Playing Hooky

In college, my younger sister and I often played hooky on warm spring days. We would skip our boring astronomy class and head over to our favorite tiny little coffee shop on South Bouquet Street in Pittsburgh, where we laughed and talked and smoked too many Camel Lights.

Some days, we walked through the streets of Oakland, snaking our way through Pitt and CMU campuses, around Phipps Conservatory and the bridge nearby—I can’t remember the name of it now. How can I not remember that?

Other days, we rode our bikes near the Cathedral of Learning, racing down the grassy hills like we did when we were little girls. I remember how the sun felt on my skin, I remember the pretty blooming flowers and the ugly, garbagey streets.

I remember how, in college, the possibility of summer crackled in the air like electricity.

Today, when I left my office building on my lunch break, something about the sunlight and the warmth reminded me of those days, and I stood on the crowded sidewalk for a long moment, in my respectable black pumps, my conservative skirt, and my ridiculous control top pantyhose, and I lifted my face to the sky.

I thought of my old brown clogs—the ones I wore all through college. What ever happened to them? I thought of my bicycle—chained in the tool shed behind my apartment building. I can’t remember the last time I rode it. And finally, I thought of my sister—my dearest friend—living far away in Portland, OR. I thought about how, if she lived nearby, I probably would have called her today, and asked her to play hooky with me. And I know she would have come without a second thought.

I love you, Drazzy. Come play hooky with me soon.