Feeling stuck yet secure Holding me up or holding me down? How I yearn to wander To grow above the surface of this place
Are you sturdy or weak? If I stretch and struggle Will you lend a hand or pull me Back into the depths?
It is warm but devoid Nourishing yet bleak My soul is expanding beyond you I must grow to know
Who I am.
I feel hollow
The words seem to release, rise Then drop as if turned to lead I can almost feel them as they plop Into that space I don’t know or understand
But they are just words One cannot FEEL words But I do.
Sad, depressed, laden These words are grey, heavy, solidified muck
Elated, exhilarated, freedom These words tickle and fizz Like the buoyant bubbles of the best soda pop
They rise through my chest and expand Feeling warm as they exit Through my sweetened breath
But the dark space down below… Do the words that warm and the words that weigh Speak as they swirl and follow their Ultimate paths?
Do they whisper to each other, “Can you hear me?”
That crack.
It’s a sound like no other. When the ball makes contact with a solid wooden bat it’s a special music.
That sound represents so much: comaraderie, freedom, hope and summer.
We gathered every night at the park down the street unless it rained. Some of us snuck out of the house, some had parents who didn’t care and some didn’t have parents at all.
But we were all there at sunset.
That was when the air changed. It was as if a subtle scent of danger wafted through the dusky air. The lights in the park were stamped with the corpses of bugs and nubs of petrified spitball.
The dirt of the diamond beckoned for us to skin our knees and elbows while chasing after this symbol of our childhood freedom; 108 stitches of red waxen yarn, a polished hide scuffed with memories.
By the end of a game, we had all played our best and our worst, our clothes evidence of sweat, dirt and frequently a heat-of-the-moment punch in the nose.
Those who snuck out of the house would change into fresh attire, wiping free blood and grime at the water fountain whose supply merely dribbled forth on a good day.
Bloody noses and lips were marks of a game well played and rumbles were forgotten as laughter echoed off the bleachers and we all dispersed.
We never missed a night in those summers.
Deep breath.
I don’t cry.
I can feel the tears ticking my consciousness, subtly hydrating my heart.
The tears swim through my limbs evoking a heaviness in my hands and feet. The heaviness holding me in place.
I don’t cry.
It’s hard…to leave.
Some places fill your bones with a life that other places can’t.
This place: it’s wildness is intertwined with a peaceful sense of order. Order through nature.
It makes sense.
The air feels right even when it feels wrong. The smells are beautiful even when they’re foul.
This is how I know…
I don’t cry.
I can’t. It hurts. The tears keep swimming inside of me as I say goodbye.
Copper, bright yellow, burnt orange: the leaves were swirling about, dancing with the sharp bite of the autumn air.
Margo reveled in the satisfying crunch of the foliage underfoot as she strolled along to her bus stop. She had never been a morning person, but walking by the neighborhood cafe early in the morning, the aroma of fresh-baked croissants and the coffee being brewed by frenzied baristas always perked her up.
As she slowed to pass the cafe and take in the bouquet of breakfast scents, a petite woman exiting with her coffee collided with Margo and sixteen ounces of caffeinated bliss made its way onto Margo’s white shirt and cardigan.
“Oh…my…gosh. I am soooooo sorry!” The petite woman looked absolutely horrified.
“Pleaaaase let me help clean off your shirt and I’ll buy you whatever you want for breakfast.”
“I really need to catch my bus,” Margo contested.
“You need to eat, my dear,” the lady said as she stuck out her hand. “My name is Priscilla. Very nice to meet you.” Margot shook her hand.
“Welllll…ok.” Margo abided and followed Priscilla into the shop. She was definitely going to miss her bus, but she had been going into work early for weeks and justified sitting and enjoying a flaky, golden croissant and a creamy, steaming latte.
“Let’s get to working on this stain.” Priscilla gently grasped Margo’s hand and led her into the bustling cafe, stopped at the front counter and asked a young staff member for some baking soda and a clean rag.
“We had a little accident.” Priscilla winked at the barista as he scurried into the kitchen and returned promptly with a box and rag.
“Thank you!” Still grasping Margo’s hand, the two made their way into the restroom, a glorious space painted goldenrod with whimsical sketches of pastries and an ornate gold mirror.
Priscilla wet the clean rag, sprinkled in some baking soda and proceeded to dab at Margo’s shirt and cardigan. It was definitely a bit of an intimate situation, it as Margo has been working close to 80 hours a week, she appreciated the attention and the quiet haven.
“There we go!” Priscilla exclaimed. Magically the stain had cleared and Margo was only left with a smattering of damp patches on her clothing.
“Let’s get you fed!”
Again, grasping at Margo’s hand, the two made their way up to the front counter. Priscilla handed Margo a hundred dollar bill.
“Use this however you choose,” she said. “I have to get going.”
With a wink, Priscilla released Margo’s hand and began her exit.
“Thank you!” Margo called out as the kind soul disappeared out the door with a flash of a colorful silk scarf and tiny ballet flats.
She stood still for a moment contemplating how to spend the large bill she had just been gifted.
She had an idea. Pulling out her cellphone, she excused herself from the counter and called into work. As soon receptionist answered, Margo explained she wouldn’t be coming into work today because she was ill. Then she hung up.
She walked up to the counter.
“What can I get for you today?” The cheerful barista asked.
“I’ll take ten small coffees, eleven croissants and one medium latte with skim milk.”
“Ok, that’ll be 86.51”
Margo handed over the bill. “The rest is for you,” she said.
Five minutes later, Margo hurried out of the cafe, arms laden with java and pastries. She strolled down the street as she enjoyed the sense of freedom and a twinge of defiant satisfaction for playing hooky.
She made her way along the cracked and uneven sidewalk, past her bus stop and another two blocks down to the animal shelter on the corner of Rose St. and 2nd Avenue.
An elderly worker spied Margo at the glass door with her hands full of drink carriers and glossy pastry bags.
The woman walked over to the door and opened it with a bit of confusion furrowing her brow.
“Can I help you?” She asked politely, yet with a lilt suggesting hesitancy.
“Yes,” said Margo. “I walk by here several times during the week and always see your staff in the outdoor space taking such great care of and bringing joy to the animals. I know you all work hard and must be very compassionate to do what you do. A kind stranger paid for my breakfast after a coffee stain mishap and I wanted to share her generosity with you. She was extra hospitable, so there were plenty of funds left to pay for coffee and croissants for you all.”
“Oh, wow! THANK YOU!”
The elderly lady ushered Margo into the clean and orderly front room, the sound of muffled barks and mews emanating from the back cage area.
Margo set the coffees and croissants down on the front desk, relieved to unfurl her cramped fingers.
“Please,” the worker stated with clasped hands. “Stay for a bit.”
Margo held onto her still-steaming latte and stated with a secure wink, “I really must go.”
She placed her free hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder, took in the deeply creased face in front of her, and turned and walked out the front door with her latte wafting behind her.
It must have been the krinkling. Was it really that loud?
She knew she should’ve grabbed a bowl but her cravings were OUT OF CONTROL.
Not enough time to open the cupboard, search for an appropriately sized receptical, open the package and pour the goods.
It was an EMERGENCY.
Natalie stared down at her from the doorway; her hair was slightly mussed in that recently sleep-caressed manner and her nightgown was slightly askew.
Georgia was on the kitchen floor, a pile of limbs and processed food packaging, her rainbow pajamas adding to the colorful mosaic of America’s favorite snacks.
“Are you eating barbecue chips topped with ice cream? Out of the bag?” Natalie’s wide but sleep-crusted eyes were wild with amazement.
“Ummm…yeah,” Georgia mumbled as she flicked some barbecue dust off her knee. She noticed several large drops of the creamy dessert on the front of her pajama top.
“Is that…chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream?” Natalie’s brow furrowed and she scrunched up her mouth like a disparaging parochial school nun.
“Ummm…yeah. There are some gummy bears in there, too.”
Georgia cleared her throat.
“I use the second bag of chips to top the ice cream with crumbles as I work my way down to the chips at the bottom of bag number one. Sometimes I mix barbecue with salt and vinegar. It’s kind of a thing. I know it’s gross but I like it.”
A smile spread across Natalie’s face. “Sounds waaaaay better than mom’s cooking.”
She rolled her eyes and plopped herself down next to Georgia, right into the shards of barbecue bliss and a luscious puddle of creamy contentment.
A stray gummy bear peered up between Natalie’s toes as if to egg her on.
“Well, get me a bowl and show me how to build this thing,” she said. “I want to learn from the best.”
Georgia stared at her sister for a second and then the two of them burst out laughing.
“Shhhhhhh!” Natalie hissed between giggles, “We don’t want to wake up mom and share any of this. This is OUR thing now.”
“Ummmmm…”
She grumbled a bit, looked down at the podium and rubbed her forehead with concern.
Murmurs spread throughout the crowd as she drew in her breath; the presidential hopeful felt fragile and exposed, but she knew what she had to do.
She grasped the podium with earnest hands and looked up at the crowd peering at her with hopeful and fatigued eyes.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m not going to beat around the bush or fuck around here. I’m not going to fill your ears with false tunes of hope so you’ll vote for me. Our nation is currently in dire straits and it’s going to take more than some fresh blood to lead us in a different direction.”
There were some gasps from the crowd, but the mostly silent citizens were focused on her words and respectful of her shift in approach.
“We have a lot of work to do. Our nation has managed to damage key international relationships due to egomaniacal behavior and complete lack of strategic planning. We have created not only a governmental structure with drastic dichotomies in political affiliation, but a nation of citizens who reflect this polarization.”
She took a deep breath.
“We are in the midst of a drastic division in economic class, a health care and social service crisis and a stealth but steady undermining of human rights in general.”
The crowd began to murmur and stir in agreement.
“We all must learn to join together to fight for our rights and for the health of our nation as a whole. We all must scream FUCK YOU at the top of our lungs if that’s what it takes to ignite our hearts and stir our souls to take action!”
“Let me hear you say it!” She pointed to the crowd.
“FUCK YOU!” The crowd shouted in glee.
“Again!”
“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!” The citizens chanted.
“I believe this is my new campaign motto,” she said grinning. “It’s definitely more fun than ‘Forward Together’”
