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.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
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.
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.
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