Little Green Toy Box.

Teaching Her The Alphabet

2012-01-01T21:17:00.000-08:00

She was a small girl, with choppy brown hair that never fit properly into a ponytail.
Her eyes were blue, her face was pale, her mind was cluttered.

Animal crackers, Avada Kadavra, Amanda Please...

And every morning, they would tickle her awake, singing songs she didn't know with lyrics she didn't understand, by bands she'd never heard of.
That didn't matter. Love spun from every note. Even though she hadn't the slightest idea that those inclinations and rapid falls were “notes” at all.

Butterflies, Bookworms, lost Bags of Boxtops...

On the twelfth day of first grade, she hung upside down on the monkey bars, staring into the laughing eyes of her best friend; a girl she didn't even know the name of yet. But they shared a language, invincibly young on a playground that shrank with every year.

Cats Cradle, Corduroy Overalls, CD Players with headphones...

She would run very fast, the little girl with brown hair, and her golden locked friend. They rode bicycles down hills as tall as the Eiffel tower, whatever that was, and had to clench their fists very tightly over the handlebars as the wind tore their eyelids open. It is so hard to slow down, when you've caught yourself accelerating. Impossible to stay calm, when the fear of sharp turns shakes your muscles.

Daydreams, Diary entries, Is the Devil real, mommy.....

Daddy always used Ticonderoga No.2 pencils. They were the best, of course. The astronauts used them on the moon, he told her. One small step for man.
They played a game together called Rock Detectives. She carried a little denim knapsack, and he always wore a tattered green ball cap. She wanted to be just like him.
They would bend down in the gravel driveway, and bury their fingers in layers of the past, the present, and the future. She would find a stone much prettier, much shinier than the others, and she would win the game. And that would be that. And he would not argue. Just kiss her forehead. “I love you, Little Bear.”

Easter eggs, the English language, Emory boards that chip my nail polish...

Grandpa came to dinner every Sunday, and her mother would be clumsy, and she would try very hard to please him, but she never could, because she didn't cook as good as well Grandma, and Grandpa missed her very much. So the little girl would kiss him goodbye, and paint her last picture, and ride her bicycle very fast down the hill again, scared of speed. Whispering secrets that never really mattered to her golden haired best friend. Just for the joy of telling a secret. For the laugh and the idea of thinking that maybe there was something special she knew that no one else did. Something important.
But it was never important. She could not have known.

Follies, Fairy tales, Feverishly reading big books with Fervent words....

She wanted to be like the princesses in the movies, who would gracefully perch on elegant balconies, staring at stars so vast they could not count. She wanted to whisper her secrets to the night, to the moon, to her daddy, to anyone who would listen. Because they weren't secrets, at all. Just words that made her feel bigger than all of those stars not even the princesses could make sense of. But as she whispered to the clouds, her voice would catch. And she tried to look graceful, her feet would stumble. And as she tried to tell her daddy how much she loved him and how much of her hero he was, his ear would always be too far up for her to reach. So she tried counting stars.
But everyone knows that that's impossible.

Guitar strings, Guessing all the wrong answers, Going too fast down the hill...

She had no secrets to keep or to share. She had no lies to tell, and no truth to run from. She had open books and windows that were always polished, and everyone thought they knew what the view was, when gazing briefly through them. They thought she was just another awkwardly pretty face, with funny jokes and big books and mismatched socks.
Maybe they were right.
She wished they weren't.
She craved diversity.
She longed for a nightmare to haunt the dreams she took for granted.
She could not have known.

Hair bows, Is Heaven close to Home, daddy?, Harry Potter will take me to Hogwarts someday...

Everyday, the sun stood still for her. Wake up and live and eat and play and dance and conquer fifty more pages, go to sleep and dream of all the possibilities, all the stories, all the maybes. Gasp at the vividly preposterous anecdotes her dirty blonde best friend would sneeze out at her, but have nothing to share in return. Nothing ever happens to her. Everything is right, and everything is calm, and her head is cluttered with lives that do not belong to her and words that she never said or wrote.
“Matti has a new boyfriend.”
“We're all mad here.”
“I hear that Olivia still has a bedtime.”
“Kill all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em.”
“Did you hear what happened to Rachel?”
“And miles to go, before I sleep...”
“Will you help me with my math homework?”
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
“The new boy has cute hair.”
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good...”
“Best friends for ever.”
“Promises are made to be broken.”

...Cloaks of Invisibility, Imagination, living by the rules of Inkheart...

And so she smiled through each day, because nothing was wrong. She wore clothes with bright colors, just like everyone else, and she straightened her hair to a crisp, like she was supposed to. Her daddy told her every day that she was beautiful. And as she grew taller and taller, that little denim knapsack did not fit around her shoulders anymore. They paved her gravel driveway. The math got harder. The bikes got sturdier. The books got thicker. The speed did not scare her. The secrets still thrilled her.
Late nights, with long braids and plaid pajama pants. No secrets to share, just laughs and memories and dreams, staying up all night with that golden haired best friend. Whispering into the dark about God knows what, never anything important, never unimportant, just the talk of growing girls stealing air and clutching hopefulness.
“I'm so scared to go to high school.”
“And I, I took the road less traveled by...”
“At least we'll have each other.”
“Dulce es decorum est.”
“I love you, daddy.”
“Curiouser and Curiouser!”
“I love you, Little Bear.”

Jello with not enough sugar, Jet planes, Jargon we thought we understood...

So she got a new backpack, a green one that fit the all the big books her head was cluttered with, and all the heavy ones she only carried because they made her.
It fit gym clothes and cell phones and crumpled essays and lip gloss.
It did not fit bicycles with streamers.
It did not fit pretty rocks that she found in her gravel driveway, now paved over.
But it did fit Ticonderoga No.2 Pencils.
The best in the universe.
One small step for man.

Her head was cluttered with locker combinations and English literature and algebraic equations and, tell me, how is a raven like a writing desk, where was the first battle of the Civil War, if two trains leave Chicago at ten A.M and another from Boston at six, lyrics to Paramore songs, Quoth the Raven “evermore”, that boy is stoned, that one's hungover, it's only high school, stop moving so fast, we're still so young, don't you remember rock detectives?

Killers in thriller novels, Am I the only one never Kissed? Is it Karma? Did Keats write poems?

She forgot to tell her father that she loved him.
She forget to tell him that she would be nowhere without him.

She forgot to say “Please. Don't leave me, daddy.”
She forgot to say “Please. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
She forgot to say “Please. Can't you see I need you?
She forgot to say “Please. Don't you remember rock detectives?”

Long division won't give me an answer, Was this a Last Resort? Losing him, losing me, losing everything...

He did not say “It's a rumor.”
He did not say “I would never do that to you.”
He did not say “I'm making a mistake.”
He did not say “You're all that matters to me.”
He did not say “Things won't change for us.”
He did not say “I'm coming home.”

He said, “I love you, little bear.”
He said, “But this will ruin your life.”
He said...
he said...
he said...

Mistakes, Monopolies, Memories I can't reach, My world is turning upside down...

Oh my God, he said it, he said it, and now it's over, it's over, and I must be the only one who still remembers Rock detectives I must be the only one who remembers his mustache that tickled when he kissed my forehead I must be the only one who remembers how he was my hero and all the stars in the sky and that little knapsack and bedtime stories and wishes and dreams and homemade macaroni and it's over now....it's over.

Nothing left to say now, Nowhere left to go now, Never the same again...

“I have a secret to tell you.”
“Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.”
“But you have to promise to tell no one.”
“Promises are made to be broken.”
“I will always be here for you.”
“All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.”
“He lied to me.”
“A dream is a wish your heart makes.”
“I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.”
“Nothing is ever impossible, Charlie.”
“Please just tell me everything will be okay.”

Open books no longer, smiling on the Outside, it's Only an Ostentatious Oracle...

So the little girl finally had a secret to tell. She finally had a book to close, a window to fog, a page in her life to turn. She had a number to reach for when counting the stars, a destination to aim for when ambling blindly through daydreams, a secret, a secret, oh God, remember how I wished I had a secret, remember when everyone knew everything there was to know, remember the stupid jokes and games? Remember hanging upside down on the monkey bars? Riding too fast down steep hills? Remember when all that mattered was tomorrows outfit?

Popsicles finally melting, Parents that don't want to be together, Parties you don't want to go to...

And she finally, finally, had a story to tell at sleepovers. She finally, finally, had a glimmer in her eye that people didn't understand. Se finally, finally, had more to her than just fairy tales and makeup and high top tennis shoes. She finally, finally, finally, finally was different. Finally not the same boring girl with blessings taken for granted. Finally, finally, the daughter of a man who lied to himself. Finally, Finally, finally, broken enough to write it all down, with finally, some sort of meaning. Finally. Was it worth it, little girl? Is this what you wanted?

Quietly crying, Quickly pretending you have allergies, Quit pretending you're okay when you're not...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with brown hair and pail skin and blue eyes.

Run away before you Regret it, Race down the hill again, Remember Rock Detectives?

She dreamed nightmares she could not wake up from, and remembered what it was like to be tickled awake in the morning by two pairs of hands and two off key melodies, and a day of promise and mystery and love, and all those things little girls take for granted while they still believe they are invincible as they hang from monkey bars.

Slowly healing, Silently remembering, Somewhere over the rainbow...

Once upon a time, the little girl told her story to that golden haired best friend she'd known since her life was easy, and her book was open. Tears swam in her eyes, her big blue eyes she inherited from the father she still loved, despite it all, and her tale unfolded. And her friend, she cried, too. Because that is what friends are there for. And she held the brown haired girl, the broken little girl, as she cried and cried about all the lies she had heard and all the stories she still hadn't written, and all the things that were going to change.

Tell me a secret, Tomorrow is just another day, mommy crying into the Telephone, Ticonderoga pencils...
The little girl got her wish.
Was it worth it?

Underlying truth in every lie, Did you forget Us?, Uttering you're sorry, understanding nothing...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes just like her father's. She loved him to the moon and back. She gave him every pretty stone she could find in her gravel driveway. He told her all of the secrets of the universe. And she believed him.

Venom in the wound, Vacation homes in Ireland, Veer away from me now...

“You got what you wanted.”
“I have a secret.”
“Once Upon a Time...”
“Remember all those things you took for granted?”
“It's a nightmare I can't wake up from...”
“There was a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes...”
“I'll be here for you through all of this.”
“Call me if you need to talk.”
“She loved him to the moon and back.”
“I don't know what to do.”
“I miss you, daddy.”
“And she believed him...”

What happens when we grow up? Where do our tears go? Why can't I remember what It Was like? Was it worth it? Why won't you answer me? Where are You? Was she worth it, daddy? Where are you? Why is this happening to me? Where are you where are you where are...

The hills are not scary anymore, to the little girl. She doesn't even have to clench her fists.

Xylophones are colorful, I never met anyone named Xavier, X marks the spot, I'm drawing lots of X;s, X's over everything, X's over Rock detectives, X's over the songs you used to sing, X's over it all, you've drawn lots of X's, Daddy...

The books aren't as thick anymore, to the little girl. She barely counts to pages.

You used to tell me bedtime stories, You used to tweak my nose, You used to yell out lines from John Wayne movies, You used to wear Yellow ties with blue shirts...

The secrets weren't a mystery anymore, to the little girl. They really are not as fun as they're made out to be.

And once upon a time, there lived a little girl who took a lot of things for granted.
And once upon a time, life was just a daydream to her.
Once upon a time, the little girl told a story.
And once upon a time, this story was about a little girl who made all the wrong wishes.

Was it worth it, little girl?
Was it worth it, forgetting how lucky you were?
Was it worth it to replace Rock Detectives with Truth or Dare?
Was it worth it, daddy?
Was it worth it?
Was it worth it?
Was it worth it?

Nothing starts with the letter Z. Nothing ends with the letter Z. I'm sorry I can't end my story right. Z. But I don't think it's over yet. Z. So I'll keep trying to grow. Z. Until I find the proper ending. Z. Z. Z. Z. Sleepovers with that golden haired best friend. Z. Z. Z. Riding downhill too fast. Z. I'm trying, daddy. Z. Z. Z. I love you, Daddy. Z.Z.Z.Z.ZZZZ.......

I love you.

Sonnets Sang on Roller-coasters

2011-11-27T18:24:00.001-08:00

She stumbles, and she blinks.
Torn up pages of Sudoku books.
Cocks her head, and stares at stars.
She breathes, deeply.
But she does not have enough fingers
for any of it to make sense.
She never learned to play Scrabble.
Or Solitaire.
She likes to yank bushels of purple phlox
just after it rains
so that teardrops still settle on the fine silk
and she can wipe them away, and know that sun
always comes
in time.
The thimble never wins a game of Monopoly.
And strategy, they told her, is everything.
At Five A.M she jump ropes
and she counts until she runs out of stars.
And unreadable notes of overgrown daydreams
dance in the fireplace, until she runs out of jumps
to count the beat.
Because Candy Land was always just a dream.
And she never saw the point in Shoots,
if she had a Ladder.
Stolen ballet slippers
and torn hair bows
and chipping nail polish
and empty tea cups.
When her moon is heavy, she tilts the little cup
very low
and the last inkling of a drip fall to the rim of the saucer.
And now she can see her reflection.
And it's like playing Clue, if only she'd ever learned.
Because it's such a game, it is,
staring at herself, swimming in the blues of her eyes.
'Cause she never learned The Game of Life.
And I hear there are lots of tricks.
Maybe someday, she'll ride a unicorn
and understand why there are mirrors on every merry-go-round.
Maybe someday, she'll comb the knots out of her hair
Wipe the mud off her toes
Get to the end of the maze before she runs out of ink
to count the corners.
Maybe then, rules won't exist.
No one ever reads the directions anyway.
And the objective, is the stars.
Too bad she ran out of fingers.

Momma, When'd The Road Grow?

2011-11-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

I was looking through the YWG blog, and found this. I completely forgot about it! It was written months and months ago. Anyway, I hope you like it.

Momma, when'd the road grow?
Baby, try to use your words.
...Talk the truth, see no lies.
Let the sun shine.

Momma, when'd the sky shrink low?
Love, i'm sure i just don't know.
...We've lost alot, these weeks soon pass,
I'll try to get it back.

Momma, when the grass gets cold,
...Will the stars forget to glow?
Forget to glow, forget to grow, forget about
everything
we
thought
we'd
know.

hangin' on by ropes, my child

sweet dreams, to all below.

momma's gone where tears don't fall,

where God makes all moons glow.

sing a song, a lullaby,
wipe sorrow from
the lost babe's eyes,
and don't let go

and don't look down

the sky is shrinking...

"momma, how fast will it go?

how far until i land?"

Momma, when'd the road grow?
Baby, try to use your words...

Love, i lied, the sun won't shine,
these paths, they're getting shorter.

the path to you,
the road to me,
afriad, they intersect.

they never swing.

they never sing.

they never bring

two
hearts
to
one.

Momma, when'd the sky shrink low?
Love, i'm sure i just don't know.

so, tell me, momma.
can you touch the moon?
if you climbe, so high, so high...

momma's reached that limit, child.
she's grasped the highest branch...
and she's so
afraid, afraid to fall...
momma's so afraid to fall.

Momma, when the grass gets cold,
...Will the stars forget to glow?

well, baby, seems i've told a myth
a game, perhaps, a folly.

for momma was a star, they say
who forgot, by chance, to glow.
no more brightness left to show.
nowhere safe now left to go.
just a song, that now one knows.

momma, i still love you,
wherever you may be.
when youth rode on behind us,
you told your tale to me.
you said the stars, they'd always sing
the sky would always stretch.
you said the ice would always melt,
a new chance now to catch.
grab on, momma, we're swingin' low
and i don't want you to fall.
for when i was small, you held me close
and it was the best of feelings.
and when the light squeezed,
out of you,
i felt so, free, so, lost.
a falling star,
put it in my pocket,
i'll send it on back home.
another holy land we roam.
your arms, the safest dome.

now, momma, where'd the time go?
Baby girl, its thrown away.
....we've lost alot.
these years soon pass,
another catch to throw...
to throw,
a star,
to glow.
fallen down,
no place
to go,
jsut a song.

that no one knows.

Things Unsaid

2011-08-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I did NOT write this. I found it on a Potter blog, and they broke my heart. So, so touching. I know this blog is for my writing, but I couldn't resist posting.

Regulus Black, to Sirius Black
I tried to do what you would have done, in the end.

Peter Pettigrew, to James Potter
I wish I could take it back.

Gideon Prewett, to Arthur Weasley
You take good care of our Molly, you hear?

Merope Gaunt, to Tom Marvolo Riddle
Grow up strong like your father, Tommy. But learn to love.

Dobby, to Harry Potter
Harry Potter is safe now, sir. Dobby has repaid him.

Quirinus Quirrell, to Sibyll Trelawney
Travelling will bring great peril, indeed. I’m sorry I laughed.

Cedric Diggory, to Amos Diggory
I won, Dad. Aren’t you proud?

Colin Creevey, to Dennis Creevey
I died like a real wizard, Dennis. Isn’t that cool?

Kendra Dumbledore, to Ariana Dumbledore
I wish I could have fixed it. That’s what mothers are supposed to do, right?

Fred Weasley, to George Weasley(Fred's final words)
Don’t worry, George. I’m going to heaven. Guess how I know? Because we’re the Holy Spirit! Get it? Because you’re holey and I’m… dead. Please don’t cry.

Severus Snape, to Lily Evans
I tried to protect him, Lily. I can do no more.

Helena Ravenclaw, to Rowena Ravenclaw
I’m sorry I left, Mother. I’m not like you; I’ve always made stupid choices.

Hepzibah Smith, to Hokey the House Elf
Never trust a pretty face.

Bertha Jorkins, to Rita Skeeter
You’ll never believe who I met in Albania, Rita!

Igor Karkaroff, to Severus Snape
I vish I could haf had your bravery.

Gellert Grindelwald, to Albus Dumbledore
I killed her, Albus. And I’m sorry.

Mrs. Crouch, to Barty Crouch, Junior
Be happy, sweetheart.

Rowena Ravenclaw, to Helena Ravenclaw
I miss you. Please come home.

Fawkes, to Albus Dumbledore
I’ll be back. I promise.

Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, to Remus Lupin
It was all too brief.

Albus Dumbledore to Aberforth Dumbledore (The last words)
I'm sorry if I dissapointed you, Abe. I love you and I'm proud of you.

Impressionism.

2011-08-09T20:30:00.000-07:00

I wrote this during a Creative Writing course last year, but recently edited it an awful lot. The original prompt was to look through a newspaper, and choose a picture that stood out to you. The picture I chose was actually the obituary picture of an art museum curater in Paris, who had recently died. She was holding a painting of a ballerina, standing outside in the cold. Her eyes were what stood out to me. They were a painting, of course, but they could see right into you, I swear. I wish I knew what the painting was called. So anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.

It is Paris, 1774.
The shrill winters breeze caresses a trembling hand across our ears, robbing any remaining inklings of warmth, and replacing our skin with the frail, frozen petals of a scarlet rose.
I am ten years old, thin as the final branches of a waning autumn tree, my cheeks losing more and more of their pigments, once vibrant with the colorings of life, as the brittle air slaps us, again and again, and we grow numb.
As I stand shaking, melting away from my own thin bones, a thousand painted faces pass us, all wearing the same numb expressions. Their cheeks lack the luster of life, of purpose. It is feigned, the ambition in their eyes of clay and plaster. They walk with the same stride, of false ingenuity.
And I know that when you look at me, my dear artist, you will not see them. They are but a piece of this interminably frozen background.
But I, however, am not. Even though my artist molded me in too small of a stencil. Even though I cannot grow, and the people of my world, were built to be much taller. And they cannot see me, standing so low.
But you of all souls, my artist, understand that the important things, are not the big things.
Painted to my alabaster skin, is a thin pink dress. It hangs loosely from shoulders that bear no weight, no substance. The colors are muted, and the onslaught of a gentle snow turns the scene to a pallor of icy blue. And I am cold.
In my arms, I clutch a small, torn pail pink pair of point shoes. I don't wear them, though I crave to. I desperately desire the obscure, curious feeling of the fine satin, resting against my toes, warming the ground in which I stand.
My dear, Artist. This was a thoughtless thing to do. I am frozen. So frozen in this time and place, in this ice, and the gaze of my superiors.
Now, freeze.
Remember everything my frail body has told you. Remember the look in my eyes. Remember my thin dress. The shoes I am forbidden to wear. The world I'm not tall enough to be a part of.
Remember this.
Remember me.
Paint my picture, in your hungry minds.
It is a pleasant scene before you, I assume. The bright lights of Paris. The steam from the baker's windows. The charm. The imagery, of the City of Love.
And your heart swims.
You can smell the baguettes.
You feel the snow on your nose.
And then your eyes open, and you see me. I stand against a towering, rusting gate of wrought iron. My stare is fixated unto the very fringes of your wandering hearts. And from my perch here, worlds and ages away from the gallery in which you must be standing, your breath stops for a moment. Your voice catches in your throat. And you regret your happiness, and you are guilty to have been so blessed.
You see me, and though I am gazing at you, I cannot see you. I just pretend. I try very hard, so that maybe, I am remembered.
Are you painting this, my artist? I hope you are. I hope you paint my picture, a thousand times, and send it to every corner of the big planet you inhabit, in which I will never roam. The planet I am too small to reach, to touch. The earth that is too hard for the feet I cannot feel, the dance floors I'll never see.
I'll clutch my ballet shoes, torn and small, and every time you think of me, every time my eyes appear in your midnight musings, I will dance.
So paint this.
Keep me warm.
Keep the image of my gaze, as I stare into you, planted in the depths of your preoccupied minds. And you'll walk taller than me, and see things I'll never see. But I'll be there with you.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
And I am counting on you, my artist, to show me that the world out there is much larger than this corner of an ancient Paris.
And everyone will see me, and when they dance, they will think of me.
For now, I remain forever frozen, but thank you, dear artist, for seeing.
Remember this when it is cold in your heart.
Remember me, when you freeze.
Thank you, artist.
You are free to melt.

Put This Poem Somewhere Safe.

2011-08-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

A poem about poems. :)

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littlest.
It was about a horse
with a brown main
in a long braid.
And I showed it to my teacher
and she showed it to my mom.
And she tucked it somewhere
safe
and I haven't seen it since.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littler.
It was about snowflakes
and how they melted on my nose.
And I showed my grandma
and she hung it on her fridge
safe.
But I haven't seen it in a while.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was little.
It was about flowers
because that's what my teacher
said to write.
And I gave it to my mom
for mothers day.
And she put in a frame
safe.
I wonder if she remembers
the flower I described to her.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was smaller
It was about love
because I thought that love
was something all poems should be about
even though I hadn't the slightest clue
as to what love was.
I still don't.
I didn't show anybody.
I tucked it in a diary
safe.
But I can't really remember it now.

I wrote a poem, once
When I was younger
about school.
And it was very long,
and my teacher put it in the hallway.
I wrote about notebooks
and science teachers
and laughing students.
And I see that poem, from time to time
where I put it,
so it'd be safe.
And I remember what life was like
back then.
And I smile.

I wrote a poem, once
last year
about light
and dark.
And I read it to the professor
who told me I needed
to enhance the characteristics
of my metaphors.
And when I was satisfied
I stared at the words.
And I tried to really believe
everything I'd said.
And then I put that poem in a folder
and it's tucked away somewhere,
hopefully safe.
Because someday
I wonder if it'll really make sense to me
like I said it did.

I wrote a poem, once
a few weeks ago
about changes.
And I didn't show anybody
because it's something that is meant
for only my heart.
And I wrote about how things were so much easier
when I was little.
How family and the perfect outfit
would make me so happy.
And I wrote about how I'm really not sure
why that isn't the case
anymore.

I wrote a poem, once
a few days ago
about my life.
And it was very long
and I didn't use many big words
because that professor, she told me
that sometimes, small words can mean big things.
And so I talked about how things change
but they always stay the same.
And about how I'm very lucky.
And very happy.
And even though I'm sure my mom would love it,
I haven't shown anybody.
It's tucked in my computer.
Where it's safe.

Someday, I'll write a poem
about my life, again.
And it'll be much longer.
And I'll know more words.
And I will have grown so much.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and I'll show it to the world.
And they'll thank me.
Because words are very powerful,
and that's what my dreams tell me.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and it will be me.
And everyone will look at me
and wonder how they've known me for so long
without ever really seeing me.

But right now, I'm writing this poem.
And I'm not sure what I meant for it to be about.
But that professor
who told me to enhance my metaphors
says that a poem can be anything
as long as it means something
to yourself.
And this poem
it means a lot to me.
Words are very powerful.
And I'm proud to have found them.

Someday, write a poem.
And tell me a little bit about who you are.
Because I could live a thousand lifetimes
and never know.
Write all the words in your head.
The words on your tongue, at this very moment:
panda bears
ukeleles
bamboo trees
nail polish.
And then after wards,
you'll know yourself
a little better.that poem
will be safe.

Even though not knowing for sure
is what makes the discovery
worth seeking.

Someday, I'll write a poem.
And then I'll understand
why I began writing
in the first place.
And I'll put it somewhere
where everyone will see it.
And a billion eyes will read it
and understand.
And in their hearts
that poem
will be safe.

Spectacular.

2011-08-01T19:19:00.000-07:00

A Poem.
I know the theme's been done so many times, but this poem means a lot to me. So thanks for reading, if you do. :)

I'm not perfect.
Really, I'm nothing special
spectacular.
I wear makeup, to hide
behind every flaw
that doesn't belong.
It's like a mask
I never
take off.
And I wear a cape, too
to complete the look.
To make myself feel invincible.
With words sewn across my chest
in bright colors
that everyone's already seen before
a thousand times
on every other girl.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to make you see who I really am
by just spilling every thing
out.
It's not a teenage rant
about how no one understands me
or about how I'm hiding
behind myself.
Because I'm not.
And they do see me, I think.
I hope.
I promise I'm not trying to
win you over with
these little words.
Because I'm not.
The people who see me
who see behind that mask
and cape
I wear
are the ones who never
knew
they existed.
And that's really all I wanted to say.
That even though I hide, sometimes
I don't think you can blame me.
We're all insecure.
Every one of us.
And I'm just another number
on the staircase
to infinity.
Standing on the fringes
of the dance floor
and trying to understand
what brought me here.
But I think that
not knowing
not being sure
about things that don't really
even matter
is what makes the question worth asking.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to uncover the answer to life
because, as we all know by now,
we don't know the question
yet.
So here I am.
You can call me average, but
I'm not sure anyone is ever that.
I've got flaws
and imperfections.
And I make mistakes
and I tell lies.
And I hide sometimes.
But we all do.
Right?
But truly, this wasn't meant
to be one of those poems where
I try to make myself feel better
by disgracing everybody else.
Because, I promise, I feel fine as I am.
And yes,
this is one of those poems
where I tell the world
that I'm something bigger than
just another face.
I know it's been done so many times before
but this is one of those poems where
I hope we can all learn
by the end
to accept ourselves.
Even though I'd never ask you
to take off your mask for me.
Because I understand your fear.
We're all scared, I know.
Even me.
Even the wise, and enlightened poet.
What a twist.
Has this been done before?
Probably.
But that's okay.
So take my hand and
all of us can tell a story
together about how
our worlds are getting smaller everyday.
And we can all wear our masks
because we all are
terrified but
it'll be okay, this time
because we'll know.
And we'll understand.
And in our caps and masks
we can stop the world
or we can save it.
And finally,
in a chorus of fear
that we pray to conquer
we can be
so perfect.

Yellow Cat

2011-07-22T22:49:00.001-07:00

A poem written off the tops of our heads!
-Erin and Olivia!

The yellow cat
in the purple beret
Waits alone
hence a chilling midnight
in a dying, lonesome cafe.
Takes a sip of a cooling coffee
Wishing for the lustrous company
of the blue manitee,
who will drink his wasting sanity.
Little does he know
that his troublesome aquatic chap
May never join him in this rotting hour.
The manitee, singing to his feline friend
utters his final remarks unto the rolling pavement
"My yellow cat
yellow cat
I love you
and your strange, purple hat.
I thik you're hansome
and I always have.
I pray to someday reunite
with your glorious silhouette
beneath the molding willow tree
at dawn, when our lives pass
before our whiskers.
Yellow cat, yellow cat
you've been so nice
Man, you're where it's at!
I love you.
But The bus is coming.
And Cat, however it may pain my somber soul
It's time for me to board this train
And let it's kaboos crush my aspirations.
It's time, yellow cat.
I'll meeet you at the willow tree.
Do not forget.
Never forget.
that you are the sexiest cat
in the entire freakin' land."
Love,
the blue manitee.
Yes.

Meanings we came up with:
The Yellow cat-
Erin's idea-humanities ignorance
olivia's idea-a guy who got stood up by his foxy date

Blue Manitee-
Olivias idea-a guy who's late for his job interview so can't meet the cat for coffee.
Erin's idea-World happenings that pass under the noses of the ignorance.

The Bus-
Olivias idea- a job interview!
Erin's idea- the end of the world.

Quote of the Day

2011-07-17T20:58:00.000-07:00

"Of course this is happening inside your head, Harry. But why on Earth does that mean it is not real?"

-Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

"To Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!"

A Walk Through Diversity

2011-07-17T20:44:00.000-07:00

“All my life, I've been waiting for diversity.”-Max Von Sydow

In the morning, the first sister awoke at six o' three, because that was the time she always did. She sat up in bed, folded her hair down with her right hand, lifted the left corner of her quilt, and stepped with both feet to floor.
Her nightgown was always pale pink. Her socks were always white, with a ribbon at the ankle. Every morning, at exactly the same minute, of exactly the same hour, she would open her window, and lift her rosy cheeks to the same sun she awoke to a thousand mornings past. She would stand in the morning breeze for precisely nine seconds.
She would comb her hair, change her clothes, and the same day would begin again.
At seven o' four, of that same morning, the second sister opened her eyes.
She stared at the ceiling. She hid her head beneath her pillow.
Finally, she would stand, and begin her day with a cup of coffee, or maybe a piece of toast. Some mornings, she would simply remain in the safety of her bed. Sometimes, she'd wake up and don a mask and cape, to make herself feel invincible.
On this morning, after memorizing the scents of her bedsheets, the first sister spoke to her.
“You woke up an hour later than usual today.” she said in the sweet, innocent tone that she had beheld forever.
And the second sister rolled out of bed, and began applying her mask.
In a deeper tone than what once was, she bid the first a good morning.

* * *

On the next morning, the second sister awoke at eight o' five. She stretched. She went to her closet, and began to dress herself for the day ahead.
The first sister had been awake for two hours, and two minutes now, living the same day.
The phone rang, and the second sister would answer it. She would giggle, nervously adding more paints to her dripping mask, teasing and joking with the voice on the other end. And the first sister did not understand the conversation. The second was using words the first did not know. She was acting in a way that the first could not comprehend.
The second sister would tell her goodbye, and leave their house, to see the caller in person. And the first sister would frown, and continue her day.
She would play with her dolls, and remember when her sister was almost identical to her, in looks and in manner. They would both wake at the same time. They would share a breakfast of 147 cheerios, in a white bowl with a cup and three quarters of skim milk. They would smile, don the same dress, the same pink shoes. They'd play the same games, and use the same words.
And the first sister remembered this time, and she missed it terribly. She missed the sister that was not the same anymore.
The second sister was taller now. Her hair was longer. Her shoes had heels. Her clothes were tighter. She wore the mask. The first sister prayed every night at eight o' seven, that her sister would take that mask off. But she never did.

* * *

It was a brisk, bleary morning. Nine o' eight. The two sisters walked through the wood they had once played in together, before the second sister grew her hair out.
The first sister felt as though that time were only seconds ago. The second sister had nearly forgotten them.
They used to play games in the tree house at the end of the dirt path. The first sister was always the princess, content with her frivolous life, endlessly coming her hair in front of the window, longing for her prince.
The second sister would be the stepmother, who was sometimes very kind, and sometimes rather cruel. She would never do the same things twice. She would move very fast, the second sister. And the first would have to struggle to keep up with her.
On this morning, the first sister wore the same, simple pink frock, cut at the knees, with long white socks, adorned with ribbon, and flat white shoes. Her hair was in the same, perfect two braids.
The second sister wore very tight blue jeans, with a red sweater that hung slightly too low for the first sisters preference. Her hair was down, and flowing. Her mask was on, her heels were high. She was much taller now. She walked very fast, her arms folded in front of her as she stared at the morning sun hanging above their heads.
The first sister spoke.
“I like to think that no matter where we are, we will always look at the same sun.”
The second sister said nothing, for she disagreed. Her sister saw a bigger sun, that made her feel small. But this sister's sun had gotten much smaller over the years. Much dimmer.
They walked beneath their separate glowing stars, crushing autumn leaves beneath their feet.
“We need to talk.” the second sister told the first. And they did.
“I'm growing up now.” said the second.
“You can't. You're not ready.”
“I am, sissy. I really am. It's time.”
But the first sister simply shook her head. “You can't leave me. You can't forget about me.”
But the second sister already had, so it seemed. She walked right past the tree house, leaving her sister to stand at the latter alone, tangled in a net of memories that only she remembered.
“It's time. Thanks for everything.” And the second sister began walking again.
“No, come back! We've never walked past the tree house before! You'll get lost!” The first sister tried to run for her, but found that she was rooted to the spot. Her feet, clad in age old pink slippers, would not let her go any farther.
“Sissy, wait! Wait for me!” But her sister was so far ahead now. She tilted her head behind her shoulder, and smiled at her.
“I won't forget you.” she said simply, and then she faded away, and her sister could not see her anymore.
The first began to cry. She collapsed where she stood, burying her young head in the folds of her little pink dress, trying to understand.
She stood, and began to climb the latter that would lead her to the tree house of every yesterday ever hatched, where everything would feel okay again.
She patted her braids back into place, looking around her. On the walls were framed pictures of two girls, who looked very much alike. One was small, with round cheeks, and a pink dress. The other was older, taller, cleverer, and she wore different things in every picture. Her hair was never quite the same, her expressions would change from frame to frame.
The first sister grew dizzy, for she did not understand. She began to cry, stomping her feet. But no one could hear her.
And then, the first sister began to fade away. Her features grew pale, until nearly translucent. And she crossed her fingers, something her sister had taught her to do many years ago when she wanted something desperately to happen, and she disappeared.
The first sister was never seen again.
The second sister kept changing.
And because you've all heard this story countless times before, you understand that the second sister lied when she said that she would not forget the first.
The tree house grew old, and the second sister could scarcely remember it now. Photographs and memories, her innocence, faded away inside, wearing a small pink dress.
But these things weren't important anymore.
The years spun on, the hours changed every day. The mask grew thicker.
She'd forgotten herself, left her in the wood.
But, alas, you've all heard this story.
You understand, I assume, that the first sister still lives out there somewhere. You understand that she should never be forgotten, but that, in life, the best of us fade.
And so the second sister, who's name was Diversity, walked on.

Dear Mr. Potter

2011-07-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, childhood ends on July 15th, 2011. This poem is for all of us who believe that magic is only a page turn away.

Dedicated to J.K Rowling, and the home she built for me.

Long Live The Boy Who Lived.

In the year 1997,
Britain gave Hong Kong to China.
People were massacred in Algeria.
A Picasso painting was stolen.

In the year 1997,
a gallon of gasoline was a dollar seventeen.
Missy Elliot topped Mtv's playlists.

In the year 1997,
3,880,894 people were born.
Among them are
Gresyson Chance
Cody Simpson
Chloe Moretz
Myself
and
Harry Potter.

And Mr. Potter,
this one's for you.

Because on June 30th, 1997
you were born,
and so were millions of muggles
who'd been waiting their entire lives
for a little magic.

That was fifteen years ago, now.
And I wish I had Hermione's time turner,
because, Harry, it's gone so fast.
And I can't believe it's almost over.

I remember when I was seven,
and for me, Harry, you had just turned eleven.
I found you, then, for the first time
and it was beautiful, Harry,
how you taught me to fly.

Four years later,
I waited at the mail box
for my letter to arrive.
And I dreamt every night
of the adventures we could share
the triumphs we'd live.
The battles we'd fight.

I like to think I got the letter, Harry
because you taught me that magic
no matter the boundaries
is the greatest gift of all.
And could be found within me
If ever I sought it.

You taught me to follow the spiders
even when it might be easier
to follow butterflies.
You taught me that happiness could be found
in even the darkest of times
If I simply remembered.
To turn on the lights.

You taught me about love,
and how its powers triumph all.
You taught me about bravery
when the best of us, begin to fall.

But most of all, Harry,
You gave me this:
You gave me the desire
to seek the snitch.
You showed me
to open at the close
to believe in friendship
to rely on love
and live for magic.
You gave me a scar of lightning
round glasses, red and gold robes.
And Harry, I want you to know,
that I wear them proudly
Everyday.

You have your mother's eyes, Harry,
You have your father's heart.
So thank you for showing me
that life is lived apart.
That when I'm lost, when I'm confused,
I've got a home at Hogwarts.
That no matter where I go,
you'll walk with me,
the entire way.
Until the very end.

You've made me who I am, Harry,
this mad and twisted Ravenclaw.
And without you, Mr. Potter,
without the Boy Who Lived,
I can only imagine
where I might have thought to fly.
Because without you, Harry,
I wouldn't have realized,
that all I needed was a cupboard
under the stairs.

So thanks for the ride, mate.
Thanks for the spells.
And forever, I solemnly swear,
that I'll be waiting, up to no good, to meet again
someday.
Lost in the pages of the home
that you have given me.

I'll meet you on Platform 9 and ¾
and we'll stare out the train windows
at all of our memories,
rushing by.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for everything.
With you here, all is well for me.
And I'll believe the same of you.

It's ending now, mate
but not for good.
May our mischief
never manage.

I'll see you in the common room, Harry,
When I'm lonely, from time to time.
I'll meet you in Diagon Ally,
when I need a little magic.
When I'm lost, when I'm upset,
I'll count on you to save me.

This isn't the end, Mr. Potter
for friendship never dies.
And if I leave my heart in the Chamber, Harry,
I know you'll bring it
back to life.

Thanks for the memories,
for wizard chess, and exploding snaps.
Thanks for the ride, mate.
Quidditch games, and Potions class.
I'll see you again, soon, I know
so don't forget me,
because I'll never
forget you.

Long live the Boy Who Lived,
and those of us who lived beside him.
May our magic never falter,
may our wands point high, forever.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for our worlds,
and the stories built there.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for bringing me
to life.

Daddy.

2011-07-06T20:15:00.000-07:00

When I was four, my dad was my world.
He was the smartest creature on the planet. He knew everything. He could hit a baseball all the way from the patio to the woods. He could speak German. He knew all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. He owned more books than I could count. He loved my mother. He was never cross, or angry. He sang songs that made me laugh, and told jokes I could only pretend to understand.
We played games, in my big back yard. Games we invented all by ourselves. My favorite was “Rock Detectives”, which consisted of the two of us crouched to our hands and knees in the middle of our gravel driveway, searching to find the biggest, prettiest rocks in the world. He would find a stone, hold up, and I'd inspect it. Only the smoothest, most pristine ones made the final cut.
And my daddy never once complained about the cuts the rocks made in the palms of his hands, or the scrapes this game wreaked upon his knees. He just smiled, and messed up my hair. And it was beautiful, but I didn't know it yet. I was young and blind to the world around me. I didn't understand why he never complained, or wonder why his patience never ran low. Because that's just what daddy's do, I'm told. They love their little girls, and would do anything for them.
We played a game called Rescue Heroes. Daddy would lie on the basement floor, place a chair on top of him, shout “Rescue Heroes! Help!” and I would run onto the scene, pink blanket cape trailing behind me. I'd use the whole of my power to remove the chair from his chest, releasing him of what was then an endless turmoil. And he'd ask how he could ever repay me, and I'd salute him, one hand on my hip, and say “That's JUST what we DO!”
And off I'd fly.
There were other battles I needed to fight. Being a Rescue Hero was no easy job.
During the winter Olympics of 2002, inspired by the impossibly tall ski slopes I'd been marveling at through the kitchen television, daddy helped me place a small card table and some stools at the foot of our staircase. We pretended the stairs were slopes, covered in ice and snow, avalanches just waiting to fall. I called it “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe”, and we shared pop-sicles and crackers with squirt cheese at the card table, the towering slopes waiting cold and powerful above us.
And something else would distract me, so I'd leave him there.
And I wouldn't think anything of it. I wouldn't care that these moments wouldn't last forever. I didn't know to cherish them. I thought that there would always be tomorrow. Another day. Full of fun, and rocks, and super powers, and the games that meant so much to him, but that to me, were just a days play.
I didn't know that “tomorrow” was always different than “today.” I didn't realize that eventually I'd grow up, and want more than he could give me. I didn't know I'd ever have to leave, or that these games I loved would suddenly become memories, and stories to put in a scrap book. I didn't understand that tomorrows change things.
All my life, my daddy's been here for me. For my family. I can't remember a time in my life where he was not the owner of my steadfast admiration and love. He was everything.
In the winter of 2011, I went skiing with my friends. The slopes were tall, but suddenly, I didn't feel so small next to them. I'd forgotten entirely about the “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe” and the other skiers weren't superheroes anymore. They were my peers.
That's what tomorrows do to you. They make you forget all the yesterdays.
I spent the day laughing and goofing around, cracking pointless jokes I can't remember now. I lived in the moment. Nothing mattered but the top of the hill, whether my makeup was running, and whether or not we'd see any cute guys in the lodge.
But now, months later, no matter how much fun I had...some piece of me wishes I'd have stayed home. Because while I was off being a teenager, forgetting everything, not caring, my childhood, life as I knew it, was ending. And I'll never forget how as soon as I got home, my mood changed. The day changed. My family changed. Everything I'd known changed.
My father took my in his arms. He asked me if I loved him, and I rolled my eyes behind an exasperated “yes.”
And I noticed that there were tears in his eyes, but I didn't understand them.
“Do you remember how we used to play Rock Detectives?” He asked me, smiling just a little, speaking softly into my ear.
I nodded.
“And Rescue Heroes?”
And it went on like that for a while. He listed the things I did as a kid, things I did with him. And we both smiled, because for a moment, we both wished those things could still happen.
But they couldn't. Time had taken us both by the necks. It was tomorrow now, and there was no time for a game. Just life.
My dad hugged me close, and he cried into my damp, snow covered hair.
“Promise you'll always be my er-bear?”
And by that point, I'd noticed that my mother and brother weren't in the kitchen with us. They were upstairs already, even though it wasn't bed time. And I heard my brothers quiet tears, from all the way downstairs. And I'll never forget how it sounded to finally understand. How it sounded when I finally had to grow up.
Mommy and Daddy had been fighting for years. That much I knew.
But on this day, they both decided that they didn't want to wait for tomorrow anymore.
So he kissed my forehead, as I cried. And he told me that he hoped everything would all work out. All he needed was some time to think.
So he walked out the door, and he drove to the apartment I didn't know he'd rented, and he's lived there for the past six months. I see him everyday. He's still my rock detective. I'm still his rescue hero.
And life sped on. And for a while, we all seemed to forget that things were less than normal. He'd hang around the house during the day, playing catch with my brother and running me back and forth to skating practices. Sometimes he'd stay for dinner. We'd forget that anything had changed, until around eight o clock when he'd say goodbye, and drive off to his apartment. And then it'd be real again.
I'm writing this on Wednesday July sixth, 2011. It was eighty eight degrees at 5:30, when daddy joined us and my mom's sister and son for the last meal he'd eat as part of our family. It was stir fry. And he was silent as he tossed bits of onions and peppers around in a pool of teriyaki sauce.
Early today, my parents filed for divorce. I don't know how to feel, or how to think, or what to say.
My mind just keeps replaying that day in January with the ski slopes that were real, and the sounds of change and uncertainty. Replaying memories of which I wish I remembered the details, of rock hunting, super powers, and feeling small next to things like staircases that really aren't even all that big to begin with.
At 7:24, when he came up to my bedroom to say goodbye, he held me close and cried. He stroked my back, and I said nothing. This couldn't really be happening.
“You're always gonna be my baby.” He whispered through tears. And I held onto his blue polo shirt, and forbid myself to cry. Because this wouldn't change anything. He'd still be my hero.
“Don't ever forget that I love you.”
And it felt just like that winters day, only this time, I wasn't relying on tomorrow anymore. All I wanted was yesterday. To wake up in the morning to the sounds of him singing in the shower, to go to bed at night listening to him clap and groan at the baseball game on TV. On school nights he'd iron his shirts for the next morning, and if I went down in the night for a glass of water, he'd put down the iron and tell me some story about my great great grandparents in Ireland, or some memory of my grandfather from when he was little. And I'd smile through a haze of drowsiness, and amble back to bed. And everything would feel safe. And tomorrow was nothing but another day.
I think that's what I'm going to miss most about all of this. That feeling of normalcy, serenity. Knowing that if a thunder storm came, he'd be there to tune the radio in the basement. That if we were snowed in, all we'd have to do was wake him up, and he'd be out with the snow blower in minutes. Waking up on Christmas morning, and curling up next to him in front of the tree while my brother and I tore open our presents. Every night on Christmas Eve, even when we were too old to really care, he'd open the old copy of “Twas the Night Before Christmas”, and he'd read with a voice like Orson Wells, that made us laugh and hug him even closer.
For once in my life, I haven't the slightest idea as to what tomorrow brings. And that's the most horrifying feeling you can ever imagine.
I can only hope that life will go on. That my mom will smile again, and that, soon, things might go back to the way they were, or at least bear a resemblance.
I hope I don't forget about Rock Detectives, or Rescue Heroes, or any of the priceless memories of my childhood that make me who I am today. Daddy won't be living with me anymore, but I hope that doesn't change much. I hope that we can add to these memories. Still laugh at nerdy jokes that only he and I would ever understand.
They always told me things would change. To stop yearning to grow up, because once I'm there, I'll wish I was a kid again. And I laughed at that, because I didn't believe it.
But they were right, all those dreamers who had to grow up one day. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm finally growing up. But right now, all I want is to be six years old again, battling the world just to save my daddy from danger, smearing squirt cheese all over my face at the imaginary cafe that we built together.
Someday, daddy, let's go back. Let's pretend to be small again, meaningless compared to the towering world above us. Let's hunt for rocks, and I'll save you from any danger that comes your way, just like I promised when I was four.
I wish I could save you now, daddy. From whatever trouble you've gotten your heart in today. I wish that Rescue Heroes were really as invincible as we believed them to be.
But you'll always be my world, daddy. No matter what happens. So thank you for every yesterday that you've filled with laughter and love, and thank you for the memories. You're the best dad in the entire world, and I'll love you until the end of time. This doesn't mean we can't play those games anymore. All it means is that we've both got some growing up to do. But I know that you'll be there with me every step of the way, no matter what hardships meet us at the top of the mountain.
I love you. And I won't ever forget these memories, or the luster of the childhood you've built for me.
You'll always be my rock detective.

Currently Untitled

2011-06-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

Once, in the midst of an autumn night,
I opened brand new eyes, and met a man,
Whom they called granpa, I think...
though I'm starting to forget.
When I grew a little taller, he told me
That for a very long time, he'd waited
to finally meet me.
He'd painted some pretty pictures,
and I tried to copy them, with a sticky child's hand,
and in the pictures we would make,
he'd tell me a story, about how all of them were real,
somewhere.
Stories of his youth, of cherry pies and apple dumplings,
of the war, his fear of sharks.
Impossible tales of a time with no Television,
when your imagination, was all you ever had
Or so I'm told.
It was a long time ago
and I really can't remember.
And when he got even older,
he talked a lot of home, and how he missed it.
He really missed it, he said.
He'd give anything.
And finally, when he left me, one summer at lunch time,
that's where he went, they told me.
He'd gone home, and that's all.
He's happy now
or so they tell me.
Because I really don't know.

Years before, on a sunny, summer morning,
Alice met a man, named Charles,
who'd been watching her, for a very long time.
She was smart, and he was strange,
Or so I'm told.
I can't remember.
He had a camera in one hand,
hers in the other.
She was very young, then,
and he rather old.
But he told her a story, that day,
that a thousand ages, now behold.
He told her that there was a place, out there,
one like you'd never imagine.
A place of wonder, of curious madness
And beneath the sun, that day so long ago,
Little Alice, she fell down a rabbit hole
and years later, when her time came,
again, that's where she went.
She's drinking tea, right now and forever,
With a rabbit and a hatter, or so I'm told.
Because honestly,
I can't be sure.
I don't remember.

A few years later, waiting on a park bench,
there sat a play-write, by the name of James,
pondering the pages of an empty tale he couldn't tell,
when he found a woman, and her son.
Her name was Wendy, or so I'm told,
Because, truly, I'm not sure that's really it,
and his was Peter, I suppose,
and they were very tired.
So James took them to a faraway place,
on the second star to the right,
and he called it Neverland
or so I'm told.
Because, I'm starting to forget these things.
And I hear that, when you stayed there,
all you had to do
was believe.
And anything could happen.
You wouldn't have to grow up,
so you'd never have to die.
You could stay young forever.
Or so I'm told.
I don't know.
But if this place exists,
then Peter, and Wendy and James,
They're there, right now, I bet.
Playing games with the fairies,
just like Alice, down in Wonderland,
just like my Grandpa, wherever home becomes
when finally, it's time to go back.
Wherever they went, I'm sure they're happy.
Atleast, that's what they say.
It's nicer there, there are streets of gold,
sometimes, they call it “they yellow brick road.”
and Dorothy...I think she walks that road every night, up there,
and the poppies can't make here go to sleep
because she's already in the nicest, sweetest dream.
Or so I tell myself
because, really, I'll never know
until, finally, it's my turn.
And someday then,
when life's book ends,
I'll get to really do all those things
That I've dreamt of, for all these years.
I'll play croquet with the Queen of Hearts,
I'll battle Captain Hook.
I'll walk a road of yellow brick,
with shoes that bring me home.
And I'll paint a picture, one more time,
with my grandpa, who'd been waiting for me
who'd been watching me, for all these years.
And I'll be home, this time.
Or so I pray.
I'll go to that place, that I've built in my heart,
where my dreams will all come true.
And that's all I know, really,
even when I'm too old to remember all the rest.
And so I hang on
to this cup of ageless tea.
And this journal
where every story ever told
once began, with nothing but a dream.
And that's what I tell them,
when they fear the dark ahead.
I tell them that, really,
at the end of the road to Oz,
When the sun goes down, in wonderland,
when the moon shines bright, in Neverland,
When your mother calls you home, to dinner....
This place, it's always open to you.
And, honestly, that's all we ever
need to know.
So don't forget that.
Please remember.
And don't lose your sense of home.
Imagine one, a place of make believe,
and someday, I think,
you'll really get to go there.
And you'll smile, and you'll fly,
and you'll remember everything.
Everything.
Every moment of your childhood, every breath of your youth,
and you'll taste it all, on your tongue, again.
Forget everything, for now,
because someday, it'll all come back to you.
And in the end,
that's all I ever
did remember.

Quote of the Week, June 9th

2011-06-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

Hey guys!
I think I'll start posting these "Quotes of the Week" every now and then, for I'm helplessly obsessed with quotes. Enjoy!

"In the midst of Winter,
I finally learned,
That there lived within me
an Invincible Summer."

-Albert Camus

An Ode to Middle School: It's Been Fun :)

2011-06-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm officially a Freshie :) Middle school ended yesterday, and the night before, I wrote this. It's become a tradition, actually, to write something similar to this on the eve before the last day of school. On these nights, I'm emotional, sentimental, ecstatic, nervous...I feel everything possible to feel without exploding. Writing, like always, is the only thing that calms me down and brings me closer to the way I really feel.
So, here's my ode to middle school.
If you're in the same position as I am, I know you'll understand how I feel :)
-EES

June 7th, 2011, Grade 8
I remember when I was in elementary school; an awkward, always sticky brunette with a tendency to never shut up. I wore things that never matched, and my hair would undoubtedly be a mess all day, because really, who cared about what anyone looked like? There were more important things to worry about: who's crayon box had the built in sharpener, the latest installment in the haunting saga of Spongebob Square Pants, or what would be served for snack time that day, for instance.
I remember idly sitting on my friend Mattias's swing set one morning when we were about eight or nine, talking about high school.
“I can't wait 'till high school!” She said. “I mean, we'll all be so pretty, with boyfriends, and we'll wear skirts and stuff!”
“Skirts?” I ventured. “Why can't we wear skirts now? What's the difference?”
Matti just shook her head at my ignorance. “In elementary school, you get made fun of for dressing like that! In high school, it's how the 'populars' dress.”

~ ~

All through childhood, we dream of growing up. We dream of being a so called “teenager”, breaking the rules, having all the fun. We pictured a life of glamor and popularity, pedicures and perfect hair, pretty outfits and a seclusive circle of friends. We pictured dating as the modern equivalent of “Romeo and Juliet”, school as just another thing for our teenage selves to complain about.
I think that, as a kid, you take childhood for granted. Until it's almost over, we don't realize that these are the best years of our lives, that every second is a memory. That every step we take in our youth leads us closer to the future, and the miles we'll run to make our dreams come true. That this is the time of our lives where we don't relic in the things out of our reach, where we smile at every little mistake we make, because for few more years, they won't ever really matter. Just bumps in the road, quirks that will one day shape us into the people we've been waiting to become.
And until we get there...it's all just this crazy, surreal dream, before it turns into reality, and we realize that not much has changed, after all.

Nearing the end of sixth grade, my peers and I were bombarded with lectures and pamphlets galore about the “struggles of middle school” and “an easy transition.” Guidance counselors talked to us about high school drama and homework, relationships and managing our schedules. We were all scared out of our wits, thinking that whoever invented high school belonged in a respectably hostile prison, and wondering how the seniors made it look so easy.
On the first day of seventh grade, after a long summer of anxiety and dread, we all came to the stunning realization that at the end of elementary school, they prep you a bit too much. That really, nothing changes, after all.
On the bus that morning, my best friend, Lexie, hardly spoke, and neither did I. We were too nervous. We had no idea what was waiting for us behind those doors, no idea if we'd still be friends at the end of the day, for high school, or so they told us, was a place of drama above all else.

It's funny how the world changes when you go to middle school. You see that it's not all glamor and parties like the movies like to say it is. You see that girls still wear sweat pants and tee shirts, that skirts and makeup don't make you popular. You notice that you're still best friends with the idiots you've always hung around, because switching schools doesn't switch who you are.
It's just school, in the end.
But school's a lot more than books and numbers. Like childhood, it's the time in your life where you figure out who you are, what you want to be, who you'll become. It's the best time of our lives, so why bother worrying about the transition? Everyone grows up, eventually. It's life. It's terrible and it's beautiful, all at the same time.
Seventh grade went by in an absolute breeze. I was friends with the same group of morons, still obsessed with the same stupid things, still laughing at the same pointless jokes. The only difference is that we'd all gotten a little taller. That we'd caught a little taste of what reality might become one day, though we still refused to believe it'd be anything less than perfect. Our concerns were still minor: homework, lunch money, what was to be served for dinner tonight.
Now, nearing the end of eighth grade, it amazes me how scared I was at this time, two years ago. How high school was still something out of horror movies and soap operas. How I thought that everything would change, at the end of the summer. That we'd all grow up, and leave our old, awkward selves behind.
But that's not true. I know that now.
Tomorrow, middle school's done and over with, and still, nothing's changed. My hair's still messy, I still get peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I laugh too loud at things that really aren't even all that funny. I'm immature, I'm obnoxious, I dress like I just rolled out of bed some days. But that's alright, I guess. It's what makes me who I am.
And I'm proud to say that, now, at the end of middle school, high school racing fast around the corner...I'm not scared. No matter where high school takes me, I'll always be me, at the end of the day. I'll have my books and my keyboard to come home to every night, idiotic friends who love me no matter what I do or say to fall back on when life gets in the way.
I may not be that cheerleader with the perfect smile and boyfriend that television forced me to believe I'd become, but I'm happy, and I'm living the most incredible childhood, that I know I will always look back on it as being the best time of my life.
This year was no different from Kindergarten, I see now. My peers are still immature, and always will be. My friends and I still make up pointless songs at lunch, and sing them in study hall. We still don't really worry about the way we look, or the things we say. Because, after all, what does it matter?
This is the best time of our lives, and I'm thrilled to be riding the roller coaster. I'm only half way up the first hill, right now, but at the start of the school year in the fall, I know I'm going to love every second of the free fall, knowing that so many more twists and turns are ahead of me, but not caring about how long it takes me to get there. The ride is the only part that matters, so I'm not scared of the destination. Not at all. When I get there, I'll know myself, inside and out. I'll be all grown up, a lopsided vision of the dreams I had in Kindergarten.
The rest of my life will greet me at the bottom, and I'll embrace it with open arms.
I won't be scared. Because in high school, I will have found myself, and in the end, that's all that ever mattered.

I hope that, when I get there, nothing will have changed. Just like nothing changed from elementary to high school, just like nothing changed when, finally, we all had to grow up a little bit.
It's been an incredible ride, and when it comes time to get off, I'll know that all my dreams have finally come true.
It was fun.
Thanks for the memories.
I'll see you at the class reunion, in twenty years, when again we'll see that time will always be on our sides. That we're always gonna be those awkward kids with high hopes, big dreams, and sticky fingers.
Middle school was full of memories, and high school will be just the same.
In just three months...I'll be old enough to have an ABC Family drama written about my life. I'll be called a “teenager.”
Funny, how it's not as exciting as it sounds, anymore. Just part of life. Just reality.
But reality's a magical thing. Don't ever forget that. Use these years to find yourself, and aim for the highest of stars.
I'll meet you there, one day, when I'm finally all grown up.
We'll say things like “remember in high school when...” and it'll seem like a lifetime ago. A beautiful, quirky, pimply, embarrassing, sickly sweet time of our lives where everything fell into place. The best years of our lives.
So now...
Thank you, middle school.
It's been an amazing few years, spent with you.
I'll never forget them.

Revised: Desiderare Domus

2011-05-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

For the past year and a half, "Desiderare Domus" (Latin for "Desired Home) has been the working title for my novel in progress. (Read preface and excerpts in blog.)
Recently, however, I've been rethinking the whole concept of the story. Originally, the tale was told my a personified form of "Desire", and DesDom was a place in our hearts we created to satisfy our unreachable dreams.
Then, in a closer look, I realized this whole idea of the concrete DesDom, was really just a more material form of a dream, so I spun with that.
Now, instead of desire, the tale is told by the equivalent of the sand man, or the creator of dreams. (Haven't really decided this yet...)
And instead of desire, the story is about dreams, and healing through them. So instead of Desiderare Domus, we have somehting along the lines of Somnium, or, insanity. Basically, insomnia.
So, I've revised the preface to fit these changes, and I'd like to know what you all think. Should I stick with desires, or head more towards dreams?

Note: Not many changes were made, except I've recreated the voice to fit the persona of dreams instead of ruthless desires, and changed the "desire" message to "dream."

Preface
Our Narrator and Our Desires

I take a waning breath before beginning the tale I’ve been telling for eternity.
I exhale.
I dig into you, and find that you are waiting.
Always waiting. Always expecting.
Never calm. Never still.
But you’re only human, and I cannot blame you.
I speak to you for not the first time, for you’ve all spoken to me at some point in your lives. In fact, you speak to me every day, whether you hear yourself or not.
I hear you.
I ask a question, but waver that you may take your time with the answer. I’ve discovered that humans tend to rush in the matter of time, again, whether they see it or not.
Maybe because they haven't learned yet that time is of the essence, or because, after all, time has never truly been on their side.
Time is on my side. It always will be.
I am forever.
My question, my ever-significant request, is that you never forget the story I am preparing to tell you. This story is long, this story is troubling, and it speaks to each and every one of you.
You just might not hear it.
And if you do, it’s because I’m whispering it into your ears.
It’s because I want you to hear it.
I need you to cherish it.
And I am allowed to need things. Just like you. My job is to help you find your path in this spinning world, to force your eyes to see straight when you grow dizzy. To show you life, in things called dreams.
I have dreams, too, though.
I fulfill yours, sometimes...
It amazes me, how this favor is a one way train. How I give, and I give....and yes, listeners, I love every second of it. I love to dream, and every night, I dream with you. We dream together, of a place far away, yet so close, where everything is perfect, at last.
It's hard to find that place,though, so you need to close your eyes, and watch me, so closely, and together we'll find the moral of this story called life.

So for a moment, I’m going to take your hand.
Don’t be alarmed, I’ve done that before.
You're all just too distracted to feel it.

For a split second, I will reach into your soul.
I've done that, too, countless times. I live there, you see.
And there, I’m going to give to you a story.
My story.
Their story…
Your story.

Listen to it, hold it, and remember it. If there is anyone, anything besides God himself in this universe that is ever close to your heart anymore than you are, it’s me. I know perfectly well that there is so very much you want from me, so much you desire and are doubting exists.
It does exist. It all does.
And I want nothing more than to give it to you.
You see, I give my gifts to all who seek them.
I give to you, and I ask nothing in return.
I fulfill every dream you’ve ever hatched, and receive nary a reward.
But this time....this time will be different. I'm gonna ask something of you, my listeners, this time.
It's my turn.
I ask one thing: Just listen to me.
Yes, listen. Open your hearts and listen to my story. After all, you’re the star. You see, you’re going to find yourself within this tale. You’re going to see a part of your heart, your soul, waiting for you.
When you see that piece, you will have a choice:
Either pick it up, or leave it behind.
Simple.
Excruciating.
Because if you’re one of the ones who plan to leave it behind, you won’t ever have the chance to pick it up again.
Because you don’t recognize it.
Because you don’t even know yourself.

But that’s why I’m here, so I can’t complain. If it weren’t for you broken souls who have lost yourselves in the middle of the road, what would I be? Where would I be? What would become of me?
Of dreams?

I have questions, too.
You’re not the only ones.

So close your eyes now, my listeners, and envision yourself away from here. Picture a place built of whatever you wish, whatever you desire in the hidden deeps of your soul. This can’t be too difficult; we’ve all been here countless times before.
In our dreams.
You have designed this place, for none other than yourself. With my assistance, of course. Without me, your dreams would be unreachable.
Life, child, is not yours to choose.
But it is yours to fix, and yours to redeem.
And you’re the only one who can do that.
Here, in this place you’ve been dreaming of, you are free to do precisely that. You are free to fill the blank canvas of your past, present, and future with anything you could ever dream of.
And the sky stands back, not daring to be your limit.

You will walk these streets, and you will meet other souls who are here with you, though they’re not seeing exactly what you’re seeing. They’re seeing they’re own haven.
And alongside them, you’re going to see me. Though unlike on earth, I’m not solid.
I am translucent and wasting.
But I do not mourn. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
When I’m gone, I’ll know that I’ve completed my task correctly. I’ll know your desires have been entirely fulfilled.
I've lived so long, understand. Longer than you could ever imagine. I've been solid, heavy and burdened, forevermore. My only dream, you see, is to waste away, just a little.
When I’m gone, I’ll know that I’ve completed my task correctly. I’ll know your desires have been entirely fulfilled.

This is a dream, listeners.
It is home, hope, fantasy, impossibilities.
It's everything we can't find in reality, but that's ours in sleep.
It's shelter, and it's your salvation.
You are always welcome here, remember.
And this land is for anyone who’s ever had a dream.
A wish.
A prayer.

So open your eyes, and be welcome.
Go build your home.
Go dream a little dream.

I’ll be right here, forever.

And I’ll be waiting.

I’ll be waning.

Something From Nothing

2011-05-30T18:39:00.001-07:00

One of my favorites :)
An abstract poem about hope from depression.

All my life, I've watched
with glazed eyes, as the great Earth spins.
I've watched the clouds,
the stars,
the moon.
I've watched fickle time, tickin' by...
tick tock, tick tock.
Tick tock.
I've been counting each passing number.
So that I might see, and remember.
I've watched the sparks of first love die,
I've watched
I've listened
to the colors in their eyes.
To the songs in their hearts.
I've seen children, barefoot children,
running so fast
so fast
and not understanding why...why..
why they cannot
slow down
slow down
slow down, please.
Let me catch up.
All my life, I've watched.
With glazed eyes, I've seen everything.
But yet, I'm seeing nothing.
Nothing at all.
There came a time...
This time, I swear,
glazed eyes of mine, they finally sprung wide.
I saw in the face, of a small child,
that there is
indeed
such a thing
as something out of
nothing.
He sat, swinging back,
back and forth,
The creaking of the swing set, I heard it.
So loud, so loud.
And so, I watched him
with glazed eyes
as the great Earth spun him
round and
round.
And in his face
in his swimming eyes
I think, I remember,
that I saw there, a lion
his roar
so loud, so loud.
And the boy heard it.
A nightmare inside of him.
And it scared him.
It scared him.
In his eyes,
I heard the horrid hiss,
of a cobra, as it pounces
on its pathetic prey.
It took this boy by the neck
by the neck
and told him,
whispered inside of him,
all of the forbidden follies, nature hides.
And what the boy heard...
it scared him.
It scared him.
I watched with glazed eyes
as the curtains began to open, within him.
I saw the crowd, as they jeered
and laughed at him.
Painted faces.
Broken mirrors.
It scared him. So much.
It scared him.
But, when you live a life,
where all you do is watch,
you learn that there is
indeed
such a thing
as something out of
nothing.
Because, while the great Earth spun
so fast
so fast
so fast...
Somehow, God's child did not
grow dizzy.
He closed his eyes
He lifted his feet
and he swung
on that creaking swing
strung 'round that creaking tree.
In the cracks of his tear stained face,
the lion grew tame.
The snake,
grew lame.
And the crowd...
Well, honestly,
It was never more,
than a game.
Because all of us
atop a browning land
dizzy, as the great Earth spins,
see nothing but hope
in his eyes.
From the terrors of the jungle,
to the roaring of a crowd,
there comes a time,
When something must, then,
come from nothing.
And from watching, my whole life,
I have seen that the best of God's gifts,
The hope,
And strength,
and faith,
Can only be found,
in the weakest of our fickle
tickin' minutes.
So, take my hand.
Take a seat in the crowd.
And let's watch.
Let's watch, please,
as something
comes
from
nothing.

Basophobic

2011-05-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

"Basophobia"-Fear of Walking

Take a step, and then another
Take a breath, defy the thunder.
Close your eyes, I'll be right here
Just one more step, let's dry those tears.
The sky is vast, an endless sea
The ground is right there, under me.
I promise now, on this cool eve,
truth be told, an endless weave.
If you shall stumble,
tremble,
leap,
I grant to you, my soul to keep.
So take a step, and then another
and hang on tight, we're going farther.
Open your eyes, I'll be right here
You've gone so far, farewell to fear.
Sincerest of covenants, I swing to your hands
Catch this small parcel, rain in the lands.
Soak the warmth, upon your skin
I promise, love, the sky will win.
Take this step...
and then another
Take a breath, inhale this wonder.
You're running so fast, you're moving so far
and don't be afraid, to reach for the stars.
The heavens scream of the gold we've sewed,
So, don't look back, and keep your eyes on the road.
My soul to keep, love.
Truth be told.

Shadows, Yes: But Also Light

2011-05-30T18:36:00.000-07:00

Read first as a conversation between opposing forces, but transitions into a poem from a single perspective. Enjoy!

Do you know yourself?
I do.
What's your name?
But it's unspoken.
Is it loud?
It's...soft.
Are you warm?
I'm kind of cold. A little cold...
Are you dark?
I am gray. The fairest, hoarsest shade.
Can I touch you?
You can't feel me.
Take my hand.
But I have none.
Take my mind.
It's run away.
Run away?
Into the sun.
And you can't reach?
No, I can't move. Can't move.
Come out from the shadows. Coem out from the veil.
But the veil won't let me out. I seem to be stuck.
Is it ever gold, a life in gray?
Is it ever gray? A life in gold?
I dare decline. It's always bright.
Must be tight...
No. Wide, I'd fight...
What a sight! The sight of open...
Do you yearn? For more than close?
I only reach, for her, and him.
For her and him?
For those who have moved on.
Away from you.
Away from me.
Where have they gone?
They've gone outside.
And they did not take you with them.
No, they left me. For the light.
Left me here, to fight.
Oh, light...a burning sight.
I'm just a shadow, dark and gray,
lost amid these walls of black, I'll never find my way.
And you, you taunt me, from afar.
You taunt this sallow nightmare, where I have lived apart.
You shine down on this sleepign town,
Yet, you never fail to pass me,
This shadow, tied and bound.
So now I reach, I fly much higher.
And I pray this mold shall break.
I sing a song, of black and white.
Tag along, dusted color's broken kite, I sail,
Never emerging gray, or dark.
So shine down, shine on me bright,
and show to me, this world.
Where all I am, and all I've known
Now can see, that I have flown.
That night stands back,
the day rides on,
and slowly, now, I'll fall apart.
I let go now, of grays and blacks,
of this shadow I once knew.
I left the veil, all hail, all hail!
For I am now set free
no longer shall I be
just the shadow, they can't see.
strung so high, a rope off light.
Bid farewell, to naive fright.
Fly tonight, this hallowed flight.
Shine bright.
Shadow's yes...
But also light.

Fairest in the Land

2011-05-30T18:35:00.001-07:00

Poem about finding ones inner self :P
{How lovably cliche...}

Shadow, shadow
on the floor
who am I?
I so implore.
He grants no answers
but asks the questions.
Identical thoughts, of my own conventions.
I tilt my head
he tilts his, too.
Tell me, shadow,
what I should do.
But he speaks no response
he mirrors me, once.
Same wilted posture
a question that haunts.
Shadow, shadow
in the grass
we're running out of time, to pass.
If I am you
and you are me,
Tell me, shadow,
what do you see?
Am I fair enough, to belong to you?
Am I bright enough? The perfect hue?
I can only pray
I'm who I say
but I hope, my shadow, that you agree
and admire the girl, I'll one day be.
I hope you laugh, with your shadow friends,
about all the odds, and all the ends.
And through every barren street we've ran,
I've collected my memories
you've taken my hand.
Shadow, shadow
way down low
my entire life, you've told me where to go.
You've never lead me, anywhere wrong
and through every twist, you've shaped me strong.
So, tell me, shadow,
is this really me?
But he utters no assurance
he asks my questions, limp endurance.
He nods his head
I bow mine, too.
Another inch, my shadow grew.
We've got forever
to seek identity.
And someday, then, we'll clutch divinity.
Shadow, shadow,
on the wall
thank you for carrying me
through it all.

Diary Entry 4/21/11: Algebra

2011-04-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, you despise numbers. When confronted with an equation, your heart rate quickens, but your brain totally shuts down.
I think in letters, not numbers. I relate life to art, not integers.
I haven't been blessed with very good math teachers over the past few years, and I tend to blame my illiteracy to the language of algebra on them.
However, my math class this year is incredible. Though...not because of the math.
Today, I had the best algebra class ever, and I owe it all to the insane souls in the class.
I have algebra fifth period, and I dread it all morning. On the way to my locker, Lexie and I were in the middle of an epic argument concerning the hair of Jamie Campbell Bower (the brillaint british actor engaged to Bonnie Wright). I grab my books, and am standing outside the algebra room waiting for the teacher to show up, and decide to start up a conversation with Cooner.
"Eyyy, Coon. How bout this weather we're havin'?"
Cooner starts laughing hysterically, for no apparent reason. He's bent over now, still in hysterics, when the teacher, Mrs. Walls, shows up and lets us all in.
Coons laughing away at his desk, and no one knows why, and doesn't bother to ask.
I sit down, and as I'm rearanging my books, I spot Lance walking past me to his seat.
"LANCE!" I yell.
"ERIN!" He yells back.
"GIVE ME SOME CANDY!"
He hesitates. "I...uh...don't have..any..."
"Lance."
"FINE!" He says with a sigh. This is a normal thing. Lance is always stocked with hard candy, and he distributes it to anyone willing to pay him back.
"What do I get in returrnnn!!?" he whines, tossing my a watermelon candy.
"A grippy."
"Nah, You gave me one o' them yesterday."
"...an eraser."
"eh...."
"a pencil?"
"what color?"
"all I have is, like, pink..."
"THIS IS BLACKMAIL!" he suddenly screams, practically pulling his hair out. Lance continues to spazz, and I eat my candy as class starts.
******
Halfway through class, Mrs. Walls catches Ethan writing notes.
"Ethan?"
Ethan looks up, deer in headlights. "Mrs. Walls?"
"What are you writing?"
".....song lyrics...."
"what song?"
"You are my sunshine, by Johnny Cash."
We all break out laughing.
"...May I ask why?"
"...to give to Ryan."
He starts laughing, and Ryan is basically convulsing with hysterics.
Mrs. Walls, laughing because she knows we're her favorite class, even if she says she hates us all the time, takes the note.
She looks at it, laughing harder and harder with each line.
"Ethan, come up here." she spits out, through a chuckle.
Ethan marches up to the front of the class, ready for a show.
Mrs. Walls hands him the paper, and makes him sing it to the class.
Ethan takes a deep breath, putting on his game face.
"Ryan!" he says, staring at Ryan. "This one's for you!"
And so, in perfect key, with plenty of gusto, Ethan begins to sing, while the rest of the class is sprawled out on various surfaces around the room, dying of laughter. I've known Ryan a long time, but I've never seen him laugh this hard.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine!
You make me happyyyyy, when times are gray!" Ethan remains cool and collected, singing in perfect pitch, while Mrs. Walls leaves the room to maintain composure.
"You'll never know, DEAR!" He points at Ryan. "how much I LOVE you! please don't Taaaake, my sunshine awayyyy!"
The class applauds, and Ethan finally starts laughing with the rest of us, and Mrs. Walls comes back in, ready to finish the class, but can't. Because what just happened was freaking funny, and she knows it.
So, for the next half hour, the class explodes. We give up oin whatever it was we were trying to learn before Ethan's concert, and instead just sort of mess around.
I really despie math, but sometimes, Algebra can be fun..
You know, if you've got a funny kid with a great voice in the class, and a teacher who's not too big on punishment.

Diary Entry, 4/19/2011

2011-04-19T17:50:00.000-07:00

So, I've decided to start a little diary type thing on my blog. I've never really been one to keep a diary, but I think I might give it a shot :)
I'm gonna call it my "Toy Box", following the theme of this blog. (If you were wondering why I call this "Little Green Toy Box", it is because it is based on the first poem I posted, called "Toy Box." Alos, toy boxes represent our childhood, and the things we store in them as we go through life. This blog is my toy box. :) So, enjoy this diary type thing. Leave me your thoughts, your comments...your concerns! Thanks!

Dear Toy Box,
Well, today was just like any other twisted day in my life, however, dull moments are always a rare event, so normalcy is always exciting, understand.
I woke up this morning to a variety of arguably irritating texts from my best friend Lexie's boyfriend, Topher (Who is my good friend, but also my own personal bully). I groan, because it's six o' clock in the freaking morning, and flit through the messages. A text from Topher is never a good sign...
Exhibit A: Don't be stupid, it's illegal for spotted dandelions to be immune to vaporization....
Exhibit B:You're such an oaf, just admit that the spotted dandelion's toenails have vaporized...
Exhibit C: i kidnapped your father! How's that make you feel?!

There are the normal happy wake up texts from Rachel, saying things like "You're so stupid!" or "I never liked you!"
Ah...what kind friends I have!

***

I get to school about 45 minutes early, and am sitting in the cafeteria reading the new Jodi Picoult novel, Sing You Home. It's good, but Zoe really irritates me. She and her husband are both totally infertile, right? So WHY does she have the notion she's gonna get pregnant any day?!?
I'm complaining to myself about the stupidity of the characters, when Olivia walks in, a vision of...well, pink. What else would Olivia be wearing?
She's singing "Cosmic Love" by Florence and the Machine, while complaining, simultaneously, about her sister.
"...And Emily was like 'OLIVIA!' and I was like "EMILY YOU'RE UGLY'...." She keeps talking, her face serious and solemn with the gravity of her sister's ignorance.
I've learned to zone her out. Truthfully, I couldn't care less about what she's saying...which sounds horrible. However, she's Olivia...and...
I continue reading, groaning to myself, once more, about the agonizing stupidity of Zoe Baxter, when I'm smacked on the head. Hard.
I turn around, and....oh, golly gee, how nice...it's my personal bully, Topher, grinning mischeviously, making my worried...
"Lexie's sick." He says, and my stomach turns. As his girlfriend, it's Lexie's job to make sure Topher's under control, and not bullying me too much. When Lex isn't here...Topher is a bit uncontrollable.
"Oh God..." I mutter.

***

At my locker, I'm greeted by the kind words of Rachel.
She stops what she's doing, opens her mouth wide, turns my way, tilts her foot, and puts her hands on her hips. "THIS IS WHY WE'RE NOT FRIENDS!" She yells.
I join her, stancing. "I'M THE ONLY REASON YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING!" I yell back. Rachel and I...we're very close, really. However, we hate eachother. You may notice that kind words between the two of us are a bit rare, even though we're, like, best friends.
We continue to scream at eachother, and eventually Topher proceeds to break into my locker and break some stuff. This is usually the part where Lexie, my savior, comes along, gently leads him away, and tells him that it's not nice to bully.
But Lexie's sick. The jerk.

***
In third period American Cultures, we watch some movie about slavery that is about as interesting as watching paint dry. Instead, I open up my Picoult, and continue to complain to myself about how irritating it is, when a seventh grader walks into the room.
"ERIN!" she yells, interrupting class, but no one seems to mind. The whole school's like this, to say the least. Annoying, outspoken....a little on the crooked side...
it's Hayley, my former English teacher's daughter, one of my dad's current students. Being the teacher's kid, as I am, you grow up with other offspring of teachers. Hayley and I are ole pals.
I get up, leaving my book behind, and follow Hayley out of the room. Once we're in the hall, she starts yelling at me about how she didn't know where I was, she was roaming the halls for twenty minutes trying to find me, I'm so ungrateful...
We reach the door to my dad's seventh grade classroom, and as she takes her seat, I go ahead and sit down in my dad's black leather chair, putting my feet on the desk.
My father, the best Geography teacher in the world, is now lying on the floor pretending to be dead, while a student thrusts him in the gut with a NERF sword, shouting victory cries. The rest of the class is screaming and cheering, and I join in. This is much, much better than that lousy excuse for a film they're playing in my own history class, down the hall.
"Father?" I venture, and he looks up at me, lounging at his desk. "Oh...look up that website, I couldn't find it!" he says.
my dad gets up off the floor, straightening his tie, and beating his seventh grade enemy with his own NERF sword. When he finishes, he bows, and the class cheers "LONG LIVE MR. SHERRY!"
I find him the website he was looking for, and then hang out in his class room for a while, not really feelign the need to go back to Jodi Picoult and the excitements of the underground railroad.
*****

During fourth period, my communications teacher starts freaking out about society, so instead of taking my spelling test, I join her. We rant for the entire class, and she doesn't seem to mind that I've blown off her test. Life's good....

***

At lunch, Topher is as much a bully as ever. I take my seat, methodically rotating our table to the other side, so that Kayla and Ryan have to deal with the crumbs left over from the last lunch period, and not me.
Kayla and Olivia sit next to me, which is weird, since usually I sit next to Lex and Topher. Cooner, a poor fellow no one really likes, but who sits with us just because we don't want him sitting alone, does some questionable things and then gives me his fruit snacks, which are shaped like Phineas and Ferb. I think Cooner has a thing for me, which is a bit amusing. See, a few months ago, Lexie and Topher and I convinced him that I was born with all these rare diseases and illness. For example: I have no feeling in my face whatsoever, I can't see the color white, I can't say the letter W....etc.
He totally bought it, and went to all lengths to make sure I was okay. He said things like "Oh, it's good you're so strong and smart when so much is wrong with you!" and "Well, you're really nice, so you'll still get a good job!"
Even now, when he knows it was all a joke, he gifts me his fruit snacks everyday at lunch. How nice.
I bite the head off of Ferb as Topher strolls along. He lifts up a chair, and places it on the table right in front of me. I don't question this, I just continue to eat my fruit snacks.
Finally, he takes the chair down, and squeezes it in between Kayla and Ryan. He takes Kayla's water bottle, and dumps it's contents into Ryan's pudding cup. No one really does anything to stop him, for it's routine by now.
In the lunch line, I make up a secret handshake with Joey. Joey's awesome, another kid with no other circle of friends to share a table with, and so was welcomed to ours with open arms. Everyone in our grade is best friends, and we all get along, so random outcasts at our table is nothing out of the ordinary. They make everything more fun.
I order my ravioli, and Ryan starts telling me that I'm short and have no friends. I tell him he's spilt his dignity, and watch as he scrambles to clean it up.
Lunch is always the best part of the day. Topher vandalizes everyone's food, so we all walk away hungry. Kayla says something awesome in a BRILLIANT jersey drawl. Coon and Joey do some interpretive dancing for Mrs. Houk, and Olivia complains about God knows what.
****

at the end of the day, I take a magnet from Kayla's locker on my way to Chorus.
Topher is behind me, punching me with every step, and it hurts.
"Dude, no."
right step.
"Topher!"
left step.
"I'm gonna tell Lexie!"
right step.
"CHRISTOPHER, STOP THAT!"
left step. I pass the principal.
"MR. WILSON, HE'S BULLYING ME!"
Principal just chuckles and moves on with his day. lovely.
right step.
"Topher, I hate you."
and so on.

As we pass some lockers, I place Kayla's magnet on one of them, and continue walking. She'll probably never find it.

We enter the chorus room, and instead of telling Topher to stop beating me up, Mrs. Duncan joins right in.
Have you ever seen a teacher beat a student up? I have.
She kicks my shins, pushes me over, and then pulls my hair. All the while, topher is still punching me, and eventually she helps me up, only to push me back down again.
Ah yes...the anti bullying program around here ROCKS!
***

The day continued like this, absolutely normal chaos. I'm yelled at by Rachel a few more times before dismissal about dignity, groove, smork....and I yell right back. We're very kind to eachother.
As you can see, my life is full of quirks and twists very unlike that of most teenage girls. My friends aren't spray tanned and gossipy, my lunch table isn't the least bit seclusive. I love my life, and everyone in it, even when my friends believe that the best form of affection is in the form of bullying, and my best friend's boyfriend thinks it's okay to terrorize me to no end...
I make a mental note to call Lex later.
You know, to tell her how stupid she is, and to hope she never gets better.
Because I love her that much.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

2011-04-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

So there are about ninety typos in here, and I aplogize :P However, I worked on this for over a week, and though it didn't really turn out as great as I planned, I still really love it. Enjoy.

It is June, of the year 1945.
I am a young man, cleanly shaven and groomed. My hair is sleek with gel, my body crisp in the black suit of a becoming husband.
I stare at myself in the mirror, evaluating the man staring back at me.
What is it about the plain, simple stretch of my face that she finds special? What is it about my silent hazel eyes that force her to never want to look away?
It's her who's the beautiful one. The one people stare at in vain, wishing they could look just the same.
I'll never understand how someone as simple and unassuming as myself has managed to hold on to heart of such a gem for this long. She could do so, so much better...
“Come on, Jakey. Time for you to throw your life away!” I am faintly aware of my best man, Hughie Jackson, as he takes my arm with a slurred, drunken laugh, and leads me to the chapel.
“You sure you wanna do this, kid?” He sips the bottle of whiskey he'd been carrying, slinging his arm across my shoulders.
“Gimme the bottle, man.” I laugh as I attempt to wrestle the booze from his hand. “Come on, Hughie! You're the best man, I can't have ya drunk at the alter.”
His grip remains firm, and he refuses to let me have my way. Instead, the bottle becomes the object of a round of tug of war, and he's swearing at me to stop.
“Let go, Jake!” He places his foot firmly in the space beneath our quivering fingers and pulls, whiskey sloshing from the lip of the bottle and right onto the front of the tux that cost me a fortune.
“Aw, man...I..I didn't mean ta...Jacob?”
I stand there, shocked, staring down at the clothes of my marriage, which is less than ten minutes away.
Part of me hates Hughie Jackson...
But the best of me begins to laugh.
“Hughie Boy, you've somehow accomplished to ruin the most important day of my life.” But I say these words of dismay with an overpowering anguish of laughter.
“You're not mad?” He asks, his eyes wide with fright. He's probably just realized how much he'll have to pay to dry clean this tuxedo, if I choose to blame him for the mishap.
“Naw, man. Sure, I'm gonna be damp and smelling like booze when I walk down the isle, but it was worth it. Our final little mistake as boys, bro. Our last little outburst of rebellion, before we have to start growin' up.”
I embrace the broad shoulders of my best friend, and we laugh together, as we enter the chapel doors.
My mother pulls me aside, her eyes wide as she spots the spreading puddle of alcohol staining the front of the tuxedo I'll be famous for ruining for the rest of my days. Her face screams a deadly scarlet, and she seems as though she might faint.
“C'mon, ma. No spot on my shirt front will stop anyone from lovin' me.”

And with that, I marry the girl of my dreams, with whiskey soaking her white dress as we embrace in our first kiss as man and woman. She does not scold my carelessness. She does not chastise my immaturity. Instead, my wife pulls me close, and kisses me harder than ever before.
My soul erupts in a world of imagery. Of promise.
As I hold her in my arms, I imagine our lives together. Laughing at pointless humors as we embrace life together. Smiling, happier than we've ever been, when our first child is born. Loving each other, endlessly, in the winters of our old age.
And everything would be perfect now. Because we have each other.

* * *

It is July, of the year 1965.
I am middle aged, my hair just beginning to thin.
I still love my wife more and more each day, and I still remember the days of my reckless, careless youth.
Life's rich. Full of flavors you can't taste until you're old enough to understand them. As a kid, life tastes like sugar. As a teenager, life tastes like kisses and beer. As a man...life tastes like everything the culinary artists of heaven have ever created. It tastes like memories, and the mysteries of the future. It tastes like the puree and milk of your child in their first weeks of life, and of the champagne of honeymoons yet to come.
I taste these things as I walk, hands in my pocket, down the streets of the town I've lived in for fifty some years now.
The fountain at the center of Town Square was always a wonder to me. My entire life, I've watched as people tossed their fortunes to the water, not caring about anything but the wishes at hand.
“There are people out there starving.” Hughie scoffed one day, as we passed the square, wondering why people like us, so nourished and blessed, could be vain enough to lend our money to follies instead of those in true need of it. Hughie and I would question why no one ever tried to steal the pennies from the water. Why the greasy urchins we'd see in the baker's trash bins never tried to take the money from the fountain.
My wife laughed when I expressed these feelings to her one night.
“The money in that fountain is more valuable than the money used to buy groceries, honey. It's worth so, so much more than anything at the market.”
I wouldn't truly understand this for many years. For now, I'd shrug it off, and never think twice about the possibilities of a penny in a fountain. I'd forget about the magic, the promise of a wish. I'd forget about yearning for something that might never come true, and having faith in something such as a well of water to make me happy again.
Instead, I'd walk past the center each day, and simply smile at the kids tossing their money to the statues. I'd walk on, without a second glance.
Just pennies, right? Nothing but pennies, and wishes....
* * *

It is December, of the year 1970.
I am sitting at a desk of cherry.
The lights are dim.
I am thinking about nothing.
Just sitting, and trying to remember Hughie Jackson's laugh.
I remember hating him for a minute, on the night of my wedding. But moments later, forgiving him, and loving him more than ever. I remember how I smelled like whiskey as I said my vows, and how terrible the minister must have thought me.
I remember when we were kids, playing war in the streets.
Hughie would never be so serious as the times when we were playing war. Never did his face grow so determined, than the times when he held the toy gun to the sky.
His mother cried, when she found out he was going to fight, for real.
“They need me in 'Nam, ma. I need to protect this country.”
I remember standing in their doorway, staring at the tile floor, as she fell to her knees and took his hands in hers.
“Hugh, please...I can't let you go...don't...don't leave me...”
His father, rigid and thoughtful, just shook Hughie's hand, and nodded his head.
“It's your duty to fight, son.”

I wonder now, if Hughie's father regrets those words. Regrets allowing his only son to risk his life as he did.
I wonder how his mother is holding up. I hope she doesn't dwell on the looming bleakness of it all. I hope she tries, no matter how hard it is, to remember Hughie's laugh among all other things, as I am trying to do, now.
Because my best friend had a great laugh. Loud, booming, jovial....
His wife, Nancy, once said that Hughie's laugh was most infectious when he was drunk. When he was wasted, he was the happiest man in the world. He loved everyone, and all he wanted was for the world to be the perfect landscape of his dreams.
When he was sober, he was much more serious. He cared more about things like the future, the government...the war.
The war that took his life...

And when I think this way, when I think about how this war took the life of my best man, I find it hard to remember just the laugh. I have to remember everything else.
I have to remember the way he never pointed his toy guns at people, like the other boys, for he somehow understood the strange gravities of death that none of us could have possibly grasped at such a young age. I have to remember the way he believed marriage was a sin, until he met Nancy Warner, and his life was changed forever.
I'd have to remember the sound of his sobbing mother, as he left for the war that would end his contagious laugh, once and for all.

These are memories I want to remember for as long as I live.
Because if I forget them...I...
***

October fifth, 1983, six twenty nine PM...
I hold her in my arms, inhaling the scent of her hair, her perfume.

Six thirty three...
I let tears fall over her. I let them them roll into my ears, and drown me.
I take her hand, and I feel it...I feel her squeezing back. Just the slightest, little squeeze.
“I love you, Anna Rosetta Davies. I will always, always love y---”
“Jacob...” Her eyes blink open, slightly, pouring into me.
“Thank you...for listening to all of my...” She takes a breath. “my wishes...all the pennies I threw to that fountain, asking for you...”
I stroke her hair, my tears soaking her chest.
Please God. Please...
“Thank you, my love...for answering those wishes.”

And I kiss her for the last time.
I finally understand what it means to rely solely on a single hope.

***
It is July, of the year 1990.
I am an old man, sitting atop a wooden bench amid a crowd of young people, on the hottest hour of the dog days. I'm wearing a sweater of course, even as the sun threatens to burn us all to ash, for the doctors claim I'm getting colder as I age.
Funny...how nurses and doctors are always so young, yet they think they're wiser than the old timers?
And so, I'm sweating in my autumn garb, as the jubilant faces around me yell out to the scantily clothed bodies surrounding them, tossing Frisbees and colorful, inflatable balls through the summer sky.
One woman stands out to me. Her manor is simple, yet as she strides, thoughtlessly, across the park, she emits a sort of charm and aura that I long since believed had been lost in the days of the Great War. However, in a world as modern as it is, this woman carries herself with the strength and ingenuity of a woman borne unto an entirely different, older generation. One I wish, more than anything, that I could still remember. If I could just dig it up, from the deeps of me...
She is young, but her face says she is older. Her long strands of knotted brown hair whip around the strong contour of her face, making her squint her deep, brown eyes. She wears denim shorts, the kind I might envy on days such as today, when I'm feeling especially old and especially warm. However, like me, this girl wears a sweater. The long, flowing kind that buttons in the middle, and would fall past her hips, if she weren't hugging it so tightly to her torso, as if afraid of being chilled.
“Aren't you warm, miss?” I venture as she strides closer to me, her back straight with a sort of broken, ambling indignation I find stunningly admirable. Her young eyes meet my old ones, for a moment, and she allows her face to relax.
“I'm afraid I can't feel it much, any more...” With this, her jaw hardens, and she tugs the sweater tighter to her chest. As she begins to continue her walk, I call out again.
“Miss, It'd be a right crime to leave a lonely old man with a statement like that, and no explanation.” I smile, and to my great satisfaction, the girl sits next to me on the bench. I watch as she blows strands of hair from her eyes, as she tightens her hold on that sweater.
“How old are you, miss?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen. This is a surprise. She looks so much older, her face so much wiser...
“What's your name?”
“...My name's...” Hesitation surfaces in her eyes.
“Don't worry, honey, I'm no harm. Just an old man, with no one to talk to.”
The girl smiles, looking up at me for the first time since she sat down.
“My name's Leah. Leah Jones.” She said, with softened eyes.
“What's your story, Leah Jones?”
A question mark expanded it's dance in her dark eyes, her eyebrows raising slightly.
“I'm sorry, sir...it's..” She laughed, humorlessly. “I'm afraid it's a long story. One you might not really want to hear.”
I take her soft, delicate hand in both of my clumsy, wrinkled ones.
“I do, Miss. I really do. Give me a story I might remember, even when I've forgotten everything else.”
Leah Jones takes a breath, and I see the uneasiness of her approach tumble to nothing as she relaxes her shoulders.
“I'm pregnant.” She says, staring straight ahead, at nothing at all. I say nothing, for I sense that the general response to statements such as these have all been worn out by now.
Meaningless congratulations.
...A baby! How sweet!....Though, we all know that with a girl this young and innocent, “Sweet” will never be the word. Excitement will never be the emotion.
After a pause, she continues.
“I haven't graduated yet. I've missed important tests countless times, because something else is always a little more important...”
She hesitates. “My mom kicked me out, after I told her about the baby.”
Another pause, and I see a silent, single tear slip down the outline of her cheekbone.
“Where are you staying?” I whisper, squeezing her hand for comfort. “Was your boyfriend understanding?”
She lowers her head, staring into her lap, and clutching her sweater.
“There...there's no boyfriend. He left me a few weeks ago, just before I found out I was..I was...” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I slept in my car. I'm fine.”
“You're not fine, little girl. You're lost.”
“But It's odd, isn't it? That I'm so lost, yet I'm no more than a mile from home?” She laughs, sadly, squishing her toes into the soil at our feet.
“No, little girl. It makes perfect sense. Sometimes we feel so at home, when we're so far away. And other times, home is where we lose ourselves most.” I smile at her. “Your relationship with your mother? What's it like?”
“She's...not the most supportive role in my life, no. She used to be the smartest, prettiest mom in the world. Now she's the mom none of my friends can meet. She's too far gone, most of the time...”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
The warm air blows the hair from her face, and sends ripples through my sweater, though she only pulls hers closer to her.
“Do you love your mother, Leah?”
She hesitates, pulling on a loose string at the hem of her shorts.
“I used to.”
“And why not anymore?”
“Because she doesn't love me back.”
“That can't be true, little girl...”
“She doesn't want a screw up daughter, knocked up before she's even out of high school. No mother wants that.”
“Of course no mother plans imperfection, but they don't stop loving their child when fate takes its toll.”
“I stopped believing in fate a long time ago, sir.”
I squeeze her hand, arching my neck into the smoldering sun. “May I ask why that is?”
“Because it's always wrong. Fate told me that the father of this baby would love me until the end of time. Fate lied, and said that I would live the perfect life, never hitting a single bump in the road. Fate lied when he said that this baby was a good thing, that I should be proud. 'It's fate!' it whispered, and I believed it. But it wasn't fate, sir, it was a mistake.”
Another tear rolls into her hair, and I stare at this girl before me. Never in my life, in all of the---how long has it been?---years that I've been breathing, have I met a girl as strong, and brave as the one before me. Early on, I learned that people see strength most in you, when you, yourself, are feeling weakest.
“Look, I'm sorry for dumping all of this on you, sir. I really need to get going...” She stands to leave, but I take hold of her hand, making her look at me, still perched on the bench.
“Fate doesn't make mistakes, Leah.”
She stares at me, her dark, captivating irises pouring into mine. Finally, I loosen my grip, and she lowers her hand to her waist. With a blink, a breath, and a final “Thank you, sir...”, she straightens her back, and turns to leave.
“Miss?”
She turns, a few feet away.
“Take this. A penny for your thoughts.”
She hesitates, tilting her head, pondering my notions, before gently taking the coin from my fingers.
With a final, questioning blink, Leah Jones disappears from my old, tattered life, leaving her young story here, on a bench of oak and iron, with an old man she'd never met before.
****

It is November, of 1991.
I'm staring through the gaps in the trees, at the clouds as they pass the little world below. I try to become a kid again, to stare at the clouds and imagine I see a bunny, or a lion. But all I see are oversized cotton balls, signaling the onslaught of rain.
When I was a boy. I must have loved to stare at the clouds. I wonder if I had a lover...one who loved to make pictures in the sky....
The sounds of crying, of despair, reach my ancient ears, and I tilt my head to find the source. There...beneath the maple tree. A man. Glasses, rumpled brown hair, head in his hands.
He is crouched low, in the dirt, beneath a canopy of star shaped leaves.
“Come here, young man.”
Slowly, he raises his neck, and his eyes meet mine. He tries to wipe the redness from irises, but fails, straightening his glasses.
“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to bother you.”
I shake my head, and pat the empty space next to me.
“No, no, sir. It is I who should apologize for intruding on a man's emotions.” I smile, and to my delight, the man sits next to me on the bench, running his hands through his hair.
“Why so sad, young man?”
The man raises his head and looks at me, full in the face. I see the pain, the desperation in the lines of his skin.
“My son...just...” he takes a breath, blinking. “He was a beautiful child. He had his mothers eyes, and the hair of his grandfather...there was this lock in the back that never quite stayed flat.” The man laughs quietly to himself, emerged in memories of a day so much brighter than the darkness of the present.
“He was killed by a drunk driver, two hours and fourteen minutes ago. He was sixteen years, and twenty four days old. I still looked the same to me, as he did the day he was born...same face...same smile...”
The man rubs his temples, the tears of memory flooding the rims of his glasses. I pat his back, aimlessly trying to console a man who would never truly heal.
“I once had a dream” I begin. “of a young boy who went away to war.”
The man looks at me, waiting for a story that will distract him, for a moment, from his heartache.
“I don't know if I'm remembering clearly, of course, dreams are often foggy....but if I'm right, this young man lived his last days in a place very far from home, dressed in the costume of a decorated soldier. He mailed a letter, his final letter, to his mother just hours before his death. He told her not to cry for him, if his time should come before he had a chance to see her again.”
The man pleads, his head in his hands again. “That's impossible, sir. He was my only son....”
“He said, 'tears don't fix anything. Let yourself live, and I'll do the same, in a place far away, where everything is so much better.”
The man lifts his head, looking me straight in the eye.
“Do you really believe that, sir? Do you think my boy is happy now?” He whispers, begging for answers to questions never truly fulfilled before.
“I do. I really do.”
He bites his lip, wiping the tears from his eyes, and smiling just the slightest.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Take this. A penny for your thoughts.” I bury the coin in the fold of his hand, before he can resist.
He hesitates, rolling the copper between his fingers, his eyes staring fixedly at the moldings...
And with a final glance, a heartbroken father is lifted, for just a moment, from a lifetime of grieving.

* * *

It is August, of 1993.
“Sir?”
I shake the sun from my tired eyes and look up at the woman in front of me.
I can't help but think I've seen her before...as if in a dream? She smiles as if she knows me, but I am fairly certain we are strangers.
I watch as she instinctively tightens her sweater around her waist. I know I've seen this done before, and it terrifies me that I cannot remember where...
“Um, you may not remember me, sir...my name is Leah? A few years ago, we spoke...here, on this bench, actually...” She fumbles with the sweater, and for the first time, I notice the small boy hanging onto her hand.
“This is my son, sir. William. He's two now.” She smiles, and tugs the little boy onto her hip. The perfect vision of a mother.
I grin at them. “Very good! He's really...really growing!” I exclaim. I cannot let on that I haven't the slightest idea as to who she is, though, part of me knows I do know. Somewhere in me, I know I've seen this girl...
“Faster everyday.” She says, tickling his belly. The child lets out a laugh, flinging his chubby arms around his mothers neck.
I know I had a wife, and I know I had two children...
I hope my kids were this adorable. I hope my wife was the best mother in the world...
But, painfully....I cannot remember....

“Anyway...” Starts the girl before me. Her dark hair is in her face, swimming in the summer wind. “I just wanted to say thank you. For what you told me...three years ago...I...you really helped me.” And she turns to leave, with a final smile, bouncing her baby on her hip.
“You're very welcome, Miss. Take care of that baby, now.”
She walks on...and I die a little bit more inside.
Life's been moving far too fast lately...
Everything I pass, is nothing but a blur.

It is September, of the year 2005.
I'm sitting on my bench again. I've grown quite accustomed to the familiarity of the oak beneath me, the soil as the wind sprays it across the tops of my loafers
“Sit down, son. Right here.”
I motion to the young man hovering over me, patting the empty space next to me, maneuvering my cane, carefully, into the hollow between my knees, so as to make room on the bench.
He raised his eyebrows in dismay, as young people often do, before airily joining me amid the bench of oak and iron. He had a baseball cap positioned backwards on his head, a tuft of bleached yellow hair peeking out from the adjustable strap on his forehead. I pondered what color his hair really was, beneath the chemicals and the backwards hats. “Turn your hat around, boy. That's no way to wear a ball cap.”
The boy snorted loudly, shaking his head.
“I don't answer to you.” He stated jovially. “What do you want, anyway? You some kind of stalker?”
I shrugged his ignorance from my ears, tapping my knees with my crippled fingers, dwindling the foam handle of my cane.
“No, son, I just wanted to ask you a question...”
He feigned interest arrogantly, resting his chin in his hands and staring up at me, expectantly.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Well I don't got all day.”
“Oh? And where is it you'd rather be?”
A snort, a laugh, a scoff.
I stretch my hand to the boy, a single copper coin open in my palm.
“A penny for your thoughts, son...”
He laughed uproariously, standing to leave, tossing a crumpled beer can at the ground ever so close to my aching feet as he began to tromp away, to wherever it was he believed life was to be lived.
He was no more than a boy. His chin was still as soft and smooth as a child's, his face still round as the baby his mother still saw in him, somewhere.
Somewhere lost behind the facade of a man in the midst of life's great games. Behind his mask, his grand exterior of untouchable power, there cowered a child, in this young man. A child who hid behind the shadows of the monster under his bed, whose mother was the everlasting angel of his nightmares.
A kid who thought life was nothing but a game. A game where you always get a second chance, and the only thing that mattered, in the long run, was the race to the finish line.
In this particular young man, that child crept willingly from the shadows, standing in plain sight with every hesitation of his future host. Every time he was caught off guard, every time he allowed himself to feel anything more than the cookie cutter feelings of this new society, the child he used to be would peek from behind his shoulder, yearning for help.
Saying, “Help me. It's gotten terribly dark in here.”
I see something in the child this boy once was....an aching sense of familiarity I cannot place. Something in his stature...the way he walks with confidence that some might mistake as arrogance. Something in his eyes....
The child in this boy reaches out, grasping the coin.
The future this child will one day become, the present he's shattered himself to be, just walks away. He slaps the tattered, tobacco stained hands of his comrades, and continues on his way, burying that cowering child of his past even deeper into the shadows.
A hand reaches out from behind him, nothing but the ghost of bone of flesh. The hand of a yearning little boy, of whom, somehow, I know I've seen before, scared of what he'll become...
But I'm nothing but a tired old man, who sees things that are best kept hidden.
And I'm sorry, son, but you're too far away now for me to reach...
“Too far gone, most of the time...”
The voice comes to me as if from a distant dream. One I think I dreamed, some time, but can't...can't remember....

Everything gets foggier, when we grow older. Everything runs too fast, and doesn't dare wait for us to catch up.
The earth spins on...
And on...
I get dizzier every day.

* * *

it is April, 2007.
I am walking, shakily. My hands are purple as I squeeze the rubber handles of my walker with all of my lasting strength.
I know where I'm trying to go, but I struggle to remember how to get there. I've had countless dreams of this place. Dreams of a beautiful woman, explaining what it means to rely on a wish. Dreams of small children tossing their coins to the water. Dreams of love, and pictures in the clouds, and pennies for our thoughts.
When I approach the fountain, I am overwhelmed. I've been here, in dreams. In reality, however...everything is so much heavier. I feel it all. Right here, right now. And I hope I might remember this, the weight of it all. Of a past I know is there...but can't remember, for the very life of me.
“Here sir, let me help you!” A woman of about fifty approaches me, stretching her arms around the handles of my walker, and guiding me to a seat on the marble of the fountain.
“Thank you very much, dear.” I position my legs to a suitable position, and stare at the foggy waters of wishes.
“Of course! Come to make a wish?” the woman comes and sits next to me, gazing into the water.
“I suppose so...perhaps I came more for the memories, than the future.” I carefully lower my fingers to the water, ruining the reflection of a crippled old man I know cannot be me.
The woman smiles. “I understand, sir.” She says softly, patting my hand. “I do the same thing, sometimes.”
It is silent for a moment, aside from the whistling noises of life in the winds around us, and we both stare at the thousands of pennies beneath us.
It'd be a crime to touch them, I know. A right crime. No one has the right to disrupt a wish as it floats.
I dig around in my pocket, and find a penny in my pea coat's pocket. I toss it to the fountain, opening my eyes only when I hear the sound of it hitting the water. I watch as it floats for a moment, before sinking heavily to the bottom of the pool with a quiet chime. It sits there now, heads up, sealing my wish to the fountain floor, forever.
“What'd you wish for?” The woman ventures.
“I wished that tomorrow, today would be more than a distant dream I can hardly surface.”

* * *

It is....i believe it is the year 2010....or is it not, anymore?
I lie in a bed of stiff white sheets, listening to the sounds of beeping.
Beeping and whispers, in the hallway.
Beeping, whispering, haunting silence.
“That's impossible. He was very wealthy... he had a sack of one hundred dollars in coins, that he kept under his bed. He never spent it, that I cant remember...will that cover the expenses? For now?”
I hear a voice I've head in many of my cloudy dreams, whispering about me to a man inn glasses and an ironed white coat.
“There's no money. I'm sorry, we've checked...he can't afford...”
“That's not...that makes no sense. He promised he wouldn't spend that money until...he said he'd spend it only on the right things...”
“He doesn't have insurance, son. There's no money in his bank account. We've checked his house, and found only dollars. I'm sorry---”
The younger man, the one I know from somewhere, bursts into the room, plastering his stern face with a false smile.
“Dad, are you awake?”
I open my eyes, and look at him. Dad? This can't be my son...my son is just a boy...he's in the yard, right now. Playing with blocks...
“Dad, do you remember that sack of coins you saved? Where is it?”
I study him, the lines of his face, beneath his eyes...
Is this really my son? How could I have lived my entire life, barely even knowing he'd lived out there, too, somewhere? Did he have children? Was I a grandfather, perhaps? This couldn't be my so----
“Listen to me, dad.” He takes my hands, and stares me in the eye. His mothers eyes...i do remember them, now...just the faint memory of her blue, blue eyes...
“Dad, you're in the hospital. We need you to remember where you put that money. You can't afford this...”
I shake my head, looking my son in the eyes, trying to sort the countless years of my life in a single moment.
It's dizzying, life is. It's so, so hard to keep track of every minute. One second, you're lying on the grass, talking about your dreams with the love of your life. The next minute, she's gone, and she's left you with nothing more than her body. She took the light with her. The light you loved about her.
You'll be playing catch with your son, your knees still capable of holding you up. The next time you blink, you'll open your eyes to find yourself in the crowd of his wedding day. People he loves surround you...but you can only name few of them. Who are these people God's blessed you with? Why can't they stop talking, buzzing, screaming...tell them to quiet down. I can only handle so much...I'm getting dizzy....
“Dad? Dad...”
“A Penny for your thoughts, because fate doesn't make mistakes...”
I squeeze the hand of the son I once knew, and try to make him understand that no matter how hard I try, I can't see him. I can't focus on him...he's moving so fast...
“A penny for your thoughts, don't cry for me....”
“Stop moving, son. Slow down...slow down...”
“Dad, no! Not...don't..daddy, please...”
And I stroke his hand, a final time. I'm sorry I couldn't remember you until now. I wish I had more faith in my dreams, son...I love you...
And I let go, of my perch on this earth.
“A penny for your thoughts, Son...” And I hope he heard me. I hope he catches the coin I've thrown down to him. I hope he knows that's all we need, in this world.
Just pennies. Just wishes.

* * *

Heaven is warm, so don't bother bringing a jacket.
It is calm, and full of the perfect music. Make sure you bring open ears.
I met St. Peter at the Golden Gates, and he smiled at me. He asked me why I deserved a place in the holy choir, and I told him it was because it was fate, and fate never makes mistakes. I told him I belonged in heaven, because I understood he meaning of a dream. I understood that hope is everything.
And with a bow, he stepped aside.
A tipped him a penny. A penny for his thoughts.

Within the lapse of my first weightless step, I was enveloped in a lifetime of memories. I felt the arms of my wife, her arms around my neck. I felt my heart twist, the first time I held my child in my arms. I felt pain, and love, and joy, and sadness, and every feeling ever hatched.
And it was beautiful.
These moments were worth forgetting, I understand now. Because they mean so much more to me. They feel so much more substantial against my soul, as they press and they laugh...and I hug them close to me. So close...

* * *

And now, I sit down against the edges of the fountain I now know was always more than just a dream, surrounded by the people of my life on earth, with me now. Eternally.
Hughie is here, unscathed and dressed in the uniform of his glory days. He smiles, he laughs, the infectious laugh he only laughed in drunkenness on earth, but laughs forever now, in heaven.
My lovely wife is here, holding my hand. She is beautiful as the day I met her, and she smells gloriously of the whiskey on her wedding gown, on that day so many years ago.
Before us, stands the figure of a young man, not a day over sixteen. His hair sticks up in the back, and he smiles at a pleasure unknown to all but his own young heart.
“Thank you, Jacob, sir.” He says with a grin, addressing me. “It hurt more than I can ever describe, to watch my father crying for me. You're the only one who helped him to heal.”
And the boy, an everlasting glimmer of life in his eternally young eyes, hands me a penny.
“Just a penny, sir, for the thousands of other pennies you've spent saving souls on Earth.”
We smile, at the follies of humanity, of wishes, and we stare into the waters of the well.

* * *

In the water, mourners dressed in black gather around a simple, mahogany coffin. Some cry...but most of them smile, at the secrets of their memories.
I smile, too. I finally remember them. Each and every one of them.

One girl, in a long sweater stands to speak.
“My name is Leah.” She smiles, and drops a familiar penny into the coffin. “He gave me this on the one time we ever spoke. It was a brief meeting, in the square. But he helped me so much more than I'll ever be able to really understand.”
Her son, now a man, stands next to her, gazing down at me. I remember the time we spoke. He was younger, grungier. He didn't quite understand, then, what it meant to live. But I can tell that he does now. He looks happier.
Leah wraps her arm around her son, and after her, I am lulled back to Earth as hundreds of souls I knew approached the alter, dropping my pennies to the spaces next to me, thanking me for listening to them, when no one else would.
I watch, as faces I remember from all those interactions on the park bench flood back to me. Teenage girls, heartbroken, and saved by my pennies, my open ears.
Distraught mothers and fathers, consoled by my small expenses.
I never knew, then, what was happening.
A day after I met these people, I would forget them. I would forget their faces, but I would remember their stories, even though I'd forgotten everything else entirely. I would think they were nothing but imaginative dreams, stealing my soul in the depths of the night.
But instead, they were the stories of the 10,000 pennies I dispersed to various wanderers during my time on Earth. Even when I lost my mind, when I forgot everything, hundreds of people in the world remembered me. They remembered me as the man who saved them, with nothing but listening ears and a few coins.
They cost me nothing. I lost no money on behalf of these people.
No, I lost nothing...I gained everything. I gained stories I would remember, even when I forgot everything else.

And now, in heaven, surrounded by those most dear to me, I drop a final penny in to the well of wishing. It's a penny of thanks, thanks for the memories. For the full life I lived during my time there. It's a penny for the bottom of every wishing well in the entire world, reminding us that hope is the only answer. That a wish is worth more than anything else, and that fate, however, troubling, never makes mistakes.
It is a penny for the souls I've met, and for the souls I will now remember forever. They think I've helped them...but really, they're the only reason I lived as long as I did. They're the reason I hung on to the rungs of the latter of life for so long. The reason I still listened to my dreams, clinging, knowing they were the reason I was who I was.
This final, little thing I drop to Earth, to take my place in the world, when I've moved on...
Is nothing but a penny. Just a penny for your thoughts.

Date a Girl Who Reads: Rosemarie Urquico

2011-03-15T18:39:00.000-07:00

I didn't write this, it's actually a pretty well known peice throughout the internet. I found it on Shelfari, and absolutely Fell in love with it. IT applies to my life so perfectly. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Date a Girl Who Reads
Rosemarie Urquico

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Time is Ticking

2011-03-15T17:51:00.000-07:00

Another old picture prompt that I've uncovered in the ruins :)
I really love this one...intendd to be read like a conversation at first, but then a poem.

Show me the way, dear.
I'm lost.
Why?
took the wrong road.
could you see?
i was blind.
can i guide you?
hands are full, dear.
can i carry that?
no one can.
is it heavy?
more so with each tick.
tick?
and tock.
tell me, ma'am, what do you hold?
everything.
and everything has blinded you?
everything has killed me.
is it life, under there?
it's death under here.
is it hate under there?
its a little love under here.
does it burn? under there?
it's so cold under here.
again, ma'am, can i help?
if you must.
but how?
just slow down.
but i have to move forward.
you're killing me with every step.
should i take a step backward?
that's worse.
what, then?
stay still.

ma'am, what is it you hold?
its the world i hold.
is it heavy?
to me.
is it light?
to you.
can i see it?
on the wall.
does it sing?
it ticks.
is it time?
it's time.
can i hold it?
you can't.
may i try?
you're not strong enough.
i will hold out my arms, and i'll use all my might.
your might can't bear the burden, dear.
you said it was light, to me.
but light is relative.
either way, i am strong. i can hold it.
you cannot. its more than you.
more than me?
more than us.
more than us?
more than everything you've ever known, dear.
now hush.
yes, hush.
while i tell you a story.

When time was a child
when Eden was green
i could carry this with me.
and it was so easy.
so easy.
i could toss it
turn it
and it would always come back.
back to my waiting hands.
but one day, when i was small
i threw time too far
and time was too weak to rebound.
i searched for it, that part of this
but time had run away.
into the sky, my heart flew up
and upon it a new face was born.
it was white, it was black
it was numbers and scars
and as the sun dove, it started to sing.
tick tock
tick tock
tick tock went the world,
you're running out of me.
and no matter how far, how far i reached
time was always just one step ahead.
and now, i carry the ghost of the world
of the world where all was serene.
i carry a picture
a poem
a song
a portrait of what could have been
had i slowed down and not moved too fast.
i carry the shred of the peace we aim
the peace i threw to the stars.
you blame your misfortune on nature and science
but I, i blame it on me.
for i am the hands that hold your hearts,
the hands that make your spirits shrink.
i'm the fingers that clutch you, when time's running out
and i tell you to hurry, hurry on.
and i lie, i lie to you, because i want you to slow
the movement is tearing me down.
and as your feet run faster, my heart, it beats slower
tick
tock....
tick
tock...
tick tock.

and its heavy under here, where my heart should be.
its heavy, the burden's i'm blessed.
and no matter how strong, how brave you may be,
you will never be just strong enough.
so close your eyes
close your waiting arms.
i've nothing to give you today, dear.
but next time you move, so fast as to run
just remember these hands
these hands hanging on
to everything time's laughing down at.
they hang on to follies your nimble hearts scoff
and when yours weak, they only grow stronger.
because no matter how brave
no matter how strong
time is a burden
untouched.

Sit Down Beside Me

2011-03-15T17:47:00.000-07:00

Wrote this a while back, as a YWG picture prompt. It really means a lot to me...I think if you read into it, you'll see yourself here, too.

Sit Down Beside Me

Here we go.
let's sing, while i tell you about a time when all was right.
a face in the mirror, looking back, knowing all...
just a reflection.

the face, outside of her
unknowing, and lost.
thought she knew it all, thought all was calm.
she was wrong, all was waiting.

all, is what we call everything.

everything we have.
everything we know.
everything we are

and i'm nothing, nothing but an empty face, in an empty soul....
standing beside an empty chair.

before i lost my all, i would speak to that face in the mirror.
i would sing to her, raise my voice. let it ring.
and she always sang back.

high cheekbones.
gone.
sparkling eyes her daddy praised.
gone.
pink lips that boy across the street once carressed.
missing.

and so i can no longer sing, to the face in the mirror.
i can no longer hear the sound.
i can no longer watch as she studies me...
wish this would change...wish this was different...

pieces that are left of my all, they're not beautiful enough to survive without you.
not beautiful enough....
not giving their All.
because they've lost it all.

and so i wait beside this empty chair, in the middle of the road where i left you behind.
and i sing a new kind of song, a wordless song, that is louder than you will ever comprehend.
and between the ringing verses, i pray to a forgotten savior, that you'll hear me.
i miss my all.
miss everything i am...
was.

when i threw it all away, just like everyone else.

beneath this generation, there sits a big, gray box.
rummage around, see what you like.
it's got everything we got rid of. what we say we detest.
i want that back, please. that belongs to me.

and so i dig around, and i pry through the missing pieces of everything.
but i can't find a single thing, that ever belonged to me.
just me.
not her.
not them.
because all i ever had, i threw away.

like an old pair of socks.

like a rotting apple.

like the face they said was not beautiful enough.

and so,
here we go.
let's sing.
and i'll breathe into you the story of one faceless girl among millions, who threw herself away.
the others whispered her name in scorn, not seeing anything but invisible perfection.
invisible disgrace.
because this faceless girl was once very beautiful, and very full.
but her hungry heart once told a lie, to the being to whom it mattered most,
the face in the mirror.

and now, she stands alone, in the middle of the road where she threw it all away.
she grasps the back of a rusting chair in her haggard fingers.
and she tries, now, with her all
with her everything she's got left...
to tell the truth, to the face she lied to.
in hopes that someday, it'll come back.
come back to this chair,
and
sit down beside me, please.
I miss my all.
miss everything i was.

come sit down beside me.
i'll sing again.
i'll show them, that i'm perfect, just the way i was.
i won't need this big gray box.
but i'll need your help climbing out of it.
it's a big box, understand.

and together, me and my everything can sit down in this chair.
sit beside me.
and we'll sing a new kind of song.
one that will carry us out of this.
to a new path, not the middle of the road.
a path where we will find, and not loose.
and i'll never let go of this.
not ever again.
i'd miss my all.
everything i am.
gonna sing now.
sing along, my heart, if you hear me.

so,
here we go...

Top of His List

2011-03-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

I was digging through a bunch of my older stuff, and found this.

it was september fourth, 1920.
the sky was the shade of blue that was almost gray, the air around us seeming to be filled with a dusty smoke, making everything seem a little dirty, a little worn. a little tired.
like the people beneath it.
we were all a little tired, when you thought about it.
all except for me. i was restless, i was young, i was proud...i was lost.
like all children do at some point in their lives, i'd ran a little too far away from home.
it was just a game, i like to say.
and momma's voice, scared and crying out for me...
just made the race more real, more exciting.
i'll be home by dinner, ma!
but i wouldn't.
i should've said goodbye.

i was just eleven years old. i was young, i was lost, i was confused.....
and i didn't know where i was.
i'd lost my path.
i'd lost my trail.
i couldn't hear momma's voice anymore...though she was still screaming for me.
miles and miles away.
and she'd still be screaming, up until the day when her time came, too, and she saw me again.

you see, Jesus had been watching out for me, my whole life. i was a good little girl, always helped momma with the dishes, always fed the animals with Daddy, even when he didn't ask. i tried not to fight with my two older brothers, and i did my best at school.

but the lord has a big book, said the reverend Markus one day at church, and in that book, he makes a very long list. all of our names are on that list, he said, scribbled down in the lord's ancient hand. some of us are closer to the top, he admonished, so we better be careful.
but i don't think we can change where our names are on that list.
i don't think good behavior, vigilant eyes, have anything to do with the order he puts us in.
and no matter how well behaved i was, no matter how kind, how smart i was, i would always be at the top of that list, farther to the top than my friends and my family, farther to the top than a little girl should have to be.
and i couldn't change that, for it was the lord's will.

so i laugh as i amble towards the river. i didn't know Jesus was watching me closely...
i didn't know i'd never come back out.

it was just a game. just a game...
and the farther i pushed on, the more fun it became.

"don't worry!" momma laughed, as she fastened the vest tighter around my chest. "with this on, not even your neck will have the chance to go under. you're perfectly safe, sweet pea."
i wasn't so sure. "but, momma, if i drown--"
"you won't drown, honey. hush!"
"but momma if i did! would you catch me, momma?"
and she leaned down and kissed my forehead, staining my white skin with rose petal lipstick.
"I'll catch you."

i smile as i remove my shoes and socks, not bothering with my dress. its dirty already, like everything on the farm. it could use a nice wash.
at first, its all fresh. it's all sweet. it's all cool.
it's a rush.
it's a song.
it's...

it's a crash.
and i'm spiraling down.
down.
farther down...

will you catch me, momma? will you catch me!?

my dress is spinning.
my feet are caught.
my hair is tangled and..
im so far from home.

"where's my little girl!? where is she!?!?" but no one hears my momma's voice. no one's listening. "she'll be back, honey. come on, let's eat. she knows her way home." but Daddy's wrong.
i'm so lost.
i'm so lost!
but momma can't hear me, so she sits down at the table, and she eats the tasteless meal she made herself...but all she sees is my dinner plate next to hers.
full and untouched.
still hot.
but getting cold.
and i won't have the chance to eat it before bed tonight.

my eyes open, one last time, and i pray to the lord above.
"tell me, Jesus, is this my time? am i at the top of your list?"
but i hear no answer.
i see no proof.
all i see is blackness, another wave, another crash...
and i see a puff of air escape my lungs, a burst, an explosion..
and my momma isn't here to catch me
so i fall
and i drown
and i'm lost.

and i'll never find my way home again.
and i'll never eat the dinner momma made for me.
and i'll never
i'll never live again...

"goodbye momma, goodbye daddy...

and now i lay me down to sleep
i pray the lord my soul to keep.
and if i die before i wake
i pray for God my soul to take.

...and Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
When in the morning light I wake,
Teach me the path of love to take.

and now i lay
me down
to sleep.
i pray the lord
my soul
to keep....

another word, another prayer, another verse.
maybe they'll hear me.
maybe they'll come and save me.
pull me out.
bring me back...

or maybe i'll fall deeper, and i'll only see the lord.
and so i'll sing very loud this time, because i want him to sing with me.

so now i lay me down to sleep...

and pray the lord my soul to keep...

and now there are two voices, even more, a choir of angels singing with me...

Guard me Jesus through the night...

And wake me with the morning light...

and so i take his hand, because i'm at the top of his list.

There Is Always Hope

2011-03-15T17:22:00.000-07:00

A lot of you may remember this peice from a Young Writer's Group Picture Prompt, many months ago. I've always really loved this piece, so I decided I'd post it. Thanks!

"don't go, Sissy. don't go."
i watched as life began to flicker, as her breath saw its last glimpses of the earth. her pale skin, her bergundy hair, her pointed nose...
shattered.
sick.
missing.
lost.
wher are you going, sissy? why aren't you taking me with you?
but she only looked at me, her black eyes vacant and unseeing, her thin fingers lingering over her chest as long, maroon curls fell over her eyes, sweat forcing them to stick to her skin.
she'd die that way.
sick.
sick and unclean.
uncleansed...
i kneel beside her. i'm confused and i don't understand. where was Retta going? where was my big sister, my only companion, the only soul i trusted...where was she going?
i reach over and clutch her big hand in my small one, hanging on for dear life.
i won't let go, sissy.
won't let go.
won't let go.
But i must, sometime. that's what the doctors said, when daddy died four years ago, when i was only two.
"you'll see him again someday, little one." they always whispered, with sad, gloomy eyes, to Retta as she held me, protected me...loved me when no one else did.
but i didn't want to wait that long. want to see her now. want to see her now...
"Sissy?"
she is wrapped in a torn woolen blanket, hidden against the wall of an abandoned, graffitied building.
her eyes flutter, lost and confused as the sea of saneness drowns her in its grasp of insanity.
"don't go sissy. don't leave me here, i'm scared!"
i wanted her to respond, i wanted her to hug me close, and tell me all would be okay.
but all was ending.
all was not okay.
because she was all i ever had.
hot tears pave fresh streets down my grimy cheeks, slipping down the front of my muddy white dress.
and then
i squeeze my sisters hand
one more time
one last time
last time.
miss you, sissy.
not letting go.
love you sissy.
please don't go!
and she squeezes back, just slightly, just barely...a gossamer touch. a dream. a folly. i wish. a prayer ungranted.
and then she heals, for just a moment.
she leaves the filthy brown blanket.
she walks fnatastical streets with me, a yellow brick road.
we share the biggest lollipops.
we sing the sweetest song.
"i love you, little one." she sings as she twirls me in her arms.
she buys me a red baloon.
the shape of a heart.
on a silver string.
and i hang on to that heart.
becuase she hangs on, too.
and as it flies, we fly with it as well.
and we're flying together.
but we have to go back. we have to go back to the dirty ally, the muddy building. we have to go back to the muddy brown blanket, and the tears, and the sick.
and she has to go back. she has to go back, back to the end.
"but it was a wonderful walk we shared, little one."
and i stroke her hand, because her skin's still warm.
and i kiss her nose, before it gets cold.
and i close my eyes, because i'm not gonna watch.
i'm not gonna watch.
not gonna watch...
"i love you, little one!" she sings to me, like we're walking down a golden road.
like we're living again.
together us both.
not just me.
not just the little one.
the unimportant one.
but i love her too, so i open my eyes, just to watch hers close.
and i watch as she grasps our red baloon.
and i see her tug on the silver string.
and i hold my breath as she flies away.
because that red baloon was all i ever had.
that red baloon held me in its arms when it rained.
told me stories and sang me songs when i was scared.
she tickled my tummy when i was hungry, so the pain went away.
and there was one day, when we held little pieces of chalk in our hands.
and we printed pretty words on the walls.
There is always hope.
and there were the times when the air began to leave my baloon.
and the color started to fade.
and the edges grew thinner, and weaker, and sicker...
and then, today
it flew away.
and no matter how hard i held on, that red baloon kept going. and it reaches heights i wasn't tall enough to reach. and it told me, it told me "honey, you have to let go now. you have to let go."
and so i said goodbye, to my red heart baloon.
and i began to fall back to here and now.
and as i passed the wall we'd written on, i heard my big sissy's voice in my ear.
There's always hope, she said.
there's always hope...

Friendship is a Seasaw

2011-03-15T17:13:00.000-07:00

This is another poem I wrote for English class, when I wrote People are Windows (below.)
Same goes for this...choppy and structured, so not my best :)
"Friendship is a Seasaw" was a provided prompt, so I wrote this about me and my best friend Lexie. When we were about twelve, we loved teeter totters, and joked about how awesome they were all the time. We had all this "inspiring" quotes about them and everything, so this prompt really stood out to me.

Thanks!

Friendship is a sea saw,
just like those simple ones
we adored so much as kids.
Then, they were nothing but plastic
mindless
time devouring enjoyment.
And the shake of all the ups, and the whirl of the downs
had us so dizzy, so dizzy, so dizzy
with the laughter of a game
we didn't really
understand.
And with every single up, we could count on just one thing
the coming, closing, demonic fall
that taunted us
from the sand beneath our feet.
And we would fall off, together
wrapped up in the blue sky
and the colors
and the laughs.
And nothing else mattered.
'cause we were together.
Forever.
But friendship, you see, is a sea saw.
And no matter how bright the mountaintop appears,
the grass will always be there below us
to catch us when we fall.
Some friends, don't last forever
some spend so long
so long
so long climbing...
that they forget about how perfect it is,
right there. Right now. On the way up.
And they rush
rush
rush and don't look back,
as the crumble to the ground again.
Because friendships are sea saws,
and sometimes, we get scared when we reach the top.
We search, with fatal efforts,
to touch our feet to the ground again.
And forget that the best of times
are those spent suspended
above everything, and everyone, who draws them down.
Friendships are sea saws,
but listen here, i've been blessed.
And I owe it all to one simple soul
who has shaped my very being,
more than you can guess.
And when i'm low, when my feet hit the bottom,
I can count on her, her reckless hands,
to fly me back up to the top.
Because friendship is a sea saw,
and no matter how low the down,
how high the up,
I think the ride is the part that matters,
and sometimes, we're all toddlers again,
and we wish the ride,
will never stop.
So, someday, when I reach the top,
I hope that you'll meet me there.
We could laugh again, dizzy and lost,
but nothing else will matter.
Because we'll have each other, and the lessons we had learned,
and we'll smile, and we'll hop back on the teeter totter,
because after all,
friend ship is a sea saw.

People Are Windows

2011-03-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

So, I wrote this for English class a few weeks ago.
The prompts were really choppy and precise, which I definitely never excell in :) However, I love my English teacher, so I tried to make her proud. This isn't as great as I wanted it to be, but...You know. :P
Thanks!

People are windows.
We're best when open,
Though we prefer to remain closed.
We are often looked at,
stared at,
idly seen,
noticed.
But not often are our curtains
fully spread.
We hide ourselves behind gossamer veils,
We keep ourselves shut inside, when all else fails.
And countless painted faces pass us
and spot us
and see us.
Blindly, of course.
Because people are windows.
And though we're only alive when open,
we prefer to remain closed.
We're scared to lift the wooden panes too far,
in fear they'll catch a glimpse.
We're horrified of what they'll see
of what they'll discover
when we open ourselves up.
We don't want them to see past the perfect paints
the velvet drapes
the tinted glass
we've labored so long to tarnish.
And now, as I walk these streets,
as the sun bends its aching neck,
I see that people are windows.
They think they're strong, and sturdy.
They think themselves to be the supporting foundation.
But really, they're very timid.
They never open.
Always closed...
forever, the supporting factor
to a house of a mortar much greater.
But when we remove the aging bricks
collapse the doorways
conformities,
to the ground,
we see that all that's left is the windows
the glass, shattered from the wreckage.
But still most prominent, you see
because windows are glass
and glass bends light
and hope
and faith.
And as they gather round to diminish the damage,
they will see themselves, staring back at them,
like the glass has eyes,
like the windows, are alive.
Because people are windows.
And we're so, so much better when we're open.
When the sun can swim inside of us
when our hearts have voice to sing.
But we're ignorant creatures, all the same
and we think it best to stay shut.
To lock out the chances
and the spirits
and the opportunities ahead of us.
But someday, I think we're all gonna figure out
that curtains only last so long.
That someday, the panes will give out,
and we'll be forced to break.
And maybe then,
when the glass is in pieces,
someone will come by and see us,
in the form of their own painted face,
and they will know that finally,
we know ourselves.
Because, in the end,
People are windows,
and we're best when open.

Like a Runaway Train: Desiderare Domus

2011-03-03T18:39:00.001-08:00

An excerpt of my novel in the authing, Desiderare Domus. This is an unfinished, unedited version of what will one day be the novel's climax.

~ ~ ~

The doors open, the luster of the grimy walls dancing amidst travelers and runaways, like the very light, the very hope at the end of the tunnel they so await.
There is a man, holding the hand of his lover, gazing far ahead, down the tracks, impatient.
There is a mother, careening her neck in every which way, searching for her roaming child.
There are students.
Teachers.
Artists.
Faimiles.
Photographers.
Lawyers.
Everyone wishing for an escape stands idly, the call of their refuge growing louder and louder as the time clicks on.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Amongst them, we find her.
Yes, there she is, coming through the station doors.
Her face is stained in unforgiving streaks of pink, and the blue of her eyes seem to be swimming so fast. So fast, i'm afraid, that sooner or later they may leak, and drown the girls sweet face in a swift flood of guilt, dismay, and salty tears.
Oh, I have a feeling she'd despise that. She was never one to gift her emotions to the rest of us.
Her long tangle of hair falls over her cheeks, in her eyes.
Her lip quivers, but she tells herself to steady it.
She says, in her mocking mind, "No, December. I won't let you cry. Not here. Not now."
Oh, the follies we believe in when we're young. The impractical way we assume we're actually in control of the emotions, the disgrace inside of ourselves. To be young again...
She scans the scene around her.
She cocks her head, much as she did when she was a child listening to the meaningless clicking of the clock on the wall.
Only this time, December Rose Juliet sought the passing of time in another noise: The shouts of the approaching train.
It's almost here, December.
Purchase your ticket, before it's too late.

She stumbles to the counter, her legs shaking violently beneath her as she breathlessly collpases infront of the ticketmaster.
He is old, rotund. His thinning hair is a perfect circle around the center of his scalp, and his glasses hang limpy from their perch on his crooked nose. He smiles. I smile. Does she see me?
"What'll it be, miss? The last train'll be pullin' in any second now. You're rather late, sweetheart."
"Please." She gasps. "Please."
She blows her violent black hair from her eyes, straightening her back.
"I need a---"
"One way ticket back to your heart?"
She pauses, gaining her breath.
Is she looking for me?
December, Sweety. Can you see me?
I'm so close.
Just...just grab my hand, and---
"I...listen, I just need to get out of here. You don't under----"
But as she speaks, the last train of the wasting night pulls into the terminal, smoke screaming slumsily from its mouth.
She turns back to the ticketmaster, pleading with her eyes.
"I...I just..."
"Get on the train, December." he says plainly. His eyes twinkle. His lips twitch into the faintest arch.
There we go, Sweety. You've finally found me.
Now come on.
Let's runaway.

She runs, leaping through throngs of travelers and ponderers, with eyes for nothing more than the vinyl seat she's been longing for her entire life.
I grab her hand, at the last second, and I hope. I hope she can feel it, and we run.
We run down the isles, we run down the hallways of December's little heart.
We pass innumerable seats, filled with faceless people she's been passing for as long as she can remember.
We pass a window, to our left. And even now, in the middle of the summer, snow falls outside the curtains.
December tilts her head, confused, but keeps running.
It's just snow, December. Just a snowflake. Is that alright?
We pass whole compartments filled with glassy eyed children, holding their stomachs in hunger and lust.
Do you know them, December?
Oh yes, that's right.
You're on of them.
We pass a man, weaving a basket of hemp and straw. He smiles wanly as we pass, but December closes her eyes as he approaches. Too many memories, too many nightmares.
We pass a little girl with blonde hair, staring at her comrade as he runs around the playground, playing army. and she begs him not to joke about such gravities. But he's just a kid, and he doesn't understand. He never will.
December stumbles, but i pull her right along.
Deep breaths, sweetheart, deep breaths...
We pass a young man in a red apron, tossing flour onto a circle of dough and spices. He's laughing, because he's finally happy here, making pizzas for those with no time for themselves. He's got all the time in the world.
We pass a police officer, crumpling and uncrumpling a peice of red construction paper in his hands, a lost and yearning look on his stern face.
December stares.
too many memories, too many nightmares.
And December Rose Juliet tries to hard to turn back now.
Too many memories, Too many nightmares.
But I pull her back, because at the end of this train, there's something I think she'll want to see.
We pass a little girl, with tangled black hair, and a tearstained face. she stares at the ceiling, her fists clench, praying to God for answers. For help.
December starts to fall, too lose her footing. We've run so far....
And finally...
We come to the end of the train, and there it is.
There lies, all December has ever had.
A stolen necklace, with a snowflake charm, gleaming from the floor where it lays in a blanket of dust at her feet.
There it is, December.
There's that stupid necklace that ruined your stupid life.
The one your mother stole for you, and was taken to jail for in return.
There's the necklace that tore you away from the only life you've ever known.
The necklace that forced you into lonliness, desperation.
It's the necklace you hates so much, but deep down inside, loved so much, too. Because it was the only thing you had to remind you of your mother, and your home. the only thing that kept your heart on the right track, even when the train was crashing...crashing...
It's the only thing you had when you were taken away from your home, and plunged into Desiderare Domus, a place where, for once, you finally felt happy.
And its the same necklace you had when even Domus thrust you away.
It's the necklace you were given the last time you ever saw your mother.
It is the necklace you threw out the window of a moving train three years ago, when you were angry at the clouds, and their race.

But listen here, December Rose Juliet.
This necklace is everything.
This necklace, is the very reason your story lives on.
without this, without this piece of stolen gold, your mother would still be with you.
your life will have gone forward, as planned.
you'd be happy...but you'd be hopeless.

The race only lasts so long, baby girl.
Sooner or later, the clouds will get tired, the sky will grow still, and your feet, they'll still be running.
You won't tire, Sweetheart, because of this necklace.
This stupid necklace.
If you have it in your hand, you'll keep running. Because, even if you don't realize it, you're hoping to find something at the end of the road.
Adn with this necklace in your hand....I think you'll find it.

Take it, December.
Put it on...
Very good.
Now turn around.
Look around you.
You've won the race.

I hope you found what you were looking for.

I've Been Waiting.

2011-02-25T10:48:00.000-08:00

When I was little,
Baby, I still remember all the way back.
I still remember little shoes
little dresses
little bows in my hair.
I still remember everything
No matter how crazy it seems.
When we grow up,
we spend such a long,
long long time,
trying to forget.
But I, I don't think that's how
it needs to work.
So, take my hand, love.
If I'm gonna let you in, now,
You need to see, for once,
Who it is you're really seeing
right before you.
When I was little,
my hero was my daddy.
He could read big books
and tell funny jokes
and sing me all the songs in the world.
When I was little,
my life was my home.
My brown house, with red shutters
my purple bedroom.
When I was little,
the farthest I ever went,
was still so close to home.
When I was little,
I had short, light brown hair,
and small, pale toes,
and I wore desses
and braids
and bows.
When I was little,
I loved to dance, and I thought
I was the best.
When I was little,
my grampa painted my picture.
I wore a blue sweatshirt,
pink pants,
and my choppy hair
was strewn around my
sticky little face.
Ten years later,
That little girl I used to be,
still resides within me,
somewhere.
Everyday, I try to find her.
I look deep within myself,
I whisper things I know I said,
and I hope she can hear me,
somewhere.
I've grown up, I geuss.
My hair is longer, darker,
my back is straighter,
I'm a little taller,
I still love my daddy and my mommy,
and I still have that painting,
of the kid I'll always be.
I still have the memories
of coming home from school,
being swept into my momma's arms
and swung around,
like its the last day of our lives.
I've still got these memories
of all the times daddy tickled my belly,
made me smile, till I cried,
made me laugh until I finally fell asleep.
I never understood why tears swelled in his eyes
whenever he told me just how much
he loved me.
I didn't understand that I'd never have long enough arms
to spread further than his,
to express my eternal love.
But now, I think it's all beginning to make sense.
To my mommy and daddy,
I'll always be their little girl.
I'll always be that kid with the baby face,
and the messy hair,
with the bows and dresses,
stomping around in my black tap shoes.
They say I'll never know,
how much I mean to them.
Their little girl.
So, baby, listen up.
I've been looking for you, for far too long.
My prince, my fairytale,
I'm waiting for you.
But you won't be just anyone,
not just some simple boy.
You'll be someone my daddy will be proud of,
someone perfect for his little girl.
You'll be someone who can look at that painting,
and see the person I really am,
and ask for nothing more.
While everyone's growing up,
while everyone's falling in love,
I'll try not to forget myself,
when finally, you come along.
When I feel lost, loosing myself on this twisting road,
I can only hope you'll be there,
to pick up the pieces,
and put them back together.
I'm a complex puzzle, baby,
with countless missing pieces.
And I'll settle for only the perfect person,
to fit my pieces together again.
I need you to understand, love,
that I won't change for you.
I won't change the way I look,
I won't change the things I say,
because, if it's you, you'll love me anyway.
When I was little,
baby, I remember all the way back.
I remember laying awake at night,
dreaming of my prince, and hoping he'd hurry up and save me.
I remember picking flowers,
telling momma they were for my wedding,
see, I've had the dress picked out for years.
Now all I need, is someone to share it with me.
Someone who will look at me,
and see, like no one else ever has,
that i'm just this little girl from a little town,
caught up in dreams, and follies.
Someone who has been ever blessed, ever loved,
but finally, is looking for something more.
If that's you, love,
if you're my fairytale,
then my daddy will smile, not cry
and my mommy will welcome you home,
and we'll know that right now, in heaven,
grampy's adding a new face to the picture.
The picture I still remember,
from way back when I was little.
Hurry up, and find me.
I'll be right here, waiting,
reminiscing a simpler time,
when I knew all the answers.
When I was content to know
that at least two people, would always love me.
And when you get here,
I'll try again to stretch my arms so far,
Baby, geuss how much I love you.
And when you come,
that little girl inside me,
the one i'll always be,
will come to life again,
and i'll know that she's been there,
all along.
Because, even then, when I was little,
yeah, I remember all the way back,
I knew that I would only settle for the best.
So, if that's you, welcome home.
I've been waiting.

We All Support The Team

2011-01-20T19:23:00.000-08:00

I was once instructed, in the early days of my elementary career, that all works of writing should begin with an introduction. Back then, every time we sat down with a blank stretch of paper before us, a printed "thought map" would be placed on our desks as well, for all writing should be planned. all writing should be precise. and all writing should be correct.
On more than one occasion, i would be lightly scolded for my habit of ignoring the planning process completely. While my classmates, all of which i was relatively close with, for a small town only has so many children per class, were staring into space trying to grasp ideas that would look legitimate on their maps, and be considered a four, or atleast a three, on their final rubric, I would be scrawling down my final words on the lined paper, not planning, just writing the story i believed needed to be told.
Most of these stories did not begin how my teachers would have liked, which meant that they were often devoid of a proper introduction. i was often hasty to get down to the real story, and didn't find it reasonable to waste time explaining. it will all make sense in the end, just hang in there, keep your eyes open, and listen to my words.
I suppose I'll begin this story, with a small introduction, nonetheless, though it seems i got carried away already with what at first was going to be a single opening sentence. remember, i never plan the words i write.
My name is Erin Elaine S_____, and on this foggy summer night, i am thirteen years old, the eigth year of schooling approaching fast around the corner it seems i'm never ready to turn in to. As i write, i am sprawled on a kelly green fouton, staring out at a half curtained window at a single backyard in the town in which i call home. It's a small town, with a small cast of characters to tell its tale, a small setting, indeed, but a big plot. one in which, as each day goes by, you still remain on the edge of your seat.
In novels and movies, small towns hold all of the secrets of the biggest cities on the globe, small towns contain the tragedy and emotion not even a Nicholas Sparks novel can capture. in fiction, these little towns seem to play a large role.
fairytales will tell you that any soon to be princess will be found in a place very much like the modern suburbs, a place where she is lost and alone, and more times than other, begging desperately for an escape.
Taylor Swift will tell us that her knight in shining armor hasn't come yet because he simply can't find her, for she's hidden in a place so unfashionable and unglamorous. And in order to maintian a poetic rythm, she'll say her prince will never come, because in a small town, fairytales and the fulfillment of a dream, is practically nonexistent.
But in reality, most people will tell you that they love the tiny town they're a part of. they love walking down humble streets and allys, waving at every familiar face, smiling at those they've never seen before, but who almost certainly is somehow related to your next door neighbor, for in a small town, there are no outsiders. everyone knows eachother. you can't keep a secret, because someone will surely see you in the act itself.
in a small town, there are no strangers. you will stand in line at the local ice cream parlor, only to give your order to a teenage girl you've probably known your whole life. when you turn around, you'll smile at your old high school chums, holding on to the sticky hands of your children, when one of them cries they've dropped their cone on the pavement. "one moment!" yells the voice of one of your fathers old friends from his truck window, which has just pulled in to the busy lot. "i'm the owners brother. i'll get you a new one."
you see, in a small town like mine, there are connections, just like the waterways or the eco system, which in its own way, the town is in itself. Your brother probably went to pre school with your boss, your cousin probably washes the mayors car, your neighbor is probably on a first name basis with the banker.
i began to pick up on the ways of small town life while i was still very young, just after i realized the town was not the entire world, just a small corner. my corner. i noticed that my father, a long time Geography teacher at the high school, seemed to know the name of everyone we'd see at the famous little mini mart in town. like the teachers who had taught me about the craft of writing, my dad had been teaching these people for years. he'd gone to school himself with some, and a few years later, he'd see their children in class in front of him, as well.
The year i turned five, the world grew. no longer were the only people i ever saw those of my own neighborhood, no longer was the only terrain beneath my feet that of my own backyard. when i began kindergarten, i had been shocked to discover that there were so many citizens like myself in the town i'd always thought of as just my own.
On my first day of school, i wore a plaid purple dress with a white turtle neck benath it, loose and rumpled near my skinny neck, my short bobbed brown hair always a little frizzy as my footsteps grew faster throughout the day.
I sat down in class, surrounded by red nosed little faces, everyone in their nicest new clothes, everyone hugging the book bags they've waited their whole lives to purchase.
I was so young, but i wanted to be older. I was uneducated, but i believed i was smart. I was alone, but i felt as if i had all the friends in the world. My life was beginning. My world was growing.
At recess i would play simpleminded games in the grass, jumping off of the swingsets, racing the little boys with cooties, little boys who would grow up to become some of the best friends i could ever have wished for.
In a few years, all of us began to grow up a little.
In first grade, my friends and i would circle around, verbalizing the big city dreams the “big kids” would have claimed impossible. When i was six, i wanted to be an author/ illustrator of childrens books, which were really the only books i knew of at the time. I admired writers like Mary Pope Osborn, who would take me wherever i wanted if i just stepped into her tree house; Beverly Cleary, who told me about a clumsy little girl named Juny B. Of course, there were also the stories my mom would read to me before bed each night, as she held on to me, and i held on to the words.
My favorite story was called “Geuss how much i love you”, and it focused on two small brown rabbits beneath a tree, betelling the ancient tale of a mothers love.
I never understood why my mother loved it so much, why she referred to its words so often. But as i grew older, as i grew to love more sincerely, i began to understand. And i vowed that one day, i would create for her a story even better.
When i was in fourth and fifth grade, when i was thrown into the dramas every girls life is filled with at some time, i began to notice my town a little more. As everyone i had known since i was five started to grow up, started to loose the kid they once were, i began to get to know myself a little better.
For one thing, i never understood the pleasure of gossip and screts. I never felt it neccessary to find humor in anothers mistakes, and i never thought it easy to tell my secrets to girls whos friendship i knew wasn't true.
So i took refuge, refuge from it all. I read. And for a few moments at a time, i wouldn't be the awkward pre teen i was. I wasn't alone, surrounded by those i thought of as my “friends”, and i wasn't self councious about the things i said or did. I was me. I was safe. I was happy. And i was home.
I remember the day i cried for the first time when reading. The book was none other than JK Rowling's Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows, and i had awaited the story for years. I remember clutching the already worn covers between my hands, crying and willing the words not to be true. But at the same time, i loved it. I loved the feeling of guiltless tears rolling down my cheeks. I loved the way it felt to cry for a soul who wouldn't punish me for it later, who wouldn't laugh at the redness of my cheeks. The tears that fell were tears i would remember forever, and as i grew older, i would remember every time a story made me cry ever again.
A few years later, when the final days of elementary school were drawing nearer, i would begin to understand myself just a little more. I would begin to understand the people i'd grown up with, the small town i was proud to be a part of.
That year, i discovered the words within me. Though i had always admired the craft of storytelling, this was the year where my passion and my abilities finally met for real, and i began to write down everything i was feeling. No, not in a diary, but in poems and stories where i could easily hide any of my emotions by adding a false name to them all. Within these stories, i formed a home seperate from the one i had in books, and seperate from the small town life i lived in reality.
In these worlds, i could alter my life however i wanted, change it as much as i pleased, and it wouldn't matter, because no one would see it but me. I could write about my secrets, and not worry about them being told, though i never really had any major secrets, anyway. My life was one i chose to keep open for all to see, almost like the open books in which i am so in love with.
On the last day of sixth grade, i took a look around me.
I saw...a classroom filled with no more than 25 adolescents.
But we were diferent. Most kids our age were selfless and standoffish, while we were all the best of friends, boy and girls alike. We would all miss eachother, and we would all be at eachothers side next september when high school started, and our lives opened up to a new chapter.
On that last day, i wrote poem after poem, story after story, about the way i was feeling. Nervous. Excited. Proud. Accomplished. Scared. Terrified...reminiscent.
it's finally over, i remember thinking. Ever since i was five years old i dreamt of this day. I pictured myself in skirts, with a perfect smile, and a circle of friends and enemies.
But nothing had really changed. I'd just grown up. I was still me, still friends with everyone i said hi to, still in love with words and pictures, simple and open. The only major difference, was that now i had a small group of friends i knew for once were true.
The class was the first to be dismissed that day, and the teachers would whisper with teary eyes to us on our way to the buses, that they were proud. “you're finally a true towner, now, you know. This is home.”
and they were right.
We were home. Home in the tiny town we'd grown up in.
For five years previous, i had been melodramtic, exasperated in my unrealistic cravings to see the world outside of the town. I had dreamt of the magical places like paris, venice, ireland...but i'd forgotten about the little piece of magic i was apart of right here, right now.
As summer ended, and i discovered that high school was much easier than it seemed, my friends and i began to think about the lives we had ahead of us, the dreams we wished were more within our reach, though still seemd, in hindsight, to be miles away.
I remember circling up, like we had so many years ago in kindergarten, only now we were taller with boys in the circle as well, and we talked about our dreams. We laughed as we noticed that we sounded just like the five year olds we still were at heart. Some of us still said things like astronaut and chef, only now, they seemed more personal. More real. We were old enough to know what we wanted. I was dissapointed when the circle reached a girl who simply shrugged and said that she'd probably end up as “ a secretary or something.” when we asked why she would ever dream of something as dull as that, she would gigle and tell us she was only being realistic. And we were not.
But she was wrong, i still say. Our dreams are more real than you can imagine. They speak for us, they light the path for us....they are us. And we'd be nothing, nowhere without them. We'd still be the kindergarteners, stumbling along, dreaming big, but wanting nothing more than a snack. We'd still be those kids the others gossiped about behind our backs, and all we wanted was relief of the drama.
But with our dreams, we were more than that. We were ourselves, for once.
Everytime i try to imagine my future, i picture myself the same as i am now, only maybe a little taller. In my dreams, i am married to some exotic artist who tells me every morning that he loves me, we have 2 perfect little girls so smart and talented, and we live in the most beautiful home ever built, the walls covered in artwork and photographs. When the girls leave for school, i presume to the couch or the desk, where i will write stories all day, and have not a care in the world. Because everthing has fallen into place. Because My dreams have come true.
And after a while, my dream will hit a dead end. Where is this perfect house? Where am i living the life i pray to lead?
And no matter how hard i try to imagine a life outside of this town, i can't bear it. This is home. This is forever. My friends will go where their jobs and spouses take them, and i'll probably end up doing the same, but right now, that picture seems impossible to comprehend. I have so many dreams, so many hopes, prayers, wishes. I want to see the world, i want to meet new people and be known, but at the same time, i don't want to leave.
I'd miss ambling down the streets to see the faces of my neighbors smiling back at me. I'd miss waking up each morning with a smile as i imagined the perfect day that awaited me at school. I'd miss staring out the window at my back yard, always filled with neighbor kids and dogs. I'd miss closing my eyes on a hot summers night, and listening to the frogs croak in a harmonic, throaty song in the woods behind my house. I'd miss fighting with my little brother over every little action i took. I'd miss coming home afer a long day, and jumping onto my bed with a notebook or novel. I'd miss life. I'd miss myself. I'd miss my family. The people that had taught me everything i'd ever known. I'd miss that feeling of contentment and safety i felt whenever i was home, whether that home were my house, my books, or my stories. I'd miss myself too much. Because if i ever left, i knew i wouldn't stay me forever.
This town, this small stretch of land invisible on your maps, this unexciting landscape of farmers and townies, where the biggest news involves the oil spill ten thousand miles away, the politics we hardly affect at all, the stars we all dream about but can't reach because we're so far away....its me. Its life. Its forever. If i were anywhere but here, i wouldn't be the girl i am becoming.
I'd have the same name, i'd have the same face. But i would not have the same heart, the same soul, the same mind, the same outlook.
Everyone in this world, is only who they are, because of where they are. Celebrities are overworked and rich because of the city in which they are resident. Farmers, landowners, store managers...look at their lives, and then imagine them minus the place they call home. They're not themselves anymore, are they?
A few weeks ago, i read a Stephen King novel titled Under The Dome, which focused almost entirely on the workings of a small town. There was a police force, a dingy diner everyone ate at after work, a small hospital with two doctors, three town selectman, and any other type of small town civilian, all a character, all a castmate, in the story of a small town. And at the end of each page, i would notice that i was picturing the town to look just like my own. Because it was all so true.
Even before i read this book, i found myself thinking about small town life quite a bit, but afterwards, the intensity of my daydreams multiplied.
Everyone in this town...is part of a single team.
Throughout the novel, King recites a quote from a popular James McMurtry song numerous times within the story. “It's a small town,” it reads, “You know what i mean? It's a small town, son, and we all support the team.”
my town, my family...my home. We're a team. We all support one machine that is larger than life, and still growing. We all sing the same song, we all walk the same streets, we all go to the same places, we all support the same team.
The team of the town.
And now, we've reached the part of this story, where i will bring us to a standstill, for now. We've reached the part of the story where i am thirteen years old, just months from fourteen, and the summer is starting to fade away. In the fall, i return to the school so many people say they hate, but they know they love, in their hearts. Because its the school where they've become themselves. Its the single school in the small town they will always have a place in.
There you have it, the story of my small town life. It may not be glamorous or dramatic, but its me, all the same. Before you, is the portait i've been struggling to paint for nearly fourteen years.
Long ago, when this picture was almost a blank canvas, i was instructed that every story should end in a conclusion. I was taught by small town elementary school teachers, that all writing should be planned. All writing should be prescise. And all writing should be correct.
So now, i float around in my memories, and try to come up with an adequate conclusion, though we both know that wish won't turn out as planned. but it will all make sense in the end, just hang in there, keep your eyes open, and listen to my words.
For i often forget about the rules. I often skip ahead, to the story i believe needs to be told, remember. I always run, and i never walk.
But no matter how fast i go, no matter how far i run, i won't end up too far away, i promise. Because i'll never leave home. I'll never leave this town, and i'll never leave myself.
Because no matter the big city dreams, i'm just a little person, in a little town. And that little town will give me all i will ever want.
Because it's a small town, and we all support the team.

Desiderare Domus: Preface

2011-01-20T19:21:00.000-08:00

Part One
Preface
Our Narrator and Our Desires

I take a waning breath before beginning the tale I’ve been telling for eternity.
I exhale.
I dig into you, and find that you are waiting.
Always waiting. Always expecting.
Never calm. Never still.
But you’re only human, and I cannot blame you.
I speak to you for not the first time, for you’ve all spoken to me at some point in your lives. In fact, you speak to me every day, whether you hear yourself or not.
I hear you.
I ask a question, but ask that you take your time with the answer. I’ve discovered that humans tend to rush in the matter of time, again, whether they see it or not. Maybe because they know they don’t have much time left, or because time has never been on their side.
Time is on my side. It always will be.
I am forever.
My question, my ever-significant request, is that you never forget the story I am preparing to tell you. This story is long, this story is troubling, and it speaks to each and every one of you.
You just might not hear it.
And if you do, it’s because I’m whispering it into your ears.
It’s because I want you to hear it.
I need you to cherish it.
And I am allowed to need things. Just like you. I’m the one who created need, after all. I’m the one who created want.
The one who sings of yearning.
And sometimes, I fulfill it as well.

And that might very well be the moral of this story.

So for a moment, I’m going to take your hand.
Don’t be alarmed, I’ve done that before.
You’ve just never felt it.

For a split second, I will reach into your soul.
And there, I’m going to give to you a story.
My story.
Their story…
Your story.

Listen to it, hold it, and remember it. If there is anyone, anything besides God himself in this universe that is aware of your desires anymore than you are, it’s me. I know perfectly well that there is so very much you want from me, so much you desire and are doubting exists.
It does exist. It all does.
And I want nothing more than to give it to you.
But I’m not sure you deserve it yet. You see, I only give to people who have earned what they want. But lately, I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.
I give to you, and I ask nothing in return.
I fulfill every dream you’ve ever hatched, and receive nary a reward.
But now I plan to change that. It’s my turn. My turn to ask something from you.
I deserve that.

So open your hearts and listen to my story. After all, you’re the star. You see, you’re going to find yourself within this tale. You’re going to see a part of your heart, your soul, waiting for you.
When you see that piece, you will have a choice:
Either pick it up, or leave it behind.
Simple.
Excruciating.
Because if you’re one of the ones who plan to leave it behind, you won’t ever have the chance to pick it up again.
Because you don’t recognize it.
Because you don’t even know yourself.

But that’s why I’m here, so I can’t complain. If it weren’t for you broken souls who have lost yourselves in the middle of the road, what would I be? Where would I be? What would become of me?
Of desires?

I have questions, too.
You’re not the only ones.

So close your eyes now, my listeners, and envision yourself away from here. Picture a place built of whatever you wish, whatever you desire. This can’t be too difficult; we’ve all been here countless times before.
In our dreams.
You have designed this place, for none other than yourself. With my assistance, of course. Without me, you wouldn’t even want this place.
Life, child, is not yours to choose.
But it is yours to fix, and yours to redeem.
And you’re the only one who can do that.
Here, in this place you’ve been dreaming of, you are free to do precisely that. You are free to fill the blank canvas of your past, present, and future with anything you could ever dream of.
And the sky stands back, not daring to be your limit.

You will walk these streets, and you will meet other souls who are here with you, though they’re not seeing exactly what you’re seeing. They’re seeing they’re own haven.
And alongside them, you’re going to see me. Though unlike on earth, I’m not solid.
I am translucent and wasting.
But I do not mourn. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
When I’m gone, I’ll know that I’ve completed my task correctly. I’ll know your desires have been entirely fulfilled.

We call this place Desiderare Domus; desired home.
Yes, home.
You are always welcome here, remember.
And this land is for anyone who’s ever had a dream.
A wish.
A prayer.

So open your eyes, and be welcome.
Go build your home.
Go be enlightened.

I’ll be here.

And I’ll be waiting.

I’ll be waning.

Toy Box

2011-01-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

Three Forty Two, just before dawn
still hours remain, for the world to sleep
but alive and wake, in one room
one little white room, the curtains drawn
a quiet yawn...
The beginning, just begun.
and my little eyes, they quavered ever
so slightly, scared to look.
my hand, they took.
stroked to warmth, warmed to life.
and Daddy stroked his baby's hair.
and Momma rubbed, her sweethearts back.
and the doctors hushed, a screaming silence.
so tranquil, so calm, a timeless tickle
of the heart, as its first leap pounds.
and Grandpa hands Mommy,
a little white dolly,
clad in green, bright as Eden herself.
"hang on to that, love." with a kiss on the cheek,
forever, grampa.
i promise.

Three Forty Two,
twenty days past October, on the second year,
a little brighter now, a little clearer, i could see.
time was endless then, forever heaven
in the arms, of my mother and father.
that pail little dolly, her dress is frayed now just the slightest.
her hair, still chocolate.
her gown, still green,
her eyes, still the brightest of blues.
still growing, still aging.
nothing yet waning, and forever had not yet begun.
i didn't understand then, why grampy cried on Sundays,
why he prayed for my Grammy,
who never once held me,
who never saw me with her own pretty eyes.
they said she was beautiful, the best woman in the world,
but death, sometimes he forgets about heart.
and so i listened to grampy,
and i held on to that dolly.
and never, I’ll never let her go.
never grampy.
i promise.

Three Forty Two, Five years in
twenty days past October, so many hours.
and Grampy hands "Wee one" a little paint brush,
purple stick,
tarnished hairs,
stained handle...
so beautiful.
and i watched, with big blue eyes,
as he told me its story, and showed me
the magic it could conjure.
it could show me the world, in just a few strokes,
it could confirm what i had yet to discover.
grampy painted a picture
of a gray, gravel path
and with him, i took the long walk.
It was hot, it was cold
it was endless, it was short.
And it was everything...everything I’d ever be.
And in the future, when I grow old
I bet, that road might just end.
But for now, I’m still young
so much life still unsung...
and I’m still ambling on, in the middle.
I'll touch every stone
I’ll breathe every scent
and in the end, at least I’ll have the memories.
So I hung on to that paint brush,
cause grampy said I must.
And I'll never let go.
I'll never drop it, grampy.
I promise.

Three forty two, nine years sung, nine years shaved,
twenty days past the dawn of October.
And the wind was cold, whispers in my growing hair
like a blare, of winter's first sting.
Grampy, he got older,
and I, I got younger.
But time, time refused the progression.
Little girls down the street, pink bicycles with ribbons,
streaming golden hair, calling out.
And I rode with them, a road so fast
so quick..
hardly a path leading anywhere at all.
I loved, at the time, the clarity, serenity,
of life, when it's not yet begun.
When its young.
Just a kid.
I don't understand, daddy.
I don't understand.
But soon, it was simple.
Death, sometimes he forgets heart.
And his brother, called cancer, fought hard.
The smells of sick, took away everything else.
No more coffee in his breath, just medicine.
No more life in his eyes, just medicine.
No more paint on his fingers, just medicine.
Stupid medicine.
Pointless medicine...
you'll never be the cure.
And I took grampy's hand, while life hung on still, too,
and we held on together, so tight.
And I’ll never let go grampy.
I'll never let go.
I promise.

Three forty two, eleven years.
Twenty days hatched, ten unborn hath October.
My Dollie’s hair, still chocolate.
Her eyes, still blue.
Her gown, still green.
Green as Eden.
My friends, they came closer.
My foes, I had none.
Life was born now, beginning to unfold.
Unfold?
So many more years, left untold.
Untold....
and now, growing up, I’m starting to hear.
I hear mommy and daddy, fighting a little downstairs.
Fighting evil, I suppose.
That's what grampy'd've said.
Daddy used to come home singing
singing silly songs.
And mommy used to come home laughing,
laughing little jokes.
But now, all doorways rings silence,
all laughs stay gray.
All songs stay white, untouched.
And I, I watch, with tired eyes,
as life spins on, spins on...
too fast, I guess.
And we can't catch up.
And it's times like these, when I talk to dolly.
When I make sure she's still safe.
I make sure that her porcelain skin's not chipped,
that her heart hasn't skipped a single beat.
And when she stares back at me, unblinking,
I know that something's missing.
Something's missing.
And so I take grampy's old, tattered paintbrush.
And I take a piece of daddy's pretty paper,
and I make sure, that I’m still me.
And I promise, grampy.
I'm gonna paint, until it's all better.
I'm gonna make this world shine brighter.
I'm gonna remember, grampy.
I'm gonna remember.
I promise.

Three forty two, twenty days past October,
on the fourteenth year...oh, momma, has it really been so long?
So much sung.
So much...done.
This is life, dolly.
This is what all the books are written 'bout.
This is what all the stories tell about.
This is what all the soft songs sing about.
This is it.
But dolly...doesn't understand.
I think, through her small, azure eyes,
she tries too hard to see.
I think, through her pail little ears,
she tries too hard to hear.
And when she does, when she catches a piece of something,
I think it only makes things worse.
She's so confused.
But she's trying, I bet.
I can see it, in the way her eyebrows flinch.
I can see it, when she clutches wordless stories,
and tries to fill them up.
I bet, she's saying something special, in those wordless books.
I bet she's telling the white pages, about everything she's seen.
Maybe someday, I’ll read the words.
And I’ll understand.
For now, let's grow up a little, shall we?
You're too old for toys, close the box now.
Shut her in.
make it dark.
Say goodbye.
Say goodbye, to the barbie dolls, with impossible curves and angles.
Say goodbye, to that little white kitchen set, made of plastic. Made of memories.
Say goodbye, to all those little things, that truly, are nothing of use now.
Say goodbye, while you still have time,
to that dolly with the chocolate hair...
to that dirty, purple paint brush.
To every picture you've ever drawn.
To every dream, she's ever hatched.
Close the lid.
This might not be forever, just give me time.
To grow up.
Because I’m too lost to count on memories,
and I’m too scared to foretell the future.
I'm closing the toy box.
This won't be forever, though, grampy.
I'll come back someday, when I figure it all out.
And I’ll tell you every dream you've missed,
and I’ll paint you every picture.
This isn't it, grampy.
I promise.

Three forty two...
I’ve lost track of the years.
It's been so long, so long, so long...
and life, a once free falling road,
for little girls with bicycles,
is now, so full of hills and bumps, that my feet can't make the walk.
Make the walk.
Make the walk.
And it's gotten longer, the road going backward,
with every step I’ve taken forward.
And I can't put myself in reverse.
I've already put myself in park.
I'm frozen...

The beginning, just begun.
and my little eyes, they quavered ever
so slightly, scared to look.
my hand, they took.
stroked to warmth, warmed to life.

I need some of that, that warmth.
But I don't know where the heat has gone.
Mommy?
Are you out there?
Daddy, please take my hand again.
But what comes to me, is neither mommy or daddy,
but dolly.
And her hair, it's no longer chocolate.
Her eyes, they're no longer blue.
And her dress, has faded.
Faded to brown...
dust covers dolly's face, her rosy cheeks,
and ageless soot rests upon her delicate nose,
and she stumbles, with every step she takes.
“come with me, child. Let's open the box.”

and so, I walk with dolly, of whom has grown so old,
and she shows me, everything I’ve missed,
when life, it started to unfold.

“three forty two, a year unborn.”
and she hands me, a little brown plaque,
with the numbers scratched in gold upon it,
PT 342
my grampy...my grampy's one true home, it had one number,
and years later,
twenty days past October,
it would stand as the number,
in which my life unhatched.
Three forty two, three forty two, three forty two...

“three forty two, the second year.”
dolly gives to me, a tattered teddy bear.
It bears a tag, a red heart, white words.
to “er-bear”, love your uncle and aunt.”
and I stare into its brown button eyes,
and I try to see a little clearer.
But somehow, its still fuzzy, when he opens his mouth,
and says “it was dark in there, child. Why no light?”
my mouth is dry, and I can't answer.
I'm sorry, teddy.
I'm sorry.

“three forty two, three years sung.”
and I am granted, with a pretty pink shell.
Once more, I am walking,
through the endless shore,
my hand, being warmed...
being warmed to life again, by my daddy.
And he bends down, so effortlessly then,
and gives to me, this timeless treasure.
And I rub it to my little ear,
and I imagine, so deeply I try to hear...
and I do.
He says “you've forgotten, child. When you said you'd remember.”

“three forty two, five years lived.”
a briar horse, a golden mane,
frozen in mid leap, mid run...
did I do this to her?
Freeze her.
“Where are you, partner? You've dropped the reigns.”

“three forty two, seven years, seven years...”
in my hand, waits a small, tattered picture.
We're all laughing, we're all smiling,
overjoyed, unconcerned, bright as day...
and I forget, I forget one smile's name...
the smile of a little girl with pail skin,
and light blue eyes,
and chocolate hair,
and a green dress....
and she pleads with me, from the picture,
from the perch in which I have frozen her,
“try to remember, sweetheart. It's on the tip of your tongue.”

“Three forty two, eleven, eleven, eleven....”
daddy sits next to me, steals my book.
Strokes the cover, a small, creeping smile.
He's so proud, of his little girl.
And he hands her a long, leather marker,
transcribed with words of gold.
Pretty, pretty words of gold...
and this, this shred of suede,
would be my greatest, prized possession, as long as time still ticked.
“you lost me, age fourteen, in the halls of that place called high school.
And you cried, for three nights.
Three nights.
But you never found me again.”

“Three forty two, when age....is nothing....”
and my Dollie, she collapses to my arms.
And I hold her...
I cry into her matted, faded hair...
and I embrace the toxic scents of life.
Before its yet,
begun.
And I try to search, in the folds of her gown,
for all the small, little memories I know I've lost.
They're unimportant, tiny recollections,
but they're me, right to the core.
Without them, this dolly, she'd shatter and break,
and the pieces...
they'd never restore.
Without each simple memory...
each promise, that I’ve broken,
my road, this bumpy, twisting road...
would've ended, long ago.

I'm sorry Mommy,
I’m sorry I lost faith in you, for just a little while.
I was young, I was scared...
I think I’ve grown since then, but I’m not sure.
All I needed was your help, your warm, tender hands...
to pull me up. I love you, mommy.

I'm sorry Daddy.
I”m sorry I ask for so much, and do nothing in return.
I'll always be young, I’ll never know, for real, what's right...
I'll always be your little girl.
With the chocolate hair.
And the blue eyes.
And the green gown, green as Eden.
I love you, daddy.

I'm sorry Grampy.
I'm sorry I disobeyed your final request, I’m sorry I dropped the brush.
I've been lost, you see.
So lost, I forgot to ask for directions.
But I can't put myself in reverse,
and no, I can't stay forever in park.
So, I guess all there's left is to move on...
but I’ll always love you, grampy.
I'm sorry I dropped the paintbrush.
I promise, I’ll pick it up.
And I’ll finish that road, you drew so long ago,
when I still, didn't know its meaning.
But now, I think I do, so I’m gonna see where it leads, grampy.
And when I get there, to the end,
I’ll let you know.
And I’ll tell you what a wonderful walk it was.
I love you, grampy.

I'm so, so sorry Dolly...
that I ever shut the lid, that I ever made it dark.
I hope that someday, you'll forgive me,
but for now, lets mend the cracks.
I know that soon, with proper care, I can make you shine once more,
I can turn that chocolate hair to silk,
and your eyes...
they will never too blue.
I'm gonna hold your hand, dolly, everywhere I go.
And as I promised grampy, dolly...
I promise, to never let go.

And...
I'm sorry,
To all I’ve left behind.
I'm sorry to the toy box,
and the life I couldn't find.
I think I’m growing up now, a little more certain every day,
and I think...
that I was wrong, to ever....ever shut the toy box lid.

And now, with stronger, renewed old arms,
I lift the lid once more,
and light pours in,
on all I’ve lost,
been trying...so hard...to find.
There's my barbies, there's my dolls,
there's my teddies, and little stuffed dogs.
There's my story books, and little pink bows,
and there...
there's my dolly, shining, a whole new glow.

Three forty two, a countless year,
twenty days past....what was it?...October...
and I sit here, in this aging home,
in which I’ve always been.
I'm nearing the end, of the path we painted, grampy,
but I’m so glad, so glad the sun is shining.
It'll shine as I cross, the golden finish line,
and fall into your waiting arms.
I'll bring that purple paintbrush, grampy,
and we can paint such pretty pictures.
And this time...
this time, the roads won't ever end, grampy.
They'll go on, forever and ever.
And I’ll bring...
that age old dolly...
and show her, that I never let go, grampy.
I never let go.
I'll show you, that her hair's still chocolate,
that her eyes, will forever be blue.
I'll show you, that her dress, still green...
will never, fade away.
And we'll hang on, all night, grampy.
We'll never have to let go.
Because this time,
the road will never end, grampy.
and the toy box...
will never close.
And so I take grampy's old, tattered paintbrush.
And I take a piece of daddy's pretty paper,
and I make sure, that I’m still me.
And I promise, grampy.
I'm gonna paint, until it's all better.
I'm gonna make this world shine brighter.
I'm gonna remember, grampy.
I'm gonna remember.
I promise.