Marjorie and Renee recovered their composure. They stopped laughing, the tension of the language lesson dissipated.
“That was fun,” said Renee, dabbing her eyes with a silk hankerchief.
“The lesson or the laughing,” Marjorie said. They were still sitting like schoolgirls at Renee’s dining room table.
“Both.” Renee got up and moved toward the sitting room. “Let’s have some tea. I’ll go ask for tea.”
Marjorie followed her friend. She plopped down in a soft chair and looked out at Renee’s garden, a fantasy of flowers and shrubs bearing red and orange blossoms. Even the path was lined with blooms as pale as fresh snow. How did Renee manage to make this all for herself, Marjorie wondered. She could barely point to the space around the pond and say flowers. Not which kind, not what grows here, not what is possible. The view of the garden was a view of her own failure. Another failure here. She lacked imagination. Had she ever have it.
“You look so serious, my dear. The tea will be here in a moment.” Renee said, and sat down opposite her friend. “So should we do our homework together now?”
“God, I can’t think any more. Eleven vowels, how will I remember them? Actually not the sounds, the letters.”
“The first time I studied with a tutor, I put my book next to my bed. That way I looked at the chart when I woke up and before I went to sleep.”
Another easy solution in Renee’s life. “Perhaps I’ll try that. I can imagine Ash’s comment when he sees these scribbling lines next to the bed.”
“He’s the one who wants you to speak.”
“Only because he doesn’t want to have to come fetch me from the police station when I get lost again.”
“Planning on getting lost, then?” They laughed together. It hadn’t been funny, getting lost. Marjorie had never been so frightened.
“What would have happened if they hadn’t found me, or they hadn’t figured out how to reach Ash.”
“Stop it, everything works out. There’s a way. Maybe another year here will wear down your fears.”
Now Marjorie did more than laugh. A choking sound came from her mouth. “Another year here and I’ll be mad.”
Now Renee laughed.
Friday, May 6, 2011
In the Middle of It - Jackie Davis-Martin
My daughter died in the middle of the night, in the middle of the month, in the middle of her life. The following things were tilted, off balance: her placement in the country—the opposite coast from where I was; my own placement in life—on the far side of a lifespan; her placement in her parents’ life--parents she’d never seen in the same house, her attention split between her mother and her father; the fact that she was the youngest in the arrangement she grew up in: her brother and I alternately nagging at her or leaning on her.
Her library’s physical position was at the far end of the upper hall of the elementary school; it sat over the offices, the gym, the cafeteria. It was the central hub of all the classes. The young, and younger, children rotated through each day, learning research on the bank of computers in the middle of the room, checking out books from the circulation desk, sitting around the bright blue rug with alphabet letters she’d persuaded the school to buy for the reading circle.
She was relegated to be in the middle of her friends’ romances, marriages, the family frictions, covering both sides, staying safe; she was never a central player.
It seems odd.
She absorbed my mistakes, my discards. She visited from time to time another man I’d married; she felt bad for him; she attended the funerals on my behalf of parents of my friends, of old relatives. She kept my old brownie pan, the colander, clinging to an order that would be there if she stayed in place; she kept peace with her brother, keeping us all in touch. When I stayed with her, he’d call, and she’d pass the phone to me, back to her, to me, to her.
I think she felt something would happen, something had to happen, if she just kept at it, kept up the balancing.
Her life ended in medias res, in the middle of things. It was intrusive to invade that space, to catch her caught off-guard, as we all did, walking into the middle of her life, pulling through her closets, her drawers, her papers. We—her friends, my husband, my sister, I—all jumped right in, right in the middle of her life and got rid of it once and for all.
“But I wasn’t finished—” I can hear her say. “I’m in the middle of boards; I’m in the middle of paying for this computer; I’m going out tomorrow!”
I found out in the middle of the morning, between the two classes I was teaching, in the middle of my own petty life. “I wasn’t finished!” I cried in my head: “Our relationship has been so worked out; I think we’re really friends, now—it can’t be, it can’t be over yet. We’re in the middle of our plans—”
We were. We’d just talked about what we’d do when I flew out in two weeks: Longwood Gardens, maybe the Philadelphia Orchestra. On the chair of her bedroom were arranged clothes for the evening she never got to see: new slacks, a sparkly top.
She’s been removed, strangely. I remain in the middle of the loss. There is no journey; there is no destination; there is only the coping, the staying afloat, somewhere here in the middle.
Her library’s physical position was at the far end of the upper hall of the elementary school; it sat over the offices, the gym, the cafeteria. It was the central hub of all the classes. The young, and younger, children rotated through each day, learning research on the bank of computers in the middle of the room, checking out books from the circulation desk, sitting around the bright blue rug with alphabet letters she’d persuaded the school to buy for the reading circle.
She was relegated to be in the middle of her friends’ romances, marriages, the family frictions, covering both sides, staying safe; she was never a central player.
It seems odd.
She absorbed my mistakes, my discards. She visited from time to time another man I’d married; she felt bad for him; she attended the funerals on my behalf of parents of my friends, of old relatives. She kept my old brownie pan, the colander, clinging to an order that would be there if she stayed in place; she kept peace with her brother, keeping us all in touch. When I stayed with her, he’d call, and she’d pass the phone to me, back to her, to me, to her.
I think she felt something would happen, something had to happen, if she just kept at it, kept up the balancing.
Her life ended in medias res, in the middle of things. It was intrusive to invade that space, to catch her caught off-guard, as we all did, walking into the middle of her life, pulling through her closets, her drawers, her papers. We—her friends, my husband, my sister, I—all jumped right in, right in the middle of her life and got rid of it once and for all.
“But I wasn’t finished—” I can hear her say. “I’m in the middle of boards; I’m in the middle of paying for this computer; I’m going out tomorrow!”
I found out in the middle of the morning, between the two classes I was teaching, in the middle of my own petty life. “I wasn’t finished!” I cried in my head: “Our relationship has been so worked out; I think we’re really friends, now—it can’t be, it can’t be over yet. We’re in the middle of our plans—”
We were. We’d just talked about what we’d do when I flew out in two weeks: Longwood Gardens, maybe the Philadelphia Orchestra. On the chair of her bedroom were arranged clothes for the evening she never got to see: new slacks, a sparkly top.
She’s been removed, strangely. I remain in the middle of the loss. There is no journey; there is no destination; there is only the coping, the staying afloat, somewhere here in the middle.
In the Middle of It - Kate Bueler
In the middle of it. I am the middle of a conversation of reunited lovers after twenty years. I find myself by the happenstance, the providence, the fate of life. I am not either said lover. Just a bystander who can't move from this seat. Stuck here. Because what will happen next seems like it might be too good to actually move. Scene begins as: man walks in start of beard sprouting, motorcycle helmet in hand, he glances at me and gives me a half soft smile. He finds a seat behind me. A moment or two pass. And then she walks in. In the business causal attire of work. Full of movement and talking. He raises up to meet her. Embracing her around her shoulders. I just never thought I'd see you again. In person. He confesses. In quickness she responds guess you have been giving that a lot of thought. And I'm in. In the middle of this. Because what will happen next is what movies are made of. Not the kind you can rent old school at the video store or netflix or hulu. No the real life of reuniting. I must watch. And see.
And so it begins. The man waits as she orders. She refuses his offer to buy her coffee. She talks at a rapid pace to all those around her, a co-worker, the barista, and even me when I get up for a moment. He sits waiting patiently. To sit across from her again. And then she returns to the seat. They are behind me so all I can hear is their words now. No facial expression or movements. The NPR radio show of love affairs lost. And found.
She begins. And talks and gives the synopsis of her life the last years. Fast and furious and the gentlemen rarely speaks. He tries to give her a morsel of him. But she refuses. The bio of places she has lived. The CV of jobs she has acquired. The snapshot of starting her witty yoga site and her current job. He takes the pause as an opening, when I was shooting those kids. My own eyes crinkle. Oh he is a photographer. And then it gets interesting when the job interview pauses and real life begins. It begins in a story where she realizes her sister set him up with someone after they broke up. I can't believe she did that. I am still going to talk to her about it. Years past not mattering. Are you single? The nod happens but I can't see behind me just in the pause in the back and forth. Next to the discussion of marriage and kids. Have you done it? Will you do it? Conversations of years had before. And had again. She never married and never wanting kids. Until now maybe. I would shit my pants every time I thought a serious boyfriend would want to get married. I would freak out around the holidays. I am not a commitphobe, but scared. Him marrying a woman due to the realities of immigration. I did get married. But it wasn't a real marriage. We treated as dating plus legality. And more words in between until he said we treated it as a real marriage. Everything was great expect the one part that always worked with everyone else. The sex. I thought she would come around. I thought she would open up.
And as I listen and write down on my napkin my only piece of paper a great on the fly notebook. I can't help but think what happens next. Next for them. In this talking. In this reuniting. In this thing called love. But although I am in the middle of it, I got to get up and go. To do what I have to do. In the middle of their thing, I needed to move on to mine. And in watching them. I find faith and remember my own lost loves. Reuniting doesn't mean happily ever after but it fixes the space broken in disconnection. I walk away and feel lucky to have seen. Someone else's reality. In remembering my own.
And so it begins. The man waits as she orders. She refuses his offer to buy her coffee. She talks at a rapid pace to all those around her, a co-worker, the barista, and even me when I get up for a moment. He sits waiting patiently. To sit across from her again. And then she returns to the seat. They are behind me so all I can hear is their words now. No facial expression or movements. The NPR radio show of love affairs lost. And found.
She begins. And talks and gives the synopsis of her life the last years. Fast and furious and the gentlemen rarely speaks. He tries to give her a morsel of him. But she refuses. The bio of places she has lived. The CV of jobs she has acquired. The snapshot of starting her witty yoga site and her current job. He takes the pause as an opening, when I was shooting those kids. My own eyes crinkle. Oh he is a photographer. And then it gets interesting when the job interview pauses and real life begins. It begins in a story where she realizes her sister set him up with someone after they broke up. I can't believe she did that. I am still going to talk to her about it. Years past not mattering. Are you single? The nod happens but I can't see behind me just in the pause in the back and forth. Next to the discussion of marriage and kids. Have you done it? Will you do it? Conversations of years had before. And had again. She never married and never wanting kids. Until now maybe. I would shit my pants every time I thought a serious boyfriend would want to get married. I would freak out around the holidays. I am not a commitphobe, but scared. Him marrying a woman due to the realities of immigration. I did get married. But it wasn't a real marriage. We treated as dating plus legality. And more words in between until he said we treated it as a real marriage. Everything was great expect the one part that always worked with everyone else. The sex. I thought she would come around. I thought she would open up.
And as I listen and write down on my napkin my only piece of paper a great on the fly notebook. I can't help but think what happens next. Next for them. In this talking. In this reuniting. In this thing called love. But although I am in the middle of it, I got to get up and go. To do what I have to do. In the middle of their thing, I needed to move on to mine. And in watching them. I find faith and remember my own lost loves. Reuniting doesn't mean happily ever after but it fixes the space broken in disconnection. I walk away and feel lucky to have seen. Someone else's reality. In remembering my own.
In the Middle of It - Jennifer Baljko
He sits on the couch, comforting her with long strokes through her blonde locks. He knows she’s prone to momentary lapses of insanity. He’s been in the middle of this before. Not just with her, but with other women too. He doesn’t understand this frequent emotional imbalance. Strong women weakened by the world, not the whole world, just their narrow sliver of the world. An only when something seems to spin off its axis. Something they can see, something he almost never sees. He’s learned it’s better to just sit still and hold her. While he sees the black and white answer, he leaves the whole thing in whatever shade of gray she’s in. Better for him to keep quiet, not offer a new perspective or a solution until she asks for one. And, even if she asks, his answer, he knows, will be influenced by the tone in her voice, and if her claws are drawn. She walks the feline line between lioness and kitten. He must do the same. Or so he thinks. His experience says so. He lets her ramble on, but stops her before the tears come. That’s too much drama for him. Instead he offers to make her tea. He rests her head on the pillow and lets her wander down her darkening path. He won’t let her see him rolling his eyes and secretly shrugging his shoulders. He takes a brief refuge, knowing when he returns, he’ll have to say something – something she may or may not want to hear.
The Most Private Thing - Maria Robinson
The most private thing that you can destroy the photos, the pictures of your lover that you once savored and slept with under your pillow. They can all be flung into tiny floating pieces at the end of the relationship. They could be torn brutally dissected and cut up into tiny black and white dice with your mother's sewing scissors, or you could rip them up as tears are flowing down your cheeks in between shuttering heaves. Instead of utter destruction, you might also isolate them in your house, that is to say purposefully hide them while you're tipsy and then forget where they are hopefully forever. You could also save them, close at hand, to remind you of your youthful folly, your baby love and the life that you dreamed of that got away.
The Most Private Thing/Skin - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
This private thing
lives in public
wrapping blood
and liver,
heart and bone
in fragile armor
to guard us.
Sensing enemies,
it hurls armies
against invasion.
We hardly know
our resident warrior.
It transmits bulletins
by the second:
soft chair, rough floor,
smooth shirt, harsh seam,
cold foot, warm hugs,
cream on sores,
rash from leaf,
forefinger smoothing
quivering bird wing,
thorn alert. This messenger,
this Hermes, speaks
privately until death.
lives in public
wrapping blood
and liver,
heart and bone
in fragile armor
to guard us.
Sensing enemies,
it hurls armies
against invasion.
We hardly know
our resident warrior.
It transmits bulletins
by the second:
soft chair, rough floor,
smooth shirt, harsh seam,
cold foot, warm hugs,
cream on sores,
rash from leaf,
forefinger smoothing
quivering bird wing,
thorn alert. This messenger,
this Hermes, speaks
privately until death.
The Most Private Thing - Donna Shomer
A Death in the Family
Tied to my finger
is remembrance.
Acid-colored
ribbons so tight
there’s no removing them.
So I make fists, or
put hands behind
my back or sit
on them.
Jeweled dagger through my heart -
it protrudes.
To pull it free would mean
bleeding out. It would be
fatal. So
no tight blouses
and not too
low-cut.
Tied to my finger
is remembrance.
Acid-colored
ribbons so tight
there’s no removing them.
So I make fists, or
put hands behind
my back or sit
on them.
Jeweled dagger through my heart -
it protrudes.
To pull it free would mean
bleeding out. It would be
fatal. So
no tight blouses
and not too
low-cut.
The Most Private Thing - Judy Albietz
Lily’s older sister Mary was the most private thing in her life. Mary was eleven years older than Lily. When Lily was really little Mary sometimes let her sleep in a cot in her room where she read stories—sometimes making up some of her own. Lily loved it when Mary babysat her. When Lily was around 6 and Mary was 17 years old, Lily started noticing a few odd things about her oldest sister. Nobody in the family said anything, not even her other older sister, Grace, who was eight years older than Lily and who teased her relentlessly. Lily somehow knew she couldn’t ask her mother about Mary. And she wouldn’t dare say anything to anyone outside her family. Mary dressed differently from other girls her age. Her skirts were too long. She wore glasses that weren’t in style. Mary was the slowest walker in the world. It was always as if she was wading through molasses—but in a graceful sort of way. Lily was 7 and Mary was 18 when she left for college to become an artist. Lily was crushed that her favorite big sister just jumped up and left her like that. She wrote letters to her to try to keep her in her life. Mary wrote back, sometimes with funny stories she made up.
She missed Mary’s funny way of eating her cottage cheese, scooping it with a spoon she held like a shovel. When Lily was 10, Mary came back from college with someone named Andrew, who Mary said she was going to marry. That summer, two days before the wedding, Andrew drove in from Detroit in a snazzy convertible. He asked Lily if she wanted to sit in the car. Lily really didn’t want to, but decided to be friendly. Sitting in her parents’ driveway with Andrew didn’t seem so bad. But then Andrew leaned over Lily and opened the glove compartment. He reached in and pulled out a gun. “This is a very private thing,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone about it. It will be our secret.”
She missed Mary’s funny way of eating her cottage cheese, scooping it with a spoon she held like a shovel. When Lily was 10, Mary came back from college with someone named Andrew, who Mary said she was going to marry. That summer, two days before the wedding, Andrew drove in from Detroit in a snazzy convertible. He asked Lily if she wanted to sit in the car. Lily really didn’t want to, but decided to be friendly. Sitting in her parents’ driveway with Andrew didn’t seem so bad. But then Andrew leaned over Lily and opened the glove compartment. He reached in and pulled out a gun. “This is a very private thing,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone about it. It will be our secret.”
The End - Anna Teeples
Melon wrapped in prosciutto seemed so ordinary now. My mouth was still savoring the best pesto I had ever had in the little Cinque Terra town of Vernazza Italy. Now the melon appetizer hardly registered on the delight scale. Morsels of our late lunch were still lingering and I secretly hoped we might want to have dinner in the same place to inhale more exquisite creamy pesto.
To my left, Dee laid on one of $2Euro yellow and white stripe cheap cotton beach towels that she bought in the equivalent of an Italian 7-Eleven store. The difference was this happened to be at the end of white sandy beach and inside an ancient soft pink salmon stucco building and oozed character and stories from every shelf and display. I looked down at the $5Euro bathing suit that I was wearing and was grateful I would not ever wear it again in front of anyone I knew.
Kevin, CeCe, Dee and I had decided to hike from Vernazza to next northern town of Cinque Terra, Montrose al Mare. We knew the five Mediterranean towns were connected by a hiking trail. We did not know several important details before we began our spontaneous and whimsical hike. First, this trail was the steepest of all the trails and I was certain we were on a billy goat path since there were several spots which one slip of the foot on the uneven rock path would result in a deep plunge onto small rock ledges. We decided to hike right after lunch in the bright sunny, humid part of the July day and forgot to bring water. Last, we were wearing flip-flops. Not exactly the right shoes for steep rock hiking. It was an adventure yet full of breath taking views of the multi color deep blue sea, the olive orchards and vineyards. We stopped to find shade and take pictures often.
Ninety minutes later, we landed in the tiny fishing village parched and determined to immerse ourselves in the beckoning water. It was like a siren from the sea was luring us directly to her. CeCe had discovered the $5Euro one size fits all bikini bathing suits. The three women, all very different shapes and sizes, chuckled as they compared how the string bikini covered certain areas better than others. We all opted for the swim top not ready to bare our breasts to the world. Our one rule for the rest of the day was the pact of no photos. We agreed to tell the story but absolutely no evidence would exist of the humiliating skimpish suits.
Before landing on the towel next to Dee, I floated for what seemed like hours in the sea. My arms dangled to my side, feet drifting below the cool water and my belly and chest stretching upward towards the divine sun, spilling happiness all over my softly closed eyes. I floated far away from the shore and people. In that spiritual moment, a voice awakened inside and cooed at me, “You will leave your life of computer work behind. Today.”
I did not panic as warmth moved through my body like honey. I did not want to ever move from that spot in the sea. The voice whispered again,
“You are an artist and will trust your path. Trust your journey from here forward.”
My mind was still in the hypnotic state. I would agree to anything. The worry and panic was over. This is all I needed to know right now. The rest would come later. I was moving on.
“George, I am on a beach in the Mediterranean. Can you hear me OK?” I said.
“It’s great to hear from you. I can’t wait to hear all about your sabbatical.”
“I know, there is so much to tell you about. Listen, I have decided, I am not coming back to work.”
That was it, the end of an eighteen-year career in the computer industry that had served me amazingly well. My summer retreat to Italy had been the exact prescription for restoring my life. I could finally breathe and felt the pressure leak away from under my shoulder blades. Feeling the inner declaration still resonating inside, I knew I could keep worry and doubt away for a long time. Divorce done, son off to college, career quit, heart healed, I was ready to live again.
To my left, Dee laid on one of $2Euro yellow and white stripe cheap cotton beach towels that she bought in the equivalent of an Italian 7-Eleven store. The difference was this happened to be at the end of white sandy beach and inside an ancient soft pink salmon stucco building and oozed character and stories from every shelf and display. I looked down at the $5Euro bathing suit that I was wearing and was grateful I would not ever wear it again in front of anyone I knew.
Kevin, CeCe, Dee and I had decided to hike from Vernazza to next northern town of Cinque Terra, Montrose al Mare. We knew the five Mediterranean towns were connected by a hiking trail. We did not know several important details before we began our spontaneous and whimsical hike. First, this trail was the steepest of all the trails and I was certain we were on a billy goat path since there were several spots which one slip of the foot on the uneven rock path would result in a deep plunge onto small rock ledges. We decided to hike right after lunch in the bright sunny, humid part of the July day and forgot to bring water. Last, we were wearing flip-flops. Not exactly the right shoes for steep rock hiking. It was an adventure yet full of breath taking views of the multi color deep blue sea, the olive orchards and vineyards. We stopped to find shade and take pictures often.
Ninety minutes later, we landed in the tiny fishing village parched and determined to immerse ourselves in the beckoning water. It was like a siren from the sea was luring us directly to her. CeCe had discovered the $5Euro one size fits all bikini bathing suits. The three women, all very different shapes and sizes, chuckled as they compared how the string bikini covered certain areas better than others. We all opted for the swim top not ready to bare our breasts to the world. Our one rule for the rest of the day was the pact of no photos. We agreed to tell the story but absolutely no evidence would exist of the humiliating skimpish suits.
Before landing on the towel next to Dee, I floated for what seemed like hours in the sea. My arms dangled to my side, feet drifting below the cool water and my belly and chest stretching upward towards the divine sun, spilling happiness all over my softly closed eyes. I floated far away from the shore and people. In that spiritual moment, a voice awakened inside and cooed at me, “You will leave your life of computer work behind. Today.”
I did not panic as warmth moved through my body like honey. I did not want to ever move from that spot in the sea. The voice whispered again,
“You are an artist and will trust your path. Trust your journey from here forward.”
My mind was still in the hypnotic state. I would agree to anything. The worry and panic was over. This is all I needed to know right now. The rest would come later. I was moving on.
“George, I am on a beach in the Mediterranean. Can you hear me OK?” I said.
“It’s great to hear from you. I can’t wait to hear all about your sabbatical.”
“I know, there is so much to tell you about. Listen, I have decided, I am not coming back to work.”
That was it, the end of an eighteen-year career in the computer industry that had served me amazingly well. My summer retreat to Italy had been the exact prescription for restoring my life. I could finally breathe and felt the pressure leak away from under my shoulder blades. Feeling the inner declaration still resonating inside, I knew I could keep worry and doubt away for a long time. Divorce done, son off to college, career quit, heart healed, I was ready to live again.
The End - Christa Fairfield
It is the end my friend.
The circle at the tip of the i.
The cross at the end of the t.
The dot at the end of the sentence.
It is the end my friend.
Like the blue caboose in my long lost favorite book.
Like the red reflector of the bike my great grandma gave me.
Like the dented bumper of my first car.
It is the end my friend.
The last gondola ride of the evening.
The final day in Rome.
The set down of the plane in San Francisco.
It is the end my friend.
It is the final tear of the romance.
It is the first sign of forgetting.
It is the lighting of the candle.
The end my friend.
The circle at the tip of the i.
The cross at the end of the t.
The dot at the end of the sentence.
It is the end my friend.
Like the blue caboose in my long lost favorite book.
Like the red reflector of the bike my great grandma gave me.
Like the dented bumper of my first car.
It is the end my friend.
The last gondola ride of the evening.
The final day in Rome.
The set down of the plane in San Francisco.
It is the end my friend.
It is the final tear of the romance.
It is the first sign of forgetting.
It is the lighting of the candle.
The end my friend.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
What She Remembers Best From Childhood - Christa Fairfield
“You know what I remember best about my childhood?” Liz asked her youngest daughter Debbie.
“What?” she asked with a tone of actual interest. Debbie’s thirteen year old frame was petite and athletic. Her blonde waves were strapped down with a red bandana to keep them out of the way of her Monday afternoon chores.
“Going fishing with your Grandmother,” she answered. “Here let me take that.” Liz reached for the wet cloth Debbie had been cleaning the refrigerator shelves with.
Debbie’s strong red hands dropped the cloth in the kettle full of warm water her mother extended. She rubbed her hands together. wiped them on the denim shorts and tucked her hands in the pockets.
“I don’t really have many memories. Not like you girls.” Liz dumped the water in the sink. “We didn’t have the money and my parents didn’t care what my childhood was like.”
Debbie had moved to the dinning room adjacent to the kitchen. Her mother’s word circled around each piercing like some school yard taunt. She smiled at her mother but wanted to reply, you mean unlike you who takes us places then makes them hell.
“You and your sister have seen so much.” Liz continued. “Here sit next to me for me a minute and well take a break.” Liz pulled out one of the wrought iron stools tucked under the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room.
Debbie started to pull the stool out.
“Honey, get my cigarettes for me. They over there.” She pointed to the counter next to the frig. “And the ash tray out of the dishwasher. Thanks.”
Debbie sat down on the stool next to her mother. I could use a cigarette she thought. Wonder what she would do if asked her for one. For a brief moment Debbie imagined that her mother would say sure and then recount how she started smoking at an age earlier than Debbie’s thirteen years.
“Why don’t you get us some of the fish to snack on.” Her mother said. “And some lemonade.”
“Sure,” Debbie said. She took the Pepperidge Farm Cheddar Fish box off the pantry shelf where it was filed next to the Graham Crackers and Triscuts
“What?” she asked with a tone of actual interest. Debbie’s thirteen year old frame was petite and athletic. Her blonde waves were strapped down with a red bandana to keep them out of the way of her Monday afternoon chores.
“Going fishing with your Grandmother,” she answered. “Here let me take that.” Liz reached for the wet cloth Debbie had been cleaning the refrigerator shelves with.
Debbie’s strong red hands dropped the cloth in the kettle full of warm water her mother extended. She rubbed her hands together. wiped them on the denim shorts and tucked her hands in the pockets.
“I don’t really have many memories. Not like you girls.” Liz dumped the water in the sink. “We didn’t have the money and my parents didn’t care what my childhood was like.”
Debbie had moved to the dinning room adjacent to the kitchen. Her mother’s word circled around each piercing like some school yard taunt. She smiled at her mother but wanted to reply, you mean unlike you who takes us places then makes them hell.
“You and your sister have seen so much.” Liz continued. “Here sit next to me for me a minute and well take a break.” Liz pulled out one of the wrought iron stools tucked under the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room.
Debbie started to pull the stool out.
“Honey, get my cigarettes for me. They over there.” She pointed to the counter next to the frig. “And the ash tray out of the dishwasher. Thanks.”
Debbie sat down on the stool next to her mother. I could use a cigarette she thought. Wonder what she would do if asked her for one. For a brief moment Debbie imagined that her mother would say sure and then recount how she started smoking at an age earlier than Debbie’s thirteen years.
“Why don’t you get us some of the fish to snack on.” Her mother said. “And some lemonade.”
“Sure,” Debbie said. She took the Pepperidge Farm Cheddar Fish box off the pantry shelf where it was filed next to the Graham Crackers and Triscuts
What I/he/she remembers best about childhood - Donna Shomer
hot uncomfortable sand
sun in the eyes
protected with
lies and half truths
and chocolate icebox cake
up the steep stairs
father’s study
the crow’s nest
warm wood
deep chairs
an attic
a man’s place
to hide.
sun in the eyes
protected with
lies and half truths
and chocolate icebox cake
up the steep stairs
father’s study
the crow’s nest
warm wood
deep chairs
an attic
a man’s place
to hide.
What I Remember Best About Childhood - Jackie Davis-Martin
To get to The Carr Sisters School of Dance we had to take, from our house, a bus, which we caught at the bottom of the slag hill, then a streetcar from the intersection near the Westinghouse plant, to Braddock, where we got off on the main street below and climbed several blocks up the brick and tree-lined streets to the dancing school, to the house. I say “we” but it was “me,” “I,” that made this trip several times a week from the time I was eight to maybe sixteen.
My sister went to dancing school some years, and some years she didn’t want to, although I can recall standing with her, our little suitcases in hand. Maybe it’s because she, an old woman now, too, has recreated the scenes. “Do you remember standing at that roadside alone for the streetcar? Wasn’t it dark? Wasn’t it lonely? How could mother have let us do that?”
I widen my eyes and shake my head. I’ve no idea. “Times were safer then,” I volunteer. Now that I think about it, my mother probably saw us—or again me—as capable. My sister was three years younger and, as I said, in and out of dancing school. Or maybe my mother was saving the carfare.
The Carr Sisters School of Dance was run by two of the Carr sisters—the oldest, Marguerite, whom we called Margie, who was thin and had a pointy chin and curly light hair and who always wore black trousers that draped and a black top. She had skinny legs, she told us; she never wanted to be in tights. The youngest Carr, Audrey was shapely and cute and wore tights and dancing outfits. Audrey taught acrobat or ballet, but mostly Audrey played the grand piano for our exercises and our routines. Between Margie and Audrey were about six or seven other sisters, none of them affiliated with the school, but whose pictures, with those of their brothers, adorned the vestibule. “The Train of Carrs” the captions read of old news clippings, of the dancing family: 7 girls, 3 boys, all lined up in stages and dressed alike. Sort of Vaudeville, I guess.
The school was in an old Victorian—a place so grandly different from our own tiny house—that we were happy to be there. One had to walk up a sidewalk from the street; there was a gate or iron fence around the house. The front porch was broad and held two large swings at either end, those wicker sofas suspended from chains. Inside the door—a glass insert, like Tiffany—was a small hallway, a vestibule, with Audrey’s desk, (we paid Audrey; she kept the books) a fireplace, a small sofa, a table. It was elegant, even there. Behind the vestibule was a dressing room—a room surrounded by sofas where we changed our shoes and left our coats.
If we had to go to the bathroom we mounted the great curving staircase that separated these two rooms to a bathroom larger than our living room at home. Some of the family (Margie? Audrey? Who knew?) lived in rooms up there—off that hallway—up more stairs, but we knew we weren’t supposed to go exploring.
The dance studio itself was the conversion of the house’s parlor and dining rooms that made up the rest of the first floor. It was all mahogany and high ceilings and mirrors and windows, the grand piano at one end; the barre along another. The floors were wood and there were pocket doors. Audrey hammered out the exercise music on the piano, which I can still hear in my head, while we did warm-ups. Margie was skilled at tap. Their belief was that one had to study it all and so we dance students went twice a week, alternating between tap, which I loved, ballet which was pretty, and then, when we got older, toe, which I was never good at, always being heavy, and acrobat, where I watched the lithe gymnast types effortlessly do their backbends, their splits. I struggled.
But I stayed with it.
My Dad had once gone to school with Margie or one of the Carrs, the reason he thought of the place when I asked, at six, for dancing lessons. We lived closer, then, and then we moved to the place that necessitated all the traveling.
There’s a certain irony to the elegance of this school, to the discipline and love that came from it: it was located in Braddock, Pennsylvania, a town so dilapidated it almost fell off the map when the steel mills closed.
My husband once sought me out while I was cooking dinner. “Hey, Hon!” he called. “Come here! There’s a show talking about revitalizing Braddock. Didn’t you grow up around there?”
My sister went to dancing school some years, and some years she didn’t want to, although I can recall standing with her, our little suitcases in hand. Maybe it’s because she, an old woman now, too, has recreated the scenes. “Do you remember standing at that roadside alone for the streetcar? Wasn’t it dark? Wasn’t it lonely? How could mother have let us do that?”
I widen my eyes and shake my head. I’ve no idea. “Times were safer then,” I volunteer. Now that I think about it, my mother probably saw us—or again me—as capable. My sister was three years younger and, as I said, in and out of dancing school. Or maybe my mother was saving the carfare.
The Carr Sisters School of Dance was run by two of the Carr sisters—the oldest, Marguerite, whom we called Margie, who was thin and had a pointy chin and curly light hair and who always wore black trousers that draped and a black top. She had skinny legs, she told us; she never wanted to be in tights. The youngest Carr, Audrey was shapely and cute and wore tights and dancing outfits. Audrey taught acrobat or ballet, but mostly Audrey played the grand piano for our exercises and our routines. Between Margie and Audrey were about six or seven other sisters, none of them affiliated with the school, but whose pictures, with those of their brothers, adorned the vestibule. “The Train of Carrs” the captions read of old news clippings, of the dancing family: 7 girls, 3 boys, all lined up in stages and dressed alike. Sort of Vaudeville, I guess.
The school was in an old Victorian—a place so grandly different from our own tiny house—that we were happy to be there. One had to walk up a sidewalk from the street; there was a gate or iron fence around the house. The front porch was broad and held two large swings at either end, those wicker sofas suspended from chains. Inside the door—a glass insert, like Tiffany—was a small hallway, a vestibule, with Audrey’s desk, (we paid Audrey; she kept the books) a fireplace, a small sofa, a table. It was elegant, even there. Behind the vestibule was a dressing room—a room surrounded by sofas where we changed our shoes and left our coats.
If we had to go to the bathroom we mounted the great curving staircase that separated these two rooms to a bathroom larger than our living room at home. Some of the family (Margie? Audrey? Who knew?) lived in rooms up there—off that hallway—up more stairs, but we knew we weren’t supposed to go exploring.
The dance studio itself was the conversion of the house’s parlor and dining rooms that made up the rest of the first floor. It was all mahogany and high ceilings and mirrors and windows, the grand piano at one end; the barre along another. The floors were wood and there were pocket doors. Audrey hammered out the exercise music on the piano, which I can still hear in my head, while we did warm-ups. Margie was skilled at tap. Their belief was that one had to study it all and so we dance students went twice a week, alternating between tap, which I loved, ballet which was pretty, and then, when we got older, toe, which I was never good at, always being heavy, and acrobat, where I watched the lithe gymnast types effortlessly do their backbends, their splits. I struggled.
But I stayed with it.
My Dad had once gone to school with Margie or one of the Carrs, the reason he thought of the place when I asked, at six, for dancing lessons. We lived closer, then, and then we moved to the place that necessitated all the traveling.
There’s a certain irony to the elegance of this school, to the discipline and love that came from it: it was located in Braddock, Pennsylvania, a town so dilapidated it almost fell off the map when the steel mills closed.
My husband once sought me out while I was cooking dinner. “Hey, Hon!” he called. “Come here! There’s a show talking about revitalizing Braddock. Didn’t you grow up around there?”
What She Remembers From Childhood - Anna Teeples
I liked her name, Karen. So different than my own which to me, sounded like it was from another country or an ancient time period. Her name represented all the things that I wanted to be. She was spunky, had a chestnut color to her skin that was sprinkled with freckles and her soft wavy brown hair lightened in the summer. She was like a little fairy pixie with attitude.
If the week went well at school and home was too chaotic, it was easy to convince Mom that I was asked to spend the night at Karen’s. It only took a little more creative manipulating to get a real invitation for a sleep over. One thing that I remember most about being at Karen’s house was a car. Her dad drove the most beautiful car I had ever seen in my life. It was a pale yellow convertible 1970 Alpha Romeo Spider. We would watch him drive down the street from a long day at the newspaper with the top down and I thought, “He just is not your regular kind of dad.”
Years later my husband and I would try to describe an average regular dad. These are the men that would finally take a few days from the office to cart the kids to the local amusement park. They would don a pair of madras shorts, with a clean t-shirt and pull the outfit together with their black work socks and a pair of dress loafers. I always wanted to pull them aside and suggest a nice pair of comfy Fred Perry tennis shoes.
Karen and I went for a ride one time in ‘the car’ after we had our license. It was pure pleasure, feeling the air whip our hair and shimmer over our faces. We sang out in terrible harmony the words of Michael Jackson’s “Rock with You” and re-glossed the lips with Bonnie Bell lip-gloss at every red light. The Alpha would haunt me for years. It was the car that would cause me to stop in the middle of a sidewalk. I would re-live those moments of pure joy. I still secretly desired to own the senseless but gorgeous car. Perhaps it's a bucket list item.
If the week went well at school and home was too chaotic, it was easy to convince Mom that I was asked to spend the night at Karen’s. It only took a little more creative manipulating to get a real invitation for a sleep over. One thing that I remember most about being at Karen’s house was a car. Her dad drove the most beautiful car I had ever seen in my life. It was a pale yellow convertible 1970 Alpha Romeo Spider. We would watch him drive down the street from a long day at the newspaper with the top down and I thought, “He just is not your regular kind of dad.”
Years later my husband and I would try to describe an average regular dad. These are the men that would finally take a few days from the office to cart the kids to the local amusement park. They would don a pair of madras shorts, with a clean t-shirt and pull the outfit together with their black work socks and a pair of dress loafers. I always wanted to pull them aside and suggest a nice pair of comfy Fred Perry tennis shoes.
Karen and I went for a ride one time in ‘the car’ after we had our license. It was pure pleasure, feeling the air whip our hair and shimmer over our faces. We sang out in terrible harmony the words of Michael Jackson’s “Rock with You” and re-glossed the lips with Bonnie Bell lip-gloss at every red light. The Alpha would haunt me for years. It was the car that would cause me to stop in the middle of a sidewalk. I would re-live those moments of pure joy. I still secretly desired to own the senseless but gorgeous car. Perhaps it's a bucket list item.
Unmasked - Jennifer Baljko
Soon, in a few weeks, there will be a big Baljko event in Barcelona. Two of my siblings are coming to visit me. One has been here before. The other decided, on a whim this morning, to join the fun, and make her first transatlantic flight. It will be great to see them, but there is a slight apprehension starting to seize my heart as well. Too many Baljkos in the same room can be a dangerous unmasking of primal, territorial clawing. We tend to play nice most of the time, in three or four hour stretches. But a week together could swing us straight back to the 1980s when the seven members of my immediate plus the dog, two cats, and whatever other mascot happened to find it’s way through the floor boards or into an empty cage duked it out for a sliver of privacy and a healthy does of personal expression. As adults, we live in vastly different worlds, and often have little in common except blood ties. So the momentous task of understanding who we are in the face of each other becomes a strange tilt-a-whirl ride set up on a tightrope dangling over a cliff. Each eccentric behavior brings on a heightened sense of black sheep weirdness, united under the umbrella of collective upbringing.
With Kid Gloves - Judy Albietz
“You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves,” Lily told Sam. “Tell me everything about what happened to Josh. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I do not understand what you say. I cannot wear gloves. I do not have hands.”
“Sorry. That’s just an old expression my mom uses. It means I do not want you to treat me like a child. I want you to tell me everything you know about Josh’s disappearance. Don’t leave anything out … no matter how awful it is.”
“Lily, the only thing we know is that Josh’s brain was captured by people living outside Borealis, in the future.”
“How did they do that?”
“We know these people do not have the power to travel through time. Therefore, they could not bring his whole body into the future. However, it appears they have the technology to capture and bring brain waves from the past. We think they did it by following the path of the radio signals from the cell phone Josh used when he communicated with you from the past to the future—through the Time Portal.”
“Why did they take—him—his brain? What do they want with him? How do we get him back?”
“We have not figured that out yet.”
“I do not understand what you say. I cannot wear gloves. I do not have hands.”
“Sorry. That’s just an old expression my mom uses. It means I do not want you to treat me like a child. I want you to tell me everything you know about Josh’s disappearance. Don’t leave anything out … no matter how awful it is.”
“Lily, the only thing we know is that Josh’s brain was captured by people living outside Borealis, in the future.”
“How did they do that?”
“We know these people do not have the power to travel through time. Therefore, they could not bring his whole body into the future. However, it appears they have the technology to capture and bring brain waves from the past. We think they did it by following the path of the radio signals from the cell phone Josh used when he communicated with you from the past to the future—through the Time Portal.”
“Why did they take—him—his brain? What do they want with him? How do we get him back?”
“We have not figured that out yet.”
With Kid Gloves - Bonnie Smetts
No man can possibly admit this. You like your wife to need you. You want her to be delicate, easy. You want her to stand on her own feet as well. But not too much. You don’t want her to complain and whine. You want her to have ideas and not acquiesce too quickly. But in the end you want her to agree.
You want to watch her from afar as she charms your friends with her quiet humor and quick wit. Her beauty of course, that’s never been a problem with Marjorie. She’s lovely: light and elegant, long-limbed. Her hair is a bit bland, but bountiful with just enough rebellion to get loose from those tight chignons she’s taken to wearing. I guess that’s Renee’s influence.
Renee’s not an especially good influencey. Good in that she’s full of life and doesn’t complain. Bad in that she’s got too much of a mind of her own. I doubt she consults Jacques when she changes Nico’s nanny or orders furniture from Paris. Or decides to take my wife to see the native festivals.
Now I’ve got Marjorie a ball of nerves. I hate feeling like I must handle her with kid gloves, lest she explode in anger or fear or whatever causes her to cry and lash out at me. I don’t want to spend another moment on this. I’ve got people who are misbehaving up and down my command. Not just the native workers, some of my best. Not just the lower workers but the managers. Men who I thought were dependable, at least would follow the company protocol and our plans. Letting a whole team start building another line miles from where we’d designated. Impossible to accept, and yet they’ve begun. What am I to do? Call them off it. And lose the work they’ve done. The metals would be stolen in a fortnight. No, and so I seem weak. I must reprimand the manger in a way that sends a message to anyone else giving favors to their village, their relatives, whomever else they want to pay off.
I must keep up appearances so home office never learns of this. How to write the progress report and hide exactly where the construction is being completed. My secretary must write something for me. He knows how to hide and change the truth.
Marjorie will never understand what goes on, here in the company, here in this country.
You want to watch her from afar as she charms your friends with her quiet humor and quick wit. Her beauty of course, that’s never been a problem with Marjorie. She’s lovely: light and elegant, long-limbed. Her hair is a bit bland, but bountiful with just enough rebellion to get loose from those tight chignons she’s taken to wearing. I guess that’s Renee’s influence.
Renee’s not an especially good influencey. Good in that she’s full of life and doesn’t complain. Bad in that she’s got too much of a mind of her own. I doubt she consults Jacques when she changes Nico’s nanny or orders furniture from Paris. Or decides to take my wife to see the native festivals.
Now I’ve got Marjorie a ball of nerves. I hate feeling like I must handle her with kid gloves, lest she explode in anger or fear or whatever causes her to cry and lash out at me. I don’t want to spend another moment on this. I’ve got people who are misbehaving up and down my command. Not just the native workers, some of my best. Not just the lower workers but the managers. Men who I thought were dependable, at least would follow the company protocol and our plans. Letting a whole team start building another line miles from where we’d designated. Impossible to accept, and yet they’ve begun. What am I to do? Call them off it. And lose the work they’ve done. The metals would be stolen in a fortnight. No, and so I seem weak. I must reprimand the manger in a way that sends a message to anyone else giving favors to their village, their relatives, whomever else they want to pay off.
I must keep up appearances so home office never learns of this. How to write the progress report and hide exactly where the construction is being completed. My secretary must write something for me. He knows how to hide and change the truth.
Marjorie will never understand what goes on, here in the company, here in this country.
Keeping It Secret - Melody Cryns
Tonight I walked into my favorite coffee shop in downtown Mountain View and ordered a double mint mocha, just like old times. And Blue House, the acoustic rock band of two gals and a guy are playing their lovely music and singing…
“It’s my life, here I am…take a moment to share my history!” Brian sings…it’s a song he wrote and I love it. It reminds me of writing, sharing our history, every time I hear Brian sing that song, Marline playing the other acoustic guitar and singing harmony and Amy on bass…
Aaron is working at the counter – he’s been here at the coffee shop ever since I can remember…when I used to bring Megan here and she was just a little red headed, freckle faced kid. He always threatened to sell Megan to the gypsies and she’d laugh and swing on his outstretched tattooed muscular arm…
Now Megan is 18 and that young girl has disappeared, and I haven’t ordered a real double mint mocha in about two years – you know, all the calories and the sugar. But tonight I decided I had to get a double mint mocha. Aaron said, “with whipped cream?” And I said yes, with whipped cream.
It’s just one of those nights. I’ve had a rough day filled with car trouble…overheating issues. I haven’t had car problems like this for a while now. Ever since my kids were younger and I could never afford a decent car.
So I sit here at the coffee shop listening to Blue House remembering my little girl who is now grown…and how it was, and how some things just never seem to change.
I look out the window and see the tree branches and the shining lamps and the tables and chairs outside, just as they always were…and Aaron’s still here, and so is Shadow…and Blue House is still playing. And I’m still sipping on a double mint mocha. And my car has air bubbles, so they say…at least it’s not a blown head gasket.
“It’s my life, here I am…take a moment to share my history!” Brian sings…it’s a song he wrote and I love it. It reminds me of writing, sharing our history, every time I hear Brian sing that song, Marline playing the other acoustic guitar and singing harmony and Amy on bass…
Aaron is working at the counter – he’s been here at the coffee shop ever since I can remember…when I used to bring Megan here and she was just a little red headed, freckle faced kid. He always threatened to sell Megan to the gypsies and she’d laugh and swing on his outstretched tattooed muscular arm…
Now Megan is 18 and that young girl has disappeared, and I haven’t ordered a real double mint mocha in about two years – you know, all the calories and the sugar. But tonight I decided I had to get a double mint mocha. Aaron said, “with whipped cream?” And I said yes, with whipped cream.
It’s just one of those nights. I’ve had a rough day filled with car trouble…overheating issues. I haven’t had car problems like this for a while now. Ever since my kids were younger and I could never afford a decent car.
So I sit here at the coffee shop listening to Blue House remembering my little girl who is now grown…and how it was, and how some things just never seem to change.
I look out the window and see the tree branches and the shining lamps and the tables and chairs outside, just as they always were…and Aaron’s still here, and so is Shadow…and Blue House is still playing. And I’m still sipping on a double mint mocha. And my car has air bubbles, so they say…at least it’s not a blown head gasket.
Blowing Off Steam - E. D. James
He moved quickly through the galleries absorbing the intensity of the work lining the walls. In half an hour he would meet the woman and rid himself of the weight he’d been carrying. The tourists around him stared at the pieces listening to some over educated voice tell them why they should like what they saw. Arch had no such filters on his mind. Every second was crystal clear, illuminated by the adrenaline surging through his veins.
They were following him. The watchers in the galleries would pretend to take no notice of his passing, but he would see them discreetly hit communicators at their belts and whisper as he passed. This made him feel comfortable. He wanted to lure them into complacency. Wanted them to feel secure that they had him under control, knew his every movement. He wanted them to feel that way right up until the moment he lost them and made his move to meet the one who had been chosen to receive the truth.
He allowed himself a moment to wander back to the days his mother would drag him through these very galleries in her endless quest to raise him up with culture and knowledge. She had instilled in him a boundless curiosity, and it was that curiosity that led him to this day.
Seven months ago it had just been some random streaks on his plates. Satellites were always crossing his plates and at first he took no notice. But then a pattern emerged. His scans for other planets that might have the conditions that were right for life to exist had instead exposed a network of satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the major cities of the world. A network that the government claimed didn’t and couldn’t exist. And yet it did.
They had made it clear that they would stop at nothing to protect their secret. First his privileges at the observatory had been curtailed. Then his grant had been revoked. Now they stalked him day and night.
They were following him. The watchers in the galleries would pretend to take no notice of his passing, but he would see them discreetly hit communicators at their belts and whisper as he passed. This made him feel comfortable. He wanted to lure them into complacency. Wanted them to feel secure that they had him under control, knew his every movement. He wanted them to feel that way right up until the moment he lost them and made his move to meet the one who had been chosen to receive the truth.
He allowed himself a moment to wander back to the days his mother would drag him through these very galleries in her endless quest to raise him up with culture and knowledge. She had instilled in him a boundless curiosity, and it was that curiosity that led him to this day.
Seven months ago it had just been some random streaks on his plates. Satellites were always crossing his plates and at first he took no notice. But then a pattern emerged. His scans for other planets that might have the conditions that were right for life to exist had instead exposed a network of satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the major cities of the world. A network that the government claimed didn’t and couldn’t exist. And yet it did.
They had made it clear that they would stop at nothing to protect their secret. First his privileges at the observatory had been curtailed. Then his grant had been revoked. Now they stalked him day and night.
Blowing Off Steam - Kate Bueler
Blowing off steam. Blowing of steam has been my newest favorite pastime. I spent many good years of my life running and swimming and doing it for fun but mostly within the confines of team and invitations and flip turned into a baton hand off until I reached adulthood. I loved sports. I loved the ability to feel freedom in the pounding against my legs as I speed up at the end of every run. My father had taught me this trick that even after a jog you run fast and hard at the end. And believe you me it came in handy in the races of life both competitive or not. The wheels of myself going more quickly and feeling as if they might give out but on the brink of letting go- the freedom of speed- the freedom of myself. That I could get it anytime I needed it. And running. Running became a way to pound out the discomfort of adolescence and the way I spent my afternoons for many years of my life. And it helped that I was good at it. Not the best of the best but good enough to be choose for the relays and to place.
But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings toward one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.
I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing of the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it. I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga and one day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life that I laced my shoes up and ran. Again.
But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings toward one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.
I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing of the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it. I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga and one day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life that I laced my shoes up and ran. Again.
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