Independence

    I was born on the fourth of July to a redneck daddy and a mama who never cried for

nothin.’ Mama said she could hear the TV turned up real loud when she was in the hospital

gettin’ ready to have me. They was singin’ somethin’ real pretty while the fireworks was goin’ off

though somethin’ by a rock ‘n roll band would’ve fit the moment better, she said. Mama wanted

to name me somethin’ real cutesy like ‘Lola Stars and Stripes’ but daddy said ‘Forget that crap,

Ellen. Give the child a name with some meanin.’ So she named me Independence.

    When I was just a little one, learnin’ to walk and fall down and get up again for the first

time, I remember mama takin’ out the big metal pot and throwin’ every little thing she could find

into it and callin’ it dinner. The pot gurgled and belched as mama ran back and forth between the

stove and ’fridgerator shoutin’ “Harold! I would ‘preciate it if you’d ever help me!” Daddy just

laughed and took out an old record by Louis Armstrong that a had a little song on it called, ‘A

Kiss to Build a Dream On.’ He told me that this very song was the one that he and mama had

danced at in their weddin.’ 

    They had met in a jazz bar in Louisiana what seemed like forever ago. Daddy said he saw

a pretty lady with red lips and a curly black mop of hair sittin’ at the bar, slip fallin’ kinda out the

bottom of her skirt. He asked her how she took her whiskey and she said ‘straight up.’ The band

was playin’ that old Louis Armstrong tune and mama said she loved the way the sound of the

trumpets made her feel. Daddy dipped her and said, ‘Well if we ever get married we’ll play this

song at our weddin.’ At the time mama thought he was just some ’fella tryin’ to get lucky but she

gave him a shot anyway.

    “Harold! I mean it!” mama shouted again from the kitchen. She couldn’t help but smile

when she came into the livin’ room and saw me and daddy dancin’ to that song. I was standin’ on

the tops of his shoes and he was twirlin’ me ’round and holdin’ me up by the tips of my fingers.

Mama leaned on the edge of the couch and untied her apron strings. “Dinner’s just ’bout ready,”

she said and walked back into the kitchen.

    There would always be a parade outside our front yard on my birthday. Cars with red,

white, and blue ribbons tied to the front would ride by, music blarin’ from the windows, baskets

full of candy in the passenger’s hands, throwin’ out spearmints, peppermints, and butterscotches.

Mama and daddy and me would sit together on a swing we had out front watchin’ all the people

go by. I would squeeze in as best I could in the middle and only get up if it meant runnin’ out

with my plastic sack to collect candy before the other kids got to it. When it was all over with,

we’d go inside, empty out my sack of goodies and count all the pieces I’d collected on Mama

and daddy’s big ’ol bed. Years later, they’d still be findin’ Tootsie Rolls and jawbreakers

underneath the mattress.

    A few years later, Mama was pregnant again, this time with my brother David. She was in

labor for thirty-two hours and screamin’ up somethin’ fierce. Daddy said he ran down to the ice

machine ’bout a hundred times only to have Mama scream at him for somethin’ else. Most

women cry out in pain during labor, but daddy said Mama cried out in anger. Finally David

came, and Mama smiled when they placed him in her arms. Mama said the miracle of life was a

beautiful thing but she would never ever, as long as she lived, go through what she had just gone

through again.

    Things was real good with me, Mama, daddy, and David up until daddy lost his job at up

at the coal mines. Apparently they was downsizin’ and so a bunch of folks was out of jobs. It was

hard times for the people in our town and daddy said Mama wasn’t helpin’ matters by naggin’ on

him to find another job. I started to see them smile less and less and they hardly ever laughed

anymore. Daddy used to just stare off into the blue blaze of the TV screen laid back in his

reclinin’ chair with a bottle of beer in his hand. He’d go and set his empty bottles on the kitchen

counter while Mama gently swirled a dish towel against a dinner plate. At first, Mama would

take these bottles and fill ’em up with water and put some wildflowers growin’ ’round the yard in

’em. Then they got to be so much that she’d just take ’em out in the garage in a big box and set

’em next to the garbage can.

    One day I came home from junior high and saw Mama cryin’ with her head in her hands

on the back porch. Her tears were fallin’ like drips out of a faucet onto her green and blue flower

dress. Daddy walked past me but when I looked up in his face, he seemed shamed about

somethin’ and wouldn’t even look me in the eye. He rushed up the stairs, sweat comin’ off his

forehead. I went past the kitchen and opened the slidin’ door out to Mama. She turned back to

see who it was and wiping the tears off her face, she smiled at me and said, “How was school

today Independence?” She grasped her arm, like she was tryin’ to cover somethin’ up but you

can’t hide a bruise the color of an eggplant. That was the first time I’d ever seen her cry.

    A week or so later, I ran to Mama and told her I thought I was hemorrhaging. I’d just

learned what that was and feared the worst had come to me. “Did this happen in the bathroom?”

she asked and when I shook my head yes, she smiled and led me to her bedroom, closing the

door behind her.

    “... it’s actually a very beautiful thing that you share with someone you fall head over

heels in love with. And just think, without that, there wouldn’t have been an Independence,” she

said.

    “I think it should be against the law.”

    She brushed my hair out my face, “You’ll find somebody someday that makes you feel

differently about everything. Someone that makes it worth wakin’ up in the mornin’ for everyday.

Somebody that you decide to spend the rest of your life with with no matter what.”

    “Is that how you feel about daddy?” I said, lookin’ into her face.

    Mama looked up to the ceiling like she was waitin’ for an angel to swoop down and give

her an answer. She took a deep breath and paused. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel about daddy.”

    Once David got old enough he had no problem expressin’ exactly how he felt about

daddy. “I’m movin’ out of this bastard’s house as soon as I turn eighteen,” he said. “And I’m

gonna try to convince Mama to leave too.”

    “You can’t do that David!” I shouted. “Mama gave her word to daddy ’till death do they

part. You can’t just tear a family apart because you’re mad at him.”

    “We’re not the happy little family you think we are, Independence. Daddy’s a drunk and

mama’s miserable. Would you really wanna feel miserable the rest of your life if you didn’t have

to?” David walked away to his room. He kept his promise and and moved out as soon as he was

eighteen. Mama wouldn’t go with him though. She just cupped his face and said, “Darlin,’ I can’t

leave your father.”

    A few more years had passed and I thought I’d found that person that I felt like wakin’ up

for every mornin.’ I introduced Jack to Mama and daddy and let them know that we were

engaged and plannin’ on havin’ a small weddin.’

    “That’s wonderful dear!” Mama said huggin’ me. Daddy just sat there quiet and smiled.
   
On the day of the big event, Daddy pulled me aside while I was gettin’ ready to put on

my veil. “Independence, can I talk to you for a minute?”

    “Of course.”

    He still wouldn’t look me in the face. “I know that we haven’t always had the best

relationship. I didn’t even know you were datin’ anybody. And before I get a chance to hassle

this Jack guy, you up and tell me you’re marryin’ ’em.” He paused. “I just want you to know that

I love your mother very much. I haven’t always made the best choices but there isn’t nothin’ that

I wouldn’t do for your Mama.”

    “I know, daddy.” We embraced.

    After me and Jack said our “I-do’s” we had a small reception with our immediate family

and friends. When the slow songs started playin,’ daddy led Mama to the dance floor and they

swayed hip to hip and cheek to cheek. For a moment, you could see Mama’s face light up like

she was back in that bar in Louisiana meetin’ daddy for the first time, at least like daddy said

it was. With hand in hand, Mama and daddy disappeared into their own little world where no one

but them existed. If only David could’ve seen. I looked around for him at that very moment and

couldn’t find him. It felt like David was only around the see the bad in Mama and daddy. But

there was so much good. He never saw the good.

    Time kept movin’ on like it always did until one day the phone started ringin’ at a time

when the phone don’t ever rang. David told me I had to come home right away. Mama’s heart

gave out in the middle of the night. She was only fourty-two. She’d never get to see David get

married. She’d never live to see grand babies rollin’ around on her lap.

    When I pulled into the gravel driveway, everything was somber. Gettin’ out of the car, I

could see daddy through the window, on the couch, swirling a glass of bourbon around in his

hand. David was leanin’ against the kitchen counter, facin’ away from daddy.

    I immediately approached the couch. “I’m so sorry daddy.” He smiled up at me numbly. I

turned to David and hugged him. Tears were falling down his face. “As much as I hate to say

this,” David began, “At least Mama’s finally away from that bastard.” I looked up at him with an

anguished disgust. “How dare you.”

    I started makin’ my way around the ’ol house that used to be filled with laughter. My

hands caressed the railings on the staircase. My feet remembered every squeak of the stairs. To

the left, I saw Mama and daddy’s room with the big mattress they’d had for years. I went to sit

on the bed wondering if there was still any candy left underneath. There were black and white

pictures on the wall, turnin’ sepia with age and too much exposure to the sun. All of this was

over. Now that Mama was gone, David would never come see daddy. David might even decide

to stop seein’ me because I wanted to see daddy. There would be no more family dinners, no

more family holidays, no more memories. David had finally gotten what he’d wanted.

    I went downstairs and saw the ’ol porch swing out front, swayin’ in the wind, a bunch ’o

crumpled leaves blowin’ up around it. In the livin’ room, daddy still sat cupping his liquor, a

golden ring on his left hand, clinkin’ up against it every time he shifted. The record player sat

there just like it had been seventeen or so odd years ago, a collection of music kept in an orange

milk crate off to the side. I picked out that old Armstrong tune and shifted the needle until the

scratchy popping turned into a soulful bass. I walked up to daddy and held out my hand in what

was to be an offering; one more chance to remember things the way they truly were.

    Daddy put down his glass and stood up to meet me. We swayed together cheek to cheek,

except this time I didn’t have to stand on his shoes. I felt tears roll down his face and into my

cleavage. My daddy was a good man and he loved my Mama. He made mistakes just like

everyone else but he had thought my Mama had the prettiest emerald eyes. He may have drank a

little more than some people but he gave us all we ever needed. We kept swayin.’

    I imagined Mama comin’ in from the kitchen, a wry smile on her face and a hand on her

hip yellin’ at daddy to come help. I thought about being stuffed between two pairs of legs

swingin’ in the breeze, clappin’ my hands when the fire engine came by. I closed my eyes and

saved these moments in my mind so I would never forget that they were real.

  

Red Lights

The winter wind was particularly dangerous that night, whipping through my hair and beckoning me over the edge. We took the back roads home for fear that the interstate would be too intense and laden with cops ready to pull us over. With each twist and turn, Paul kept asking me if I was okay. I told him I was fine even though I felt so crazed that I couldn’t even tilt my head back on the passenger seat. The world was just a bunch of moving pictures dancing in front of my eyes.
    It had been the second time I’d smoked but the first time I’d actually gotten high. The first time had been a week before in Paul’s best friend’s room. After we’d passed around the circle a few times, I noticed everyone had the same laugh. I was shaking and afraid I would look like an amateur so I barely inhaled a thing. Even so, I coughed enough to require a bottle of Dasani as a suppressant.
  That same night we went for sushi, listening to Jay-Z’s “My First Song” on the way there. Although I kept claiming that I wasn’t high, I stared at the table intently, examining what appeared to be three-dimensional glitter floating amidst a myriad harbor of black.
    “Stop it,” Paul said, punching my arm.
    “What?”
    “Brooke, if you saw someone staring at a table, like you are, what would you think?”
    “I would think that they were enjoying the scenery... Have you seen this table?!”
    Paul rolled his eyes and started laughing. He knew he couldn’t be mad at me.   
   “I can’t take you anywhere,” he said.
   Since there wasn’t much else to do except eat, we went for ice cream. And cake. A disgruntled employee named Chip took our orders with nary a smile. His behavior convinced me that the visor he was sporting was stretched a bit too tight. I wanted to say something delightful like, “Thank you, Chip! You’ve put me in a chipper mood!” but alas, I refrained. Tonight wasn’t the night to be an asshole.
   Paul affixed himself next to me on a red swivel-style stool at a long table out-looking the dark street. His eyes were careful and reminded me of our last New Year’s together when I asked him to play Joni Mitchell. I’d finished a beer, a bottle of wine, and a few glasses of champagne before I started crying and asking him questions about God. He played my favorite song as I mimicked every word in my best folksy tone.
   “...I met a womaaaann, she had a mouth like yours, she knew your life, she knew your devils and your deeds and she said, gooooo to him, stay with him if you can, but be prepared to bleeeeeeeed...”
   I could feel Paul’s fingers on my neck inviting me into his mild embrace. It had felt like years since I’d truly slept.
    Paul spun his feet around in his swivel chair. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”
   “Oh nothing,” I said, “Just memories.”
   That night, I starting laughing on the way home in Paul’s car. Here I was, this scholarship student with grades that qualified for the Dean’s List every semester. Even in high school I’d been diligent, almost to the point of being antisocial. I had a group of a few close friends but pretty much only allowed myself out of the house for a special occasion like a birthday or something. The thought absolutely tickled me that a personality as anal-retentive as mine would ever participate in mind-altering activities.
    Our high, or whatever it was I’d experienced, had worn off by then. I felt kind of gypped. I didn’t ask anybody questions about life. I hadn’t attempted to write poetry. No infinite truth had been revealed to me. The only thing I’d gained was unsuppressed hunger and a couple of pounds that would be gained in response. I decided that I would smoke again but the next time around I would ask questions. And write a poem.

                                ***

    A week later, I found myself in the booth of a dimly lit bar, tequila sloshing in my condensation-beaded glass. My wild chestnut locks were a stark contrast to the primness of my black cable-knit cardigan. It had been a long week at school and work and it was nice to remain stagnant for once. One more five hour shift and the weekend was mine to claim. Since I worked so much, I tried to do all of my homework for the week on the weekend. That meant hundreds of pages of reading, more than a few papers and responses to write, quizzes and tests to study for... my head was spinning. What happened to high school where your homework was to read a section in a textbook instead of an entire chapter?
   It had taken me so long to finish my margarita that Paul had gotten up for another beer. When he returned, I smiled at the proper way he set his Guinness with care upon the white square of a napkin.
   “Brooke, we should play some pool.”
   “Um, do you remember the last time I played pool? The number five ball went flying off the table towards that bulging blonde woman with all those arm tattoos. She was pissed.”
    Paul chuckled, “That was pretty funny. I don’t think she was pissed... c’mon, please?”
    Standing up from the table, Paul followed my silent yes over to the table where he inserted a few quarters. The sound of smooth polished granite, crashing and rolling together, resounded throughout the pool table’s core. Paul arranged the balls accordingly and pushed the filled triangle up and down upon the green felt until he was satisfied that they would remain still. With the opening break, Paul sent the colorful little spheres reeling.
  We were both distracted at the buzzing of his cell phone, which alerts the recipient of any message with a reverberating vibration and the glow of a red light. I leaned against my pool stick, watching a smile form as he read the message.
   “If I were able to obtain some Mary Jane tonight, would you be willing to partake?”
   “Absolutely.”
   Leaving the bar, we headed towards a small house in an abandoned-looking field. It struck me as the sort of place that could very well have a barn containing rusty blades hanging from the ceiling. I half expected Jessica Biel to come running around the corner in a bloodied white wife beater.   
   We acquired what we came for and promptly began to smoke it. This time my lungs were greedy and I inhaled as much as I could hold at one time. I held my breath like an Olympic swimmer (no Michael Phelps pun intended) until I was ready to release the smoke into the atmosphere. Everything felt the same except time, which felt like it was moving painfully slowly. I was disappointed until my knees buckled when I stood up. I leaned on Paul for support as we made our way to the car, blazed out of our minds.
    “I feel so funny,” I said, staring straight ahead, unable to move my neck.
    “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said, looking at me with concern.
    “You’re worried about me again, aren’t you? I terrify you, don’t I?”
    “No. Well, you did at one point. I didn’t know if you were doing things for your own reasons or because you wanted to rebel against your parents. You are doing things because you want to, aren’t you?” His voice sounded like a counselor.
  “Yeah. Over this break, I realized that I’m tired of being afraid to act a certain way because my parents want me to. I’m not the Republican Baptist doctor they painstakingly hoped I would become.”   “I’m glad you’re not a Republican Baptist doctor. I don’t think I would’ve liked you if you were. I like who you are. I like how you think.” He smiled and looked over at me. “I thought you were a Republican when I met you.”
   “I’m a Virgo,” I contested with conviction, then succumbing to laughter. Paul was a Libra, always seeking balance.
   I rolled my neck to the left, head still posted on the back of the passenger seat headrest. Through childlike eyes I spied Paul’s right profile. “Why do you think I’m pretty?”
  Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached for the mirror protected by those little sun-blocking flaps on both sides of the vehicle. “Look at those blue eyes,” he said.
   I looked up with a limp vigor. “Do you like blue eyes?” I asked.
   “I like your blue eyes.”
   Smiling, I popped open his glove compartment in search of paper and a pen. A moment like this would most certainly produce an inspired piece of poetry. I observed the world around me and wrote down everything I saw. The car stopped moving. After stumbling inside, I fell onto
my bed and into the delicious slumber I had been craving.

***

    The sun wrapped its arms around me the next morning, rays brighter than I had ever imagined. I held my hands out in front of me to determine whether or not I was real. Everything felt warm. I had to be real. With this apt conclusion, I turned to an awake and amused Paul.
    “Do you remember writing a poem last night?”
    “Of course I do. Let me see it.”
     On a white sheet of paper in bumpy, inky letters were the words, “RED LIGHTS!”
 

How to claim la vie boheme

You should probably start out by listening to every Simon & Garfunkel album you can get your hands on. Chicks like sensitive guys. Keep to yourself. When you’re quiet, it makes everything you say a little bit more important than those people that talk all the time. When you suddenly break the silence by saying, “Life is like one big garden. We always reap what we sow, you know?” someone will almost always respond by saying, “That’s real heavy, man.”
    Another excellent idea is to purchase tight male jeans. Or if you have the physique for it, women’s jeans. Wear plaid shirts that you find in someone’s hamper and when they ask about it, say that you live in the moment. You don’t have time to be restricted by societal “norms.” Especially if it requires you to do laundry.
    Go to every poetry reading your city offers. It’s usually free, which works out since you don’t have a job. You can chat up hipster chicks and bash them all to your male friends. “I need a girl who wants me for my mind, you know, man.” They’ll all shake their heads in agreement. Buy yourself a soy latte. You’ve earned it. Put on your aviator sunglasses and go for a walk in the park even though it’s dark. Sun don’t set on a badass.
    While you’re in the park, marvel at the homeless guy who has constructed a cardboard pueblo. Nod at him in recognition. You are all brothers. Take out that recycled-materials notebook we all know you have with you and jot down observations that you will later make into a poem that will make chicks swoon.
    Go home and lay down on your makeshift bed, you know the bed that is really just a few blankets on the floor and a pillow. Stare at the books you have stacked in all your windowsills. Each one of them is scribbled in incessantly. You never know when you’ll need a good close reading on Franny and Zooey. If someone asks you to borrow one these books, tell them to get their own. You are secretly fearful that they will steal your genius.
    Make your own garden. When your mother stops by for a visit, hide the garden because she’ll probably know what it is that you’re growing.
    Hey man, once you do all that, you’re headed in the right direction. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for years. I just wish I would’ve had someone like me to get advice from, you know. Take care, man.

In Less than Ten Minutes

    “Ooohh please! Can we please please please?” she said, tugging at his arm.
    Elijah knew better than to give in right away. Jessica liked a challenge. That’s why she picked him.
    “No, this is lame. Can’t you see that? It costs three dollars and you don’t even get anything for it.”
    “What do you mean you don’t get anything for it? You get three dollars worth of priceless memories,” she said, raising her eyebrows, and leaning into him.
    “That doesn’t make any sense, what you just said. Three dollars isn’t priceless.” Elijah smiled, looking into Jessica’s face. He took a stray piece of hair and tucked it behind her ear.
    “Whatever. You know what I mean. Are you seriously going to deny me this girly right?”
    Elijah paused and reached for the slim leather wallet in his back pocket.
    “Thank you thank you thank you!”
    Jessica smoothed her long blonde hair and rubbed the skin below her eyes to make sure her makeup hadn’t settled into the subtle lines in her face. She was significantly shorter than Elijah, significantly shorter than everyone really, but especially him. He stood at 6’3’’.
    Elijah inserted each crisp dollar, one after the other and smoothed the wrinkles on his button-down shirt. Jessica loved when he pushed the sleeves up to reveal the fleshy whiteness of his forearms.
    “Duck down! You’re too tall!” Jessica mandated.
    Taking her advice, Elijah bent his knees to reach her level. He put his arm around her, in an attempt to make her feel safe. Once the countdown from 3-2-1 reached its final moment, Elijah put Jessica in a headlock and rubbed the top of her head furiously with his balled up fist. Flash.
    She screamed, swatting him away, but laughing all the same. Flash.
    Elijah wrapped his arms around Jessica, allowing her no ability to struggle. Flash.
    “You jerk!” she screamed, as he lifted her over his shoulder, in a fireman’s carry, her backside being the lens’ main focus. Flash.
    Elijah returned Jessica to standing position. She began straightening the frizzy protrusion on her crown and tugging at her shirt, which had been raised to reveal her torso at Elijah’s rough-housing. They were both exhilarated, out of breath from laughter. Jessica ran up to Elijah, balled fists ready, playfully punching him in the chest.
    A couple of minutes later, the two strips of photos were deposited below the machine. There was a perforation down the middle, so they each could keep a copy. Elijah picked them up, separated them, keeping one for himself, he handed the other to Jessica. She looked at the images lovingly, grabbing Elijah’s hand.
    It was the best three dollars he’d ever spent.

Obsession

Gazing into the mirror, Sylvio quietly combed his black, oily mustache with his fingers. At this point in time, it was really more of a caterpillar than a piece of facial hair. Encircling his left arm was a barbed wire tattoo. After he slipped into his white wife beater, Sylvio flexed his muscles one last time and turned off the bathroom light.
    Sylvio was a carnivorous Capricorn who owned and managed the local burger joint. The job provided him with enough dinero to afford a small house, but not enough to upgrade from his  navy 1984 Oldsmobile. It wasn’t as if he would ever want to get rid of it anyway. In his prime, Sylvio entertained the company of many chicks in that Oldsmobile, blasting Led Zeppelin IV with all the windows down. In many ways, Sylvio was trapped in 1984. That was the year Linda left him for good.
    Sylvio and Linda had known each other growing up in Southern California. They went to high school together and had their first sexual experiences together. Linda was the first girl Sylvio ever truly loved. She had tried convincing him over and over again to move to New York with her. Sylvio had other plans. He was going to start a rock ‘n roll band.
    Twenty-some years later, Sylvio had settled into his position as owner of an In-N-Out Burger in Oakland. It had taken him years to attain the title, partly because he was lazy but also because of his reputation as a skeezy guy. After numerous changes in management, Sylvio was finally accepted into the hierarchy of hamburgers. The man that signed him off as official owner had a mustache, too.
    The majority of Sylvio’s female employees resembled Linda in one way or another. Many of them were blonde and large-breasted. Sylvio was notorious for cornering them in hopes to “talk about their careers” and getting close enough for them to smell the leftover whiskey on his breath. The In-N-Out Burger had a high turnover rate, as any self-respecting girl would not put up with Sylvio’s behavior, which wasn’t quite harassment, but pretty darn close.
    Sounds of neighborhood dogs barking in the evening could be heard every night Sylvio pulled into his driveway. He would slip out of his polyester uniform, into a pair of cheap flannel night pants, and pop the top on a Keystone Light. Sinking into his easy chair, the blue of the TV light waltzing upon the walls, he would think of her. It was a ritual to him; the only thing that could calm him down.
    Some nights he would think back to the times they skipped class to smoke in the parking lot. The sun seemed to dance on Linda’s neck when she leaned back on the hood of his car and laughed. Other nights he would remember the first time they ever made love. It was at Linda’s house, upstairs in her bedroom. She was scared her father would find out. The next morning, she came chasing after Sylvio as he walked out onto her front lawn. She jumped into his arms, barefoot, the green grass staining her feet as she told him she loved him.
    All this, everyday.

My first time...

    The first time I heard “Good Morning” by Kanye West, I was in Ruth Ross’ passenger seat smoking my first cigarette. Kelsey was in the back seat behind Ruth, her long blond hair whipping across her face in the cool winter air. Ruth rolled the windows down to let the smoke out and turned the music up so loud I could hear my own heart beating. We were young and invincible then and more importantly, we were best friends.
     Ruth was almost more of a folk tale than a friend. We looked to her for stories of getting drunk on Prom night and making out with a guy who didn’t remember; of smoking pot out of a cored apple; of driving to Chicago on a school night to hear her older brothers’ jazz band play. All of these things were foreign to Kelsey and I but we were enamored of it nonetheless.
    That night, we attended a banquet for the quiz bowl and chess team. Kelsey was the quiz bowl captain. I joined for fun and was surprisingly good at it. Ruth signed up to hang out with Kelsey and I after school, but even after paying the club’s $50 dollar fee, she never showed up. Come the end of the season, our sponsors held a pizza banquet as a way of congratulating us. They also rented the local college’s student activities center, which was complete with a bowling alley, pool tables, and an air of cheap sophistication.
    We ate pizza, we bowled, we laughed. “I’m feeling a little thirsty,” I told my friends and walked to the snack bar in my goofy rented shoes. Upon approaching, I ran into one of the chess team guys, a guy I’d had a couple of on-and-off again flings with, a guy I solely referred to as “The Atheist.” He smiled at me and offered to pay for my Coke. We walked around and talked for awhile. I thought back to the summer we walked around the water and he sat with me while I got a henna tattoo on my ankle. We’d only kissed a couple of times.
    Kelsey and Ruth started giving me those far away thumbs-up signs. I shooed them off with my hand. The Atheist and I divulged our most recent exploits and settled back into our old comfort. We sat down onto a burgundy couch and he put his arm around me. This night was magical. Maybe he would kiss me again. The tension was there. Nothing needed to come from it.
    I leaned into the Atheist and thanked him for my Coke. He looked down into my face and nodded in recognition. I kept staring at him with hopeful eyes.
    “What? What are you looking at?”
    “I don’t know. I was just...I thought maybe...”
    “It’s never going to happen. You understand that, right?”
    Suddenly, I broke free from his embrace and straightened my posture. With a silent face, I stood up and walked away. He called after me, in a condescending way. But he didn’t have the right, anyway. I was six months older.
    Ruth and Kelsey were curious to hear of my Coke and conversation with the Atheist but all I could say was,
    “I wanna get out of here.”
    Ruth peered off into the distance in thought. I could tell she had something mischievous in mind. “Hey, do you guys wanna go smoke in my car?”
    We all looked from face to face in our circle of three. We picked up our coats and skipped out the door.

Object

The old wooden jewelry box had the feel of an advent calendar. Each compartment
opened to reveal something new for another day. It had been passed down from the 70’s and
didn’t stand much taller than 3/4 of a foot. The rich mahogany was complemented by the floral
fabric adorning the far sides of each tassel. The material looked as if it had been dipped in coffee
and left to set for a few days. The brass tassels could be pulled to engage the hinged doors,
revealing a myriad of of little droors and knobs. When carried, the box covered the entirety of
my torso and didn’t flaunt much else besides it’s little knobbed feet, like the claws on an antique
bath tub.
    Inside, a wreath-like pull revealed a mustard-yellow organized in rolls, like ribbons of velvet. This compartment held rings. Just above it, a square box with a circular knob, concealed bracelets and other larger pieces of armory. To the right of these compartments, were four similarly shaped rectangular drawers. On the far right side was an empty tall space, with a circular spinner attached to the top, to hold necklaces.
    My mother had always had a strained relationship with her mother. When my mother tried out for high school cheerleading, my grandmother told her she would never make it. But she did. My mom’s family moved around until they finally settled in a small town that contained nearly all their kin. Each person was at least a cousin, twice-removed. Imagine bringing a guy home to mom only to have her recognize him. When it seemed like they would all but go insane, my mother and grandmother found solace in one another. My grandmother bought my mom a jewelry box for Christmas.
    Flash forward ten years and you’ll find my mother and grandmother at odds. Over some stupid reason I was too young to understand, my mother and her mother decided not to speak. Things stayed this way for another seven or eight years. We discovered my grandfather had Alzheimer’s so the whole not-speaking-because-of-pride issue seemed a whole lot more trivial and eventually blew over. My grandmother and mother started talking on the phone nearly everyday. They started visiting one another more. They sent cards every holiday they couldn’t be there in person.
    One year my mother gave me a jewelry box that her mother had given her back in the 70’s. Before, it seemed like she held onto it, unable to let it go, unable to let her mother go. But now that she had her mother back, a simple object was unnecessary. Now the jewelry box sits on the floor of my bedroom, containing all of the little trinkets I’ve collected over my lifetime. Its rich mahogany contains the time-worn face of my grandmother, who apologetically cries for the time she lost in the lives of my mother and I. In the coffee-colored floral, I see the mother that I oftentimes feud with, but also the woman who smiles in my success.

The Blue Room

I think it's time to share a bit about the blue room.

The first time I moved out of state was at age 14. I left my hometown, the state in which I was born, and all the people I'd ever known. I was Illinois-bound for high school. I thought I'd live there forever, too.

My parents bought a big house. It had way too many rooms. Rooms they filled with spare boxes and things they refused to get rid of, things I called "clutter." I couldn't stand the idea of a junk room. The feeling of it littered my soul.

But I had my own bedroom. My parents let me pick any color I wanted. I picked a vivid, dark turquoise. I had a reversible rainbow-colored bedspread with large polka dots on one side and stripes on the other. I had a small nightstand with two droors and a tall standing lamp with rainbow shades. I didn't have a bed frame but I did have a double-layered mattress cushion that acted as my bed. The very fact that it lay so close to the floor just added to the whole minimalist bohemian feel.

I remember at night turning the lights down low, positioning myself in the center of my mattress and reading The Catcher in the Rye for the first time. I was so into it. It became my favorite book for awhile.

No matter how crazy the rest of the house was, my room was a whole other world that could envelope me.  I could go anywhere. My mattress was my magic carpet.

Come senior year of high school, my parents informed me that we would once again be collecting our lives into cardboard boxes and moving away. This time to Kentucky. I was thrilled. I loved Kentucky. The two times I'd seen it, I realized I could attend college there and start a new life. I would miss my best friends dearly but they were moving away too. This could be my new start. Maybe I could live there forever.

Most of this time, my parents and I argued incessantly. In particular, my mother and I. She was hurtful, berating, and degrading. I tried to tell myself it was the medication talking but my conscience kept saying, "If you were a mother, it wouldn't matter how medicated you were, you would never say something like that to your daughter." And I knew it was right.

Once the house went on the market, things escalated from bad to manic. On Christmas break my parents bought two buckets of shiny white paint and told me that I would be spending my time making my room neutral. By that point in time, I'd obtained actual furniture; a bed frame, two night stands, and a TV station. Everything was moved out except for my bed, which was just scooted to the room's center. The carpets were laden with newspaper and old adds for electronics or what-have-you. We spent a couple days trying to cover the walls but streaks still showed through. It was like a prolonged torture. If they were going to take the walls away from me, they should've done it fast, rip-away-a-band-aid style. With a couple coats of primer, plus more white paint the walls were ready to dry into neutralization.

I had to sleep on the couch for a week or so. I remember my dad getting mad at me for staying up late and reading Memoirs of a Geisha. After he went back to bed, I popped the movie version of Memoirs in the DVD player and turned the volume down low. I also remember watching Shopgirl. That movie had such a weird mood but it captured exactly how I felt. So I loved it for that.

One day after a huge blow-up fight with my mother over God-knows-what I ran up to my room and locked the door. There were still paint fumes, newspapers on the floor and the windows were cracked. I played the very first song by The Doors that appeared on my iPod and let it play through in its entirety. I didn't come out the whole day. I remember feeling the hunger rumbling between my ribs and how good it felt. My path to enlightenment had to include suffering. I was freezing but I didn't reach for a blanket. I just stayed in the same position on my back all day, staring underneath my bed. They'd taken the blue room from me and they weren't even sorry for it.

Recently in my life, I've been experiencing a similar chain of events. I feel like my parents are trying to metaphorically paint my room again. For some reason, I've not met their expectations so I feel disconnected and numb when I'm around them. They're keeping me from people and things I love by the all-too-common "you-live-under-my-roof" rule. I feel suffocated, made to bury my own grave, made to paint my blue room white. I keep making preparations to move out but my attempts just fall short at this stage in my life. I don't know when or how I will get out, yet I know it necessary. It's terrifying to imagine a life independent with all my own costs.

In the meantime, I'm under my bed, atop newspaper, winter windows cracked, blasting The Doors, starving.

How To Communicate in the 21st Century

Just to prove that I am making progress in the real world... here is another story for my creative writing class. Please enjoy or tear to pieces, your choice.  :)

How To Communicate in the 21st Century

  Email. Instant messaging. Facebook. Texting. All things we didn’t really have ten years ago. And even if we did, it didn’t take over our lives as much as it does now. Sure, there was that 1998 Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan film “You’ve Got Mail,” indicating the role email had in popular culture. The Internet Movie Database only gave it 6.3/10 stars though, so I think we can safely strike that from our conversation.
 Okay, sure, I guess we’re not really participating in a conversation now, are we? I’m simply typing out words that I hope will make you smile. That’s what you should do when you text. Wait. Re-read the last message you received over and over again, hoping it will reveal some sort of cryptic message that you didn’t pick up in the last twenty-two times. Then check your last sent message to see if you actually sent it. Over-analyze what you wrote and wonder if you should have added an emoticon. Things like “I’m going to kill you :)” are a bit lighter than “I’m going to kill you.” Wonder if the person on the other end is emotionally immature because they don’t understand that you didn’t really intend to kill them. You are just a 135-pound white girl.
  Another great thing to do is bring up things you texted about in everyday conversation as if it were a quote from “The Office” or something. And when the person in question that you were texting says, “Huh?” you should probably explain it in great detail. This will jog the person’s memory and make you look cooler than ever before. This is also fun to do at parties. Explain it to the people that weren’t a part of the text exchange. They will probably think you tell good stories.
 It’s definitely a good idea to text other people while you’re at said party. Let other people know that you made a fool out of yourself. When they don’t respond right away, sulk into a corner, sit down and cross your legs. Rest your head on your palm, as if you are awaiting news from the Pope. When people look at you quizzically and ask, “Why aren’t you at the party?” say, “I’m talking to someone important right now.” When they start to ask “Who?” hold up your finger and say, “Hold on...” and pretend that they are calling you. Get up and start walking around with one hand over your ear and the other holding the phone.
 When you get home, you should change your Facebook status to, “...got crunk tonight!” even though you don’t really like alcohol. People will think you are street smart if you say things like “crunk.” They will think that maybe you have friends from different cultures and that it’s okay for you to use such nuanced phrases. When people “Like” your status, click on their page and assess whether or not you are cooler than they are. If so, browse their pictures and see what sorts of things they do. Also, read about their interests and favorite music. Go listen to the bands you haven’t heard of and plan to do something cool like this person does. Go to a hippie music festival and walk around without shoes. Bring a hula hoop and wear a crochet top. Go to a jazz club. It seems like being cool revolves around music no one listens to.
    You should also try to remember as many people from the party that you can so you can request them as friends. That way, people will think, “Wow, she must be well-liked.” This will also give you more material for your specialized “creeping.” Find out about as many people as you can so that way, when you see them, you can bring up nonchalant interests that you both have in common. Say things like, “These guys remind me of Au Revoir Simone.” When the guy you’re talking to says, “Why would you say that? These guys sound nothing like Au Revoir Simone. Au Revoir Simone is an all-girl’s band” say that you were just thinking abstractly. Take a mental note, so as not to make another similar faux pas in the future.
    If you are ever to send an email, which really, is becoming almost obsolete nowadays unless for official and timely business, such as setting up meetings or asking questions about assignments, try to remember proper etiquette. Think about whom you are sending the email. Try to imagine how they would form an email. If it’s official, say to a teacher or boss, address them in the most respectful way you deem fit. Do not type, “Dear Dragon Lady...” and then delete it once you decide how to start your message. Sometimes you will forget to hit delete.
  Keep your messages short and to the point, but try not to be too sterile. Try to add your own voice but don’t inject too much personality. Your superiors hate it when you have a personality. Especially in emails. They will think, “Who does this person think they are getting an attitude in their email?” And this my friend, is a severe disadvantage. You should instead try to say something like, “Professor Jones, I was unsure of which pages you assigned for homework. You mentioned page 437 but also page 525. Could you please clarify? Thanks.” Mentioning those page numbers makes it seem like you were paying attention in class even though you were on Facebook the whole time. Your professor will appreciate the extra effort.
    For the most part, you will not be sending email to friends. With the advent of Facebook and texting, email is merely the “snail mail” of the electronic world. Believe me, everyone will be checking their phone or Facebook before they check an email. But if you so choose to kick it old school, try to be cordial and memorable, since you are kind of wasting the person’s time. If it hadn’t been for your message, they could have put check marks in all the little boxes and deleted all the junk. Also, make sure you have a point but don’t make it too important because it might go unanswered and the person will feel bad once they get it a few months later. Don’t feel bad. They have a lot going on in their life.
  If you happen to be in middle school, God forbid, you might want to take up the habit of instant messaging. You can create a screen name that really shows what kind of person you are like, “Stargirl574569064” or “1997mYsOuLbLeEdSbLaCk1997.” Find it interesting that other people out there have souls that bleed black who were born in 1997 too. Ask people if they will be chatting after school. Think about forming a chat room where you talk about how totally cute Justin Beiber is and how you are so going to be Mrs. Beiber one day. Use an abundance of emoticons and create a profile for yourself that showcases your favorite quotes. Try to think of something interesting that sets you apart from everyone else. Roll your eyes when people ask who John Lennon is.
  You might use Facebook chat as a form of instant messaging once in awhile. Use the “Hide” feature when that crazy girl from high school is on and wants to talk about her cat. Wait until that little green light appears next to the name of the guy you like and become suddenly “visible.” Ask him what his plans are for the weekend. Hint about the movie you want to go see and how you’re not busy on Sunday. Send him your phone number so you can begin texting and overanalyzing everything that is said. Try to maintain an air of mystery and say you must go once plans are confirmed. This will also help you make a swift exit from the electronic perils of the Cat Lady.
    There will be times in your life when you have to use a telephone. You already have a cell phone for texting so you kind of get the idea. A telephone is this thing you hold up to your ear and sometimes sounds come out. You can also talk into this device. Oftentimes, you’ll have to use the telephone to make appointments at the doctor’s office or to call the bank when an unusual purchase at the “Horse Shack” appears on your credit card statement. Usually you can just have your mom do it but the bank will typically want to talk to you personally since you’re over 18 and all. Unless you’re not 18, in which case see the above descriptions about instant messaging.
  If you’re in the real world and you’re not busy speaking with your fingers, try not to use texting/Facebook/IM lingo. If someone says something funny, don’t say, “LOL” because you are laughing-out-loud and it will cause people to look at you with furrowed brows. Also, please refrain from using “LMAO,” “ROFL,” or “BRB” vocally. Even if you’re just saying these things ironically, people won’t understand. People will call you a tool. Tools don’t get invited to cool parties that people talk about in their Facebook status. It’s the twenty-first century. People do not understand irony. Go easy on them.
    Sometimes you are faced with near-death situations, i.e. your cell phone battery dies or your laptop is at home. Have no fear. There is a simple solution to this conundrum. But please, and I do beg please, proceed with caution. If this task is not carried out by proper procedure, it could lead to a catastrophic undertaking of mythic proportions. Look around at the world. The people. The trees. Notice things. Smell the wind. Taste the sun. Take a walk. Do anything interactive.
    Here comes the hard part. When you see someone you know, it’s tempting to look down and pretend to be texting. You don’t know what to say to them in real life. Texting is this fantasy world where you can think about what you say before you send it. Facebook is this world where you can take pictures of yourself at really strange angles or in sepia tone to hide traces of acne. You can be publicly interested in only the most “hipster” of things. You don’t have to tell people that you love Ghost Whisperer. Look this person in the eye, and yes indeed, this is suspiciously simple, say, “Hello.” Have a conversation. Ask questions. Smile. Laugh. Realize that you might actually enjoy this.

This Is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

For those of you who have time... or who care... here is the most recent short story I wrote for class. Any feedback would be much appreciated, as I am trying to refine my skills as a writer. The hardest part is trying to say something without saying it...Thanks for your time! (FYI: The title is borrowed from a short story by Raymond Carver... we were to use it to title our own creative pieces and use it as inspiration).

"This Is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love"

    The poppies bloomed red the summer that I died. They littered the countryside as if they were sunflowers or some other sturdy form of vegetation. The very sight of them was overwhelming, like walking into an invisible film of heavy cologne, lining the insides of your lungs and penetrating your alveoli. My death wasn’t his fault; it was a result of love and a certain martyrdom I felt myself responsible. Living would have only meant waking to every cold, sunless morning with the burden of guilt heavy upon my being. Yes, it was better to have died.

    Darren was of average height and build when I met him in 2010. His shoulders were broad but other than that there was nothing particularly distinct about his appearance. His smile knew how to melt a mother’s heart, allowing me to extend my curfew and go on more excursions than I had ever been before. At twenty-two, he was fully aware of who he was and what he believed. I could have only aspired to be like that.
    My hair was a curly shade of honey back then and my hips were slightly larger than the girls my age. I was like some awkward column with small breasts and these protruding hips that no amount of pilates could ever repair. I was my parents’ only daughter and at twenty-one, I was living the life of a Victorian lady, pressed and starched into restrictive corsets. My parents wanted me to play the part of a proper woman, go to medical school, and adhere solely to the Catholic faith. All I wanted was to figure out who I was outside of the world of politely wall-papered barriers and artificial floral arrangements. One glorious day in the park would change everything.

    In a pale pink lace dress, I opened my front door as the sunshine greeted my face with a warm embrace.
    “I’ll be back,” I yelled to my seemingly quiet house, one foot on the ground.
    “Hold on just a minute, young lady,” my father called through a gruff tone. If it hadn’t been for his profession, I would have thought he’d had a burly beard.
    “Dad, I’m just going for a walk. Nothing bad is going to happen to me in the park.”
    He hesitated for a moment and sighed.
    “Do you have your cell phone? And don’t bring that silly iPod of yours. You need to be fully aware of your surroundings. Call me when you are on your way back.”
    “Okay, dad. Love you.” I smiled and kissed his smooth but time-worn cheek.
    “I love you too, Joan.”
    My father’s use of antiquated language indicated his desire to return to days of proper formality. Even the name he and my mother chose for me at birth was evocative of the past. My heart ached for the fact that he would never change. I loved both of my parents but sorely knew that I would never be that cookie-cutter image of a daughter they had painstakingly hoped I would become.
    On my way to the park, I greeted everyone I passed with a smile. My feet couldn’t take me fast enough to the world of green encircling a dark blue pond and a dirt path that I loved to swirl into a dusty cloud with my feet. When I finally approached the entrance, I conceded to nature’s way. Whatever was going to happen today was going to be new and exciting. I just had to let it happen.
    The first few laps had left my skin dewy and heart bounding with whimsy inside my chest. A moist wooden picnic bench seemed the only viable option to my winded state. Towards the water’s edge, a boy with broad shoulders and dark brown hair dragged a canoe up onto land. His white t-shirt and dark jeans reminded me of a modern-day James Dean and in my little old mind, I could only hope he was just as charming and rebellious.
    He looked back at me and smiled. I turned around to see if there was anyone behind me.
    “Yes, I was smiling at you,” he said, grinning, “What’s your name?”
    “Joan,” I said, pausing. “What’s yours?”
    “Darren.”
    “Nice to meet you Darren.”
    “And you as well.”
    He approached me and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, leaving behind a dusty trail. He extended his right arm in offering of a handshake and I stood up to kindly oblige. We stood there staring for a moment.
    “Are you going somewhere special?”
    “No,” I said quizzically, until I looked down. “Oh. This. No, I just threw something on this morning.”
    “Well, it’s not everyday a girl comes to a park wearing lace.”
    “That’s a fair assumption.”
    “Not saying it looks bad or anything. Just kind of peculiar. I kind of like it though. It’s different.” He stood staring at me for a moment. “Are you doing anything right now?”
    “Well actually, I have to get back. My parents are expecting me for dinner.”
    “Okay.” He sounded defeated and stood there for a moment before continuing, “You’re not just saying that to get rid of me, are you?”
    “No! No, that’s not what I’m trying to do. I really do have to get back!”
    “All right, Joan in the lace dress. I can see I’ve creeped you out enough for the day. I’ll leave you be.”
    “I wasn’t creeped out. Believe me. It was a pleasure to have met you!” I said taking off into the distance. I stopped and turned when I was far enough away to shout but still close enough to be heard. “You should ask me out sometime. My last name is Donahue. Look me up on Facebook.” Then I turned to run away, flushed and embarrassed, stirring up dust with my shoes.

    Twenty years later, Darren and I had been married for sixteen years. My mother had fallen in love with his boyish charm but my father was wary of his financial inabilities to fully support me in the way he believed I should be supported. “Foolish.” That’s what my parents called me when I packed my adolescence into twelve cardboard boxes. “Regretful.” That’s the adjective my parents used to describe my decision to walk down the aisle in a Buddhist ceremony. Darren and I preferred the idea of a ceremony that focussed on the purest states of love and devotion over tradition and formality.
    Early life together saw us through two apartments and finally a modest home with red shutters. Darren and I had two children, a thirteen-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl. Our boy Zachary had been difficult to handle at that age, as he was bringing home poor grades and citing a disinterest in school. I was worried our seven-year-old, Hannah, would follow in his example. The toughest aspect of our relationship was learning to channel frustration into constructive criticism.
    “Why wasn’t Zachary at soccer practice today?” Darren questioned, walking through the door in his blue pants and shirt with the name “Darren” embroidered in cursive upon the chest. His hands were covered in black grease.
    “His grades are down, you know that,” I said, rubbing the hair away from my forehead. I began massaging my temples.
    “It’s not bad enough to miss practice! The coach only has them sit out if they’re failing. He’s not failing anything yet!”
    “Yet. Our son’s education shouldn’t be the judgment call of a coach.”
    “Then whose judgment call is it? Yours? I haven’t had any say in this situation. Damn it, Joan, you’re acting just like your parents.”
    My eyes filled with tears, as I looked penetratingly through him. I placed my hands upon the kitchen table, slid out of my chair, and walked solemnly through the hallway and out the front door. My breath turned cold and white in the night’s biting darkness. The door cracked open and Darren walked out. I felt him crouch down as he peered into my face. 
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. I just feel like I’ve been struggling to make ends meet lately... Your dad was right. I’m not able to support you financially and I hate it that he’s right. I’ve been so tense...”
    “Darren, you know I don’t care about that. I’m fine working two jobs. We’ve had a lot harder times when we were first starting out. Do you remember when I was working third shift stocking canned vegetables and teaching in the day? At least both of my jobs are in the daytime now,” I said smiling, but still frustrated. “Tell me how you feel about this situation with Zach.”
    “I don’t know. I guess I just understand how he feels. I felt the same way at his age. I didn’t go to college because I hated school so much...I just want him to be happy.”
    “So do I but there comes a point in time when you have to make a decision to do what is truly best for your children. You graduated high school, right? Your parents pushed you to do that  and aren’t you glad for it? You wouldn’t have found a job without that diploma.”
    “I know.”
    “I’m not saying he has to go to college or be a lawyer. I’m just saying that he needs to graduate high school without D’s and F’s.” I paused for a moment. “Maybe you could sit down and talk to him. Lord knows he won’t listen to me. He looks up to you though. Use that to your advantage.”
    “I will. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’re the best thing in my life and here I am treating you like a stranger.”
    “We’re working on it. Every day. You and me.”
    Darren lifted me up off of the ground and pressed his mouth to mine, like he had for years. His chapped lips were irrelevant and the grease stains we’d discovered on the back of my clothes as we walked indoors didn’t bother me as it normally would have. Hannah had pressed her face up to the glass door while we were outside, leaving slimy smudges and fingerprints. We were greeted indoors with exaggerated kissing noises from both of the children. When night descended and everyone had fallen asleep, Darren laid me down upon our bed and with his lips slowly apologized for his words.

    In fifteen more years, I was in and out of the hospital for shots and IVs to treat my illness. I had noticed that the muscles in my legs felt unusually weak, so it didn’t necessarily come as a surprise to me when I collapsed for the very first time. I was losing sensation in my body and couldn’t control my movement. My co-workers didn’t know what was wrong so they called an ambulance to take me to the hospital where they took a few MRIs and discovered some unusual lesions in my brain. Then using the largest needle I have ever seen in my life (and I’ve had an epidural) the doctors, in their pristine white lab coats, extracted cerebrospinal fluid from my back that confirmed the doctor’s suspicions: I had multiple sclerosis, a chronic disease with no cure but an optimistic prognosis.
    “I’m going to do everything possible to make you as comfortable as can be,” Darren said, his face just a residue of the man I married, his hair a salt and pepper gray.
    “I know you will. It was only a matter of time before they told me something was wrong with me. I’m fifty-six years old and I’ve been healthy my whole life. Did you really expect me to get through life that easy?” I said, hoping to make him feel better. Instead, his face shriveled into a wrinkly contortion, as he choked back tears.
    “What am I supposed to tell the kids?” he asked.
    “Nothing. I’ll tell them myself. It’s not like I’m dying of cancer. I have this...illness...but I’m still going to live. I just have to get an IV once a month and go in for weekly shots. Nothing could be any worse than that giant needle they used on me before.”
    “You can’t just live like you used to, Joan. You have to be careful. You collapsed in front of a classroom of kindergartners, for Christ’s sake.”
    “It was the hallway, thank you very much.”
    “Same difference. You can’t just...you have to...”
    “I understand Darren, I do. But you have to let me live.”
    A single tear dripped from the pools that were his clear blue eyes, down into the weathered lines that defined his face.
    I was in and out of the hospital, in and out of those stupid polka-dot tablecloths that the health care professionals called “gowns,” and in and out of the bank with Darren, pleading for payment extensions and loans. Our savings had dwindled to nothingness and though Darren now managed his own garage, the benefits weren’t as stellar as we’d hoped. To add fuel to the ever-burning fire, the school board didn’t see me “stable” enough to continue teaching in one of their facilities. My days were reduced to watching re-runs of game shows, the blue glow of the television diminishing any shred of usefulness I felt I ever had. The doctors wrote me a script for Prozac.
    When Darren returned home from work, he assembled dinner, helped me into the bathtub, and gave me my prescriptions, a particular fatigue settling heavy upon his muscles. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, only to find Darren half-stretched out upon the couch, still in uniform, dribble forming at the corners of his mouth. The only thing keeping him going each day was a pot or two of coffee and the hope that one day something would magically come along and take the pain and trouble away. I heard him talking on the phone with Zachary one evening, now 28 and living in New York City.
    “I just don’t know how I’m going to go on like this forever. I’m not getting any sleep and it’s getting in the way of my work....” A phone lay on my nightstand so I picked it up.
    “Dad, I told you I can send some money. Just tell me how much you need. And just as soon as I get time off of work I’m going to come down to see you. Hannah’s schedule is a lot more flexible so we’ll try to come down together...Dad, really, how much money do you need?”
    “It’s too much, son. I can’t take your money. I’m just going to keep working. I’m going to take care of your mother the way she deserves. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep her alive and comfortable. Even if it kills me.”
    “Dad...”
    “Zach, really. It would be nice if you and your sister could come down soon. Your mom would really love to see you two. She misses you.”
    “I know, I feel so guilty that there’s nothing I can do...”
    “Come see her. That’s what she wants more than anything...” I hung up the phone, tears rolling down my cheeks.
    A few weeks later Zach and Hannah came to visit. Zach handed me a bouquet of red poppies, as Hannah walked over and enveloped me in her arms.
    “Oh, mom,” she said.
    “Don’t oh mom, me. I’m fine.”
    “Poppies!” Darren exclaimed, “Your favorite, aren’t they beautiful, Joan?”
    “Indeed, they are! Don’t I get a proper hug, Zachary? Or are you afraid MS is contagious?”
    Zach's face froze in surprise as he pursued my request.
    “Now, that’s more like it.”
    Zachary and Hannah told me their plans to pursue scholarships and opportunities at work. I didn’t want them to leave; I wanted them to put their lives down in a book I could hold close to my heart forever. Seeing my children beam with life’s bright promise made saying goodbye a lot less difficult than I’d expected. Darren and I waved to them front the doorstep, as I turned to go inside and retire for the night. Apologetically heavy eyes lay ingrained on Darren’s face.
    “Joan, I put some flags on the parts of the document you need to sign.” These were the bankruptcy papers. “I just can’t think of anything else to do.”
    Unwilling to focus on any such nuisance, I looked into the face of the man I had shared life with for over thirty-five years.
    “Do you remember the first day you saw me and I was wearing that silly pink dress?”
    His frown shifted to a grin and I could see his muscular arms protruding from that white t-shirt, dragging the canoe from the water, dust on his jeans.
    “Of course. I had never seen anyone so beautiful.”
    “You were so handsome. I was so nervous around you.”
    “I was shaking on the inside.”
    I paused for a moment, and without expecting Darren to understand, I muttered the most allusive phrase I could think of, “I don’t think two people could’ve been happier.”
    He laid his quiet body down beside me and we cried together, rocking ourselves to sleep for the final time. When I was certain Darren had succumbed to his peaceful slumber, I reached for the handkerchief I had neatly wrapped and tucked away in my bedside table. I’d been collecting those little green and white pills for a month and now cradled them in my hand. They were only anti-depressants, but in that moment they were weapons that would magically take the pain and trouble away. Sticky and sweaty in my palms the cylindrical marvels lay. Yes, I was certain this was what was supposed to happen. My sacrifice to Darren was life itself. In order for me to reconcile some semblance of peace, I needed to know that he was taken care of. Life was not forthcoming enough to provide a more favorable option.
     I leaned over to kiss Darren on the cheek. His old, tired body had deposited layers of adipose tissue in places he had been svelte before.
    “It was a pleasure to have met you.” I said, swallowing a handful of the only viable solution I could fathom to say thank you.

The Substitute People

Today I wrote a poem on a leaf. It was for my creative writing class. I must admit that when our professor says, "We're going to do an activity," it's never dull, always fascinating, and I feel like I grow as a writer.

Here's my epistolary leaf poem to my great-grandmother:

Dear You, 

I miss your water bed. The one we used to count the pieces of candy I'd collected from the parade. I miss your swing that faced the sun in the evening. I miss the smell of your house. I miss the Norman Rockwell calendar you kept in your kitchen. I miss Thanksgiving when everyone would come and no one could move around the place. I miss your love for Elvis, your family, and dirty jokes I didn't quite understand yet. I miss you calling me by my first and middle names and your fridge with all those magnets with the googly eyes. I cried the day you died and when I saw you one last time you made me realize that love exists in all of us even though you're gone. I miss your house that they tore down to make way for a parking lot. You always said you'd die before they put you in a nursing home. Touche, grandma. I never thought I'd cry like I did that day. The sun shone and my shoes sunk into the cemetery grass. I couldn't imagine ever getting over it. I'm older now. It's been almost seven years and one day I will have a house like yours. Filled with too many people and love.

Lauren Jean

And in other news, I went for another walk with my dog today but this time I took pictures! 

That last one is definitely my favorite. Sometimes it's hard to fathom that any of this is real. Do you all ever have those thoughts? Like, am I real? I'll hold my hands out in front of me and turn them from side to side just to determine that I am alive. And I realize that I had no control over being put here on this Earth. I am a ball of clay, shaped partially by God's hand, and the rest is up to me. Beauty is just, at times, overwhelming. 

On my walk today, there were smells of hot dogs and hamburgers, water and fertilizer. It's summer's last-ditch effort to hold it's ground.

 Julie and I awaiting the rest of the gang to arrive at my belated birthday gathering! We're forming the number "21" with our fingers. Clever? Insane? 

 Julie and (the other) Lauren

Bradley!

And to catch up on other recent events...

 Julie and I at the movie theatre, awaiting Easy A to start, last Friday.

"My creation, is it real?!" (Weird Science-Oingo Boingo) Why do everyone's eyes glaze over when I enthusiastically show them that I spent my Friday night decorating a gourd with the face of a jack-o-lantern? 

So, for tonight, I have plans to devour a chicken pot pie, curse my unwanted exodus from Facebook (I haven't been able to log on for like, a week), finish French homework, watch Boy Meets World and Glee!

And one more for the road... in the "what love should be" series...

I want Drew Baylor saying, "You shouldn't be the substitute for anybody," and then kissing me.

"Maybe so..."