Sonnets Sang on Roller-coasters

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

"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

“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

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.

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

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

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 :)

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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.