BY KATHRYN A. HIGGINS
When to the silver SUV I schlepped,
pushing a cart that veered to the left,
I reached for keys which I usually kept
hooked to my bag to foil theft.
I pushed the button, heard the chirp;
although a distance it seemed to cross.
I called to my son, the little twerp,
and began unloading milk and sauce.
"Mom," said Matthew with concern,
a luxury for which I had no time.
"Get in the car!" I snapped in turn,
and to my door I bent to climb.
I went to put key in ignition,
when all at once I felt a chill;
a horrible lack of recognition
of seat, of cup, of car, of nil!
"Where's my stuff?" I asked my boy,
who'd climbed uncertainly in the back.
"I do not appreciate this decoy.
My dirty towel? My bills? My snack?"
"Mom," he tried again; I turned
to see what new crime he contemplated.
But when I saw the back I learned,
and from fault he was then exculpated.
This gleaming, shiny, silver jeep,
with tidy mug and Burberry scarf,
did not match at all my heap --
festooned with garbage, flecked with barf.
Christened by my kids and me,
with dirt and gum and single socks,
my car just simply could not be
this one that held designer frocks.
"Hush!" I said now that I knew
we were in the wrong SUV;
would this one's owner take mine in lieu,
knowing what I did of me?
My senses were on combat high
as I reviewed our situation --
how we got in there and why;
I prepared for our evacuation.
Then I saw my old jalopy
facing hers, as if a mirror
had found a twin, just not as sloppy --
cleaner, neater, richer, dearer.
I'll take her car, I paused to think,
and trade in for a better life;
I'll bag my husband and my shrink
and be a better sort of wife.
Yes, I'll take it and I'll flee
away from my suburban jailors:
husband, housework, children three,
laundry, cooking, coupon-mailers.
I flipped the visor mirror and saw
the doppelganger wanna-be,
a disheveled blonde with frowning maw --
an evil, tired side of me.
I slumped back in her leather seat,
noticed her Gucci sunglasses there;
imagined her country club so neat --
God, we'd feel like asses there.
Swaddled in her premium automobile,
I was o'ertaken by daydreams of:
Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels,
lunches at the Golden Dove.
Benefits aboard a yacht,
decked out in Dolce and Gabbana;
"Some little nothing I just bought,"
sipping Cristal with Ivana.
In this reverie I sat
in a sort of mental attack,
when "Mom" I heard again from Matt --
who'd been so quiet in the back.
I turned to see my little son,
who looked at me with eyes so wide --
my innocent and trusting one,
not knowing I was Mr. Hyde.
I realized then that no matter how pampered,
filled with serenity and joy,
my doppelganger's life was hampered
by lack of my kids -- girls and boy.
If she had kids, and so she did
according to her decorations,
despite their brilliance, mine outbid
them in winning my adorations.
I could not make the trade, I sighed;
"Let's Go!" I said to my little Pea,
when coming out of the store I spied
a thinner replica of me.
"Get out!" I hissed and grabbed the food
and toilet paper by the load;
I snatched the cart, and Matt I shooed
out of the car and down the road.
Again my key, my car chirped back;
I hustled my little boy inside.
He found his book, his toy, his snack;
and there he waited while I spied.
My double came and claimed her car,
no inkling did she have of me;
despite the door I left ajar
and my lost can of Pepsi Free.
Tossing her designer purse,
she mounted her shiny, silver throne.
I ducked and hissed a little curse,
as my steering wheel hit my bone.
She drove off talking on her phone
about exciting things no doubt.
I said to Matthew: "Let’s go home"
and "Behave or you'll get a timeout."
Filled with a newfound thankfulness, I drove
home to my modest little dwelling;
and with new eagerness I strove
to find my children without yelling.
"Come and give your mom a hug!"
I said to urchins one, two, three.
"Wait -- what have you done to the rug?"
And so ended our brief jubilee.
Kathryn A. Higgins is writer and mom living with her two children in Connecticut. She recently received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her publishing credits include: McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Real Simple Magazine, Health.com, Sanskrit, Farmhousemagazine.com, Whatever, and Musings; she has also written a regular column for the Connecticut Post, as well as features for various newspapers, and is a reader for the Paris Review. You can reach her at: kathrynahiggins@aol.com
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