I’m eight years old, wearing my first eyeglasses, filled with dread. We’re in the car, going home. Our weekly groceries, cheaper here, are hidden in the trunk. Dad inches the car forward, grumbling. Mother puts her hand on his arm. I see the Mountie’s red coat, gold buttons shining. Will he remember that I didn’t have glasses this morning? Leaning in, he asks, “Make any purchases in Canada?” My father lies, “No.” I shake in fear, pulling my jacket up to cover my face. The Mountie looks right at me, but he waves toward the US border. We drive on.
Brenda Kienan’s writing has appeared in literary journals and staged readings. A film of her script won Best Short at Moondance. Genres: nonfiction, fiction, drama.