in that same room this morning,  

and had trouble escaping from that big plush bed. 

Groggy, I gathered up the last few items I hadn’t packed,

stuffing them into my already bulging suitcase,

making sure to throw away the empty envelopes and wrappers

I’d strewn about during my stay.

That box of smoked meat, bought by my thoughtful mother,

is the only remnant of myself left behind, her forgetful, ungrateful son.

It’s a minor thing, I know, but for some reason, it upsets me.

It seems emblematic of all the ways I’ve let my mother down

over the years. I may be less self-destructive

than I was when I was young, but after all this time

I still struggle to pay my bills, have not managed

to produce any grandchildren, and I’m sure as hell

not running any marathons. I barely function as an adult.

And to compound my guilt, she will no doubt

waste the postage to mail that box of jerky across the country,

no matter how much I beg her not to bother.