Up To Their Birth, Shooting Like Stars

(A work in progress.)

The morning light caused me to stir, but I awoke with a feeling of peace. The thick curtains, hanging by an iron rod, brush the wooden floor as a gentle breeze comes in through the open window. Their fiber, the color of heavy cream, mutes the light, allowing me to pass through the world of dreams into reality with ease.

I close my eyes and stretch my legs, turning over so I am facing you. You smell like sleep, sweet and calming. I can smell it on your skin, milky in the shadows of morning. When you exhale, I smell it on your breath. I marvel at your eyelids, a thin film of skin and lilac veins embracing the pearl of your eye. Your eyes see a place far away from me. The one place you will go that I will follow.

The old quilt had fallen away in the darkness, and I pull it back up around our bare shoulders now. Its pinks have turned to whites, it’s yellows to grays. Worn thin from sleeping generations, its little stitches have become strangling threads. I bury my nose into the soft fabric and think of home.

I let my head stay enveloped in the white pillow and let my mind get lost in the white vastness of the ceiling. Time slips away down through the cracks in the floor. My train of thought saunters with the seagulls in the harbor. I can hear them in their flight, threading between dock posts and sailboat masts. The distant foghorn is the steady beat behind their rhythmic calls. I know that a layer of fog is covering where the land meets the sea. But not here. Here, there is light.

I see your feet stir under the folds of the quilt from the corner of my eye. I am warmed by the heat of your skin as you draw me close to your bare chest, gently kissing my hair, and in an instant, I am brought back.

My head rises and falls as you take your first breath.

“Need to go into town today. Running low on wire, need to pick up a few more lures. And my prescription.”

My silence is my concession. The haze of the morning’s magic slowly begins to break as you sigh these first words. The light seems harsher now and my muscles begin to feel restless. No longer does everything seem to fit together quite as well. Silent harmony falls to soft cacophony.

I roll out of your arms and let my legs swing over the side of the bed. On the nightstand is a stack of books, upon that, my teacup from the night before. I take it now and drink up what little tea is left at the bottom, cold and grainy in my mouth. The liquid leaves a ring, stained along the inside, marking where one day ended and the next began. What has been and what now is.

I place the teacup back on my tattered copy of a compilation of poetry entitled “What You Are Thinking But Cannot Say”. Next to that, an open notebook, with the single line written in blue ink,

“up to their birth, shooting like stars”

I must have woken up after a dream and instinctively grabbed the pen. It was becoming a habit. It was rare that I could recall a dream in the first place, but if I did, I struggled to find a connection between the hazy content the remained in my memory and the few words on the paper. It was as if they appeared by magic.

The grandfather clock down the hall chimed 7:00, beckoning us to get out of bed and begin the day.

I shivered as I let my bare feet drop to the cold wooden floor. Quickly, I grab my sweater, two sizes two big, limp at the foot of the bed, and pull it over my head.

“When will you be back?”

You sit up in the bed, rubbing your eyes.

“Before dark. The fog is supposed to roll in heavy at dusk. Want to try and beat it.”

I nod, searching under the covers for the pair of socks I was wearing the night before. When I find them, balled up and inside out, I sit on your side of the bed to pull them on.

“Please. Make sure you call the harbormaster too. Make sure there is a slip for you.”

Now it is your turn to nod as you slowly make your way out from under the quilt. You sit on the side of the bed with you head in your hands. I turn and run my fingers through your mangled head of hair and kissed the top of your head.

“I know.”

I pad across the bedroom floor and down the hall into the kitchen. We tell people we bought this house for the kitchen. It was exactly what we always wanted; old hardwood floors, a small marble island, a large bay window encompassing our kitchen table. The bay window leads right up to the boulders that make up the escarpment leading down to the water. At night, the beam of the lighthouse sweeps across the table and through the kitchen.

I ski over the wood floor in my socks to the table, covered with a red -and-white-checkered tablecloth. In the center was a single daisy in a Mason jar. We usually only kept two chairs at the table. That was all we really needed.

Like almost every morning, you cannot see out the window past the escarpment. Dense fog covers the shore and sea like a weightless blanket. The horizon is nonexistent. Only the first few rays of sunlight are beginning to break through.

Noises commence. The soft cacophony of our mornings. The faucet in the kitchen squeals as I fill the coffee pot, the sink in the bathroom where you keep your toothbrush echoes down the hall. Ceramic clatters as I bring two plates, two cups, and two mugs down from the shelves. Silverware clangs. The radio in our bedroom hums, perpetually streaming advertisements and heart-breaking news. Refrigerator bangs. Coffee pot rumbles. Orange juice gurgles as it hits hollow glass. Toaster pops. Knife chops. A sneeze. A yawn. A sniffle. Knife scraping against toast, spreading strawberry jam.

The radio is switched off. I hear you walk down the hall, into the kitchen. I turn from my work and grin. You walk over to the counter and place my dirty teacup in the sink. You pick up the coffee pot, still rumbling and gurgling and steaming. No longer do you smell like sleep, but like soap. This smell has corners, edges. It awakens my senses. I know, though, that as the day goes on, these corners will soften again, beaten down by other scents of life, like the sea and the fish and the coffee you now pour into the mugs. When you come home tonight, you will just smell like you.

            “Time to eat.”

            We carry over the mugs and the glasses and the silverware. Two plates holding toast with strawberry jam. A bowl of strawberries and chopped bananas. A tiny blue pitcher of cream. A tiny jar of sugar with a tiny spoon. We sit down. As I reached for the cream, I catch you looking at me, smiling.

            The fog has almost completely cleared now. You can see the water over the escarpment and catch just a sliver of sea. The water in the morning is beautiful, the way the soft yellows and pinks of the rising sun cause the waves to glimmer the way stars do in a cloudless sky. I can see a few sailboats now, just leisurely meandering. It isn’t very windy. The American flag hanging from the back porch was lifeless.

            “You’ll have an easy trip,” I say as I pour the cream into my mug.

You nod, gazing out at the water, munching on toast. I can see crumbs caught in the stubble on your chin. You take a long drink of orange juice without removing your gaze.

“Beautiful day. Tides are timed just right. Just pray the fog doesn’t roll in too soon.”

I stir the cream with a long silver spoon, the white mixing with the black, a liquidly yin-yang settling into that beautiful shade I see every morning.

When the plates are empty and all that is left at the bottom of our mugs is cold, forgotten grounds, it is time for you to go. I scrape scraps off dishes as you lace up your boots. I rinse the dishes in the sink as you shrug into your tough field coat, the one lined with soft red plaid.

You slap your palms to your knees and rub your hands together.

“Time to go.”

We walk out to the porch, pushing open the glass door, pulling open the screen. I push the glass door as far as it can go, placing the hook nailed to the back of the door to the loop nailed to the side of the house. You let the screen door slam behind us. I take off my socks and leave them in a lump on the doorstep.

Now the sun is well on its way. As we walk out of the shadows and down the porch steps, I can feel its warmth on my neck. The narrow path that leads to the edge of the escarpment is lined with hydrangea bushes, big, round flowers flecked with every shade of blue and purple possible. You can hear the hum of the bumblebees as they attack and retreat the nectar of the buds.

Standing on the very edge of the escarpment, you can see either end of the island, the points where the shore turns to touch the other side. Small waves lap upon the sand. Boats rock back and forth on their moorings. Sail clips clang to the masts. Clumps of seagulls bob up and down in the waves, silently, sleepily. Long, wispy clouds stretch high across the sky. They seem to curve above me, winding paths along a limitless dome of blue expanse.

There’s that line from “White Fang” you love to quote, “sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles realizes he is a maggot’s life no more.”

            The wooden stairs that sit in the side of the sandy cliff creak under our weight (or just you and your boots). We trudge across the sand, soft and cool between my toes as I place each foot inside the imprint of your boot. Standing on the dock, you can see the down to the bottom of the water. Along the sandy floor, shadows dance as schools of minnows frantically dart back and forth. On the surface, a dozen little boats bumped and tottered together as one unit. Some rubber, some wooden, some with motors, some with oars, each attached by a dirty rope, all tied to a single clamp. Ours is a red dingy, only big enough to hold two adults, possibly two and a child. Its rope is a bit longer than the others, so it tends lingers in the back of group. It smells like low tide.

            You reach down and rub your thumb softly along the back of my hand, interlocking fingers.

            “See you later?”

            You smile and lean down for a kiss. You brush a stray hair behind my ear, and then you are gone.

            Stepping off the dock, you balance yourself in the closest boat, then using each boat as a stepping-stone, you make your way over to the red dingy. You settle onto your knees and lean over the bow. I bend down to untie the attached rope and toss it into your outstretched hands, setting you free.

Our Buried Golden Years

Old words, new accompaniment.

“He was a great man.” That’s what they all said, over and over again, as they shyly exchanged conversation between sips of champagne in old, fragile glasses.

            “Ebony was just such a great man. Wasn’t that old either. I guess the good always die young, huh?”

            This was their safe talk, the buffer zone in the postmortem eulogy. They weren’t offending anyone, they weren’t bringing back a surge of memories that would break down some newly constructed damn which held back a loved ones tears- they were simply telling the truth. They were telling what they knew.

            Outside the wind howled and rattled the shutters. It was as if the world was suddenly a hallow, abandoned place without him. The noise outside overpowered the hushed whispers of the mourners, and Tabitha continuingly found herself listening to the wind instead. The past weeks had taken a toll on her. Not necessarily the energy needed to put the funeral and reception together, but the pain of coming home to an empty bed every night- that was what took the most from her.

            Two and half hours later, Tabitha sat on the couch alone in her small, outdated living room. The grieving family and close friends had finally left when they were sure she no longer needed that imperative human touch that those need when they lament for their loss, and that now she just wanted to be left in personal solitude. A mass of empty glasses crowded the counter next to the kitchen sink. No one had offered to help wash them.

            The wind shrieked erratically, while, in contrast, the grandfather clock ticked of the passing seconds. Tabitha rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. On the mantel stood a little tin box, rustic looking, but polished. Ebony had left a will, stating very clearly that he wished to be cremated. But that was all he had demanded. And now, looking at that tiny enclosed box, Tabitha had a feeling that that was not where he belonged. She stood up, cupped the box in her palms, and walked outside into the wind, letting the screen door slam behind her.

            In the far corner of the yard stood a massive apple tree. Its trunk was thick and sturdy, with deep grooves that swirled in every which way. The branches had grown sturdy and anchored, proof of many years of climbing and hanging and swinging. From the braches sprouted embryonic apple buds, surrounded by a sea of transparent green leaves that seemed to reach out at every possible angle. Its colossal presence pronounced itself extremely against the surrounding brush and planted flowers, but like a grandfather, it did not overpower- it simply protected.

            Tabitha stood under the tree, and looked up at the austere, gray sky revealed between the leaves, frantic with the winds touch. Then, she took a deep breath, opened the box, gathered a handful of Ebony in her hand, and tossed him into the air. The ashes were carried up by the wind, and then settled between the bulging roots, stretching along the frozen grass.

            A burden had been graciously lifted off her back. Everything was finally at peace, because he had found his place. He belonged with his tree; dwelling in the surrounding soil as its fuel to feed it, help it, to let it grow. Ebony was now not dead, but very much alive, still living to serve those he loved.

            Is a gust of wind ever the same as one before? Do they travel the world, wherever a windstorm is called for, or do they stay close and return to the same places? Only science could prove such a theory, but sometimes our hearts make more sense than reason. That day, Tabitha knew it was the same wind, for the song in the branches was exactly identical to that of a day 56 years ago.

            Ebony and Tabitha lay on their backs, staring up at the quivering leaves and the maze of their veins that the bright sun illuminated. They listened to the music.

            Fingers intertwined, Ebony absentmindedly let his free hand graze over the diamond on Tabitha’s left. She smiled, and turned her head to meet his eyes. Her beauty was seen by his eyes, and perceived through his mind, spreading like smoke through his blood until it settled in his heart, causing it to stutter. His mind felt thick, his skin burned an embarrassing shade of red.

            “My gem,” he whispered. He couldn’t help but smile at his words.

            Tabitha’s eyes were small- to small to hold all the heavy stories they had lived. And too often, they could not carry the weight any longer, and they overflowed, trickling drops of the saddest brown Ebony had ever seen.

            Above her left eye was a thin ribbon of as scar that ran from the side of her head to the corner of her eye. It only brought pain and excruciating remorse for Ebony to look at those eyes, for it is said that eyes are our connection to our pasts. Her past was nothing but undeserved suffering, a Job-like story- one with an uncontrollable whirlwind of pure evil only the Devil himself could do so directly and deliberately. And Ebony was too late.

            That was what ran through his mind that night, like a frantic bird captured in a cage. I’m to late, I’m too late, I’m too late. It was sheer luck that he happened to see her limp body in the ravine, just by the dim light of the street lamp. He followed the ambulance to the hospital and patiently waited hours until could go into the room to see her. “Love at first sight” did not apply to them. When he saw her for the first time, bandages covering her head, a brace on her wrist, dark swollen eyes, he simply saw another human being- one that had been seriously abused and mistreated.

            She was so quiet at first, only offering a few blunt responses to Ebony’s constant chatter to fill the awkward silence. He came back to sit by her bedside every night- first out of civic good will, but then turning into absolute personal desire- and he began to look forward everyday to their innocent meetings under the florescent lights of the hospital room.

            Every time Tabitha opened her mouth, which she began to slowly do more, a calloused layer of her internal world fell away, as well as a bandage, or a shade of fear that painted her face. Ebony gradually began to uncover her enigmatic being, though how she ended up in the ravine that night was still a mystery to him, even after the two weeks he had spent with her.

            One night, they laughed together at some comment now forgotten. Their laughter dyed down, leaving the hum of the radiator to hang in the silence.

            Ebony could not take the anticipation any longer. He believed if he didn’t ask now, he never would be able too.

            “Why are you here, Tabitha?”

            The question did not seem to faze her, as if she had known he was going to ask it all along.

            “Why should I tell you? I hardly know you. You are only a stranger to me.”

            “Well,” Ebony replied with a smirk, “I guess we’ll have to work on that.”

            Then, Tabitha told him her story, as flatly and stoically as humanly possible,

No words had ever hurt Ebony more in his entire lifetime, never caused such a build up of emotional rage to strangle with his own hands the man who could have done such a thing, such a heartache of sorrow for what this girl must live with for the rest of her life, resentment and omniscient shame.

How was he to respond? No human words could possibly express his thoughts, no words could possibly take away her pain and provide the comfort and serenity she needed. So instead, he gently but undoubtedly leaned across the bed to kiss her.

From that day forth, Tabitha believed those lips were the work of some divine figure, forever pure and sacred, crafted perfectly to be in flawless sync with hers. Never did she really know how many others pairs of lips they had met before they arrived at hers.

For a summer in college, Ebony had the privilege to travel to England and shadow art historian, Martin Kemp. Ebony had recently declared a major in Art History and took his potential career with great seriousness. For two months, he lived with Martin in his 19^th century mansion, settled in the quiet of country right outside the city. Vines crawled up the crumbling stonewalls, and the interior was furnished with the finest British antiques. Accommodating servants were always available to meet Ebony’s every wish.

The basement was Martin’s workspace. A door was hidden in the living room, disguised as a bookshelf, which led to a flight of stairs, and then finally to another door with an alarm system, and a padlock that only responded to Martin’s thumbprint. He was a detective historian. Eager collectors and art dealers from all around the world sent him anonymous paintings they had come across to see if Martin could detect their original creator.

Their summer project was a 13x9 canvas, with the painting of a young girl’s profile, her skin translucent and hair tied in a long braid down her back. They called her “La Bella Principessa”-The Beautiful Princess. Martin strongly believed it could possibly be the work of Leonardo Divinci himself; an idea which put the entire household in excited spirits. For hours at a time, Ebony followed Martin’s lead; hunched over a canvas with a microscope, analyzing brush strokes, paint samples, and hidden finger prints.

Ebony was a good student and a fast learner. As long as the sun shone, he eagerly worked in Martin’s footsteps, doing whatever he could to uncover the great secret of this ancient piece of art. But he was still a kid- a boy not yet even 20.- young and oblivious to most of the world. Martin’s home was only a train ride away from the eye of the pulsing city, and at night, the kid inside Ebony emerged to have some personal fun and enjoyment.

Every night after a four-course meal with Martin, Ebony would slip away from the world of Divinci’s princess, and go to find his own among the neon illuminated side streets of London.  His ID (professionally and expensively copied) was his ticket to endless possibilities after a day of work.

Once Ebony had a few drinks, he would usually find someone to his liking. Blurred with alcohol, his mind became dysfunctional, yet his senses carried on, sharper than ever. He would hear the vibrations of the music, smell the overpowering smoke rising from mirrors, and sweat that reeked of booze, see the face of his current princess for 20 ₤, feel the skin and protruding bones, taste the lips so often tasting like an apple- but too sweet to be genuine, to be the best.

The best apple Ebony had ever tasted came right from his very own backyard. He was 15, yet till the day he died, his mouth still help the perfect memory of that piece of fruit, as if he had just bitten it that very second. The color was the ultimate color of a Gala, a blend of pale reds and yellows, grown to perfection by his own labor. The skin was tart between his teeth, but the fruit itself was both crunchy and juicy- a paradoxical sensation only the very best apple can achieve.

Juice dripped from the corners of his mouth, and he greedily licked his lips, making sure to savor every drop. He sat on the lush grass and rested his head against the maturing trunk of the apple tree. Through the open windows of the house, he could hear the voices inside, deep in some argument of who-did-what and why-can’t-you-do-this. He tried to tune out their voices by instead think of sweet taste on his tongue, and of baseball cards and football games…

There was a football on the kitchen table. He wasn’t sure why it was there, or who even walked into the kitchen with it. But he remembered tracing the lace over and over again with his fat, toddler finger while his mother made lunch. She came over and sat next to him, placing a plate with a PB&J sandwich on the table. As he hungrily nibbled at the bread, avoiding the crust, his mother asked,

“Do you want to know a secret?”

Suddenly very curious by such a suggestion, Ebony nodded enthusiastically, forgetting all about his lunch. His mother brought a ripe apple and a knife to the table, and cut the apple in half, making quite a show of it.

“See what is hidden inside? Can you see the flower in the seeds?”

Ebony smiled in delight, having seemed to have just discovered one of the greatest mysteries of life itself. Indeed, the tiny brown spots formed the shape of a flower.

His mother removed one of the seeds, and pressed it into his palm. Even in comparison to his undeveloped hand, the seed still appeared amazingly tiny and fragile.

“If this seed is buried in the ground, someday it will grow into something much bigger and more beautiful for everyone to see,” she explained.

He could not understand. He could not see how a wrinkled brown seed could someday be beautiful, and could be seen by every person if it was under the ground. Even in his hand, it was smaller than his own thumbnail. Yet still, Ebony had that relying faith a child holds to their parents, and he somehow believed her word.

His mother took the seed and held it between her thumb and pointer finger, right at his eye level.

“Like buried treasure, it is most valuable when it is buried beneath the earth. Do you want to see?”

Ebony still didn’t understand what she was trying to say. But, he was now very curious, and wanted to experience for himself what his mother described. So he took her hand and followed her into the far corner of the backyard, to see what wonder could possibly surface.

                                                                                                                  2010

The Inbetween

[written 10/9/12 next to Book 1 lines 353d-e of "The Republic of Plato" in sosc class]


turn me inside out
sing so my heart may open
freedom to search my
soul, battered, beaten
still has been forever mine
and now forever
yours

Unripened Fruit

"Finish a story and be satisfied" was #5 on my summer bucket list. Tomorrow, classes finally start, so I am technically considering this my very last night of summer. I felt like it was time to put this story to rest, for not only does it embody a few timeless questions, but also many summer sentiments whose time has come and past. Tomorrow marks a new chapter.

Unripened Fruit

ACT 1

We stood at the very tip of the island, where the wild ocean meets the placid sound in perpetual combat. The sky was gray. The horizon was beginning to blur due to the approaching fog. Typical weather in October, or any month of the year really.

            Heidi rose up on her tiptoes, her turquoise windbreaker zipped up to her chin and the hood pulled tight over her head. She stuffed her hands inside her jacket pockets and bit on the zipper with her front teeth.

            After a while, Heidi let go of the zipper and began to rock back and forth on her heels.

            “You know,” she casually spoke, “I wouldn’t really care if I died right now.”

            “Wait, what?” I spat, surprised at her sudden revelation.

            “If I were to walk out into the water right now and let it take me away, or if I were to die in a car crash on the way back, or if someone were to drive along and shoot me, I’d be okay.”

            “Well none of those things are going to happen, obviously,” I quickly reassured her, inching a little closer with the fear that she might plunge into the sea.

            “But why do you say that, Heidi? You don’t really mean it.”

            Heidi turned to face me, her hazel eyes piercing me with their honesty.

            “Why, yes I do.”

Heidi stepped up on a little boulder alone in the sand. She threw her arms back and lifted her face up into the wind, closing her eyes.

            “Why would you say something like that, Heidi? Don’t you realize how many people you would hurt if you were to suddenly stop breathing? Don’t you realize how many people would miss you?”

            She didn’t move from her position.           

            “I have nothing left to give,” she said, the wind carrying her voice in a hundred different directions.

ACT 2

            She’d never been off the island before, never in her seventeen years. Never been farther off the shore than she could swim. Off island trips were just a part of life for me. I’ve had the same pediatrician on the mainland ever since I was born, I rode the ferry across the channel to nearby towns with the high school softball team, and I would always spend the holidays with my mother’s family who lives in a landlocked suburb.  Heidi’s family saw plane tickets and ferry passes as economically unreasonable. The island had a hospital (though the quality was questionable), Heidi’s asthma made sports anathema, and the little extended family she had lived right down the road.

           

INTERLUDE

Heidi May’s mother was the superintendant of the local school system. Her mother’s position gave Heidi deep roots into the island. She could not see very far beyond. An only child, Heidi lived with her mother and father in an old farmhouse in the rustic, brushy town away from the heart of the island. If it weren’t for the American flag flying off the porch and the Ford parked in the dirt driveway, some may have deemed the house abandoned. Half of the fence surrounding the property was painted white, the other half the same dispirited gray of the house itself. Nevertheless, it was May’s home and it had been that way for as long as I have known.

            The first thing someone noticed about Heidi was her posture. What was it exactly? Her limbs were long and lean, not very muscular, though not cadaverous. Even her torso seemed to be unnaturally extended. She often stood with her long legs crossed, one over the other, her hands on her hips. Something about Heidi made her look like a paper doll, only much more pliable. She seemed to fold into herself, her body taking on strange shapes, simultaneous obtuse and acute angles. Her wild white blond hair was always tied into a loose bun hanging to the side of her head. She wore overalls.

ACT 3

            The summer we were sixteen, a boy named Peter Place came to town, and Heidi fell in love.

            “I don’t care that he is only here for three weeks. I don’t care that I don’t know if he loves me back. I still love him,” she told me one night, lying on her back, stretched across my bed, letting her head fall over the edge, her hair touching the floor.

            Peter’s father was a marine biologist and was assigned a project recording whale calls off of the island. I never heard about his mother. Peter brought along a friend named Dylan. What Heidi and I were, whatever we were, Peter and Dylan were the male equivalent. Heidi would be Peter, so I guess that means I would be Dylan. There really was some kind of connection between Peter and Heidi although I wouldn’t call it love. They were incredibly similar, almost the same person. Both did not know where they were going. They were wanderers and Dylan and I were the ones always by their side reminding them that they were not lost.

            The following September after school had started, Heidi confessed to me something that she had never confessed to anyone besides her diary.

            “I need to tell someone,” she explained, “and you are my best friend. So I think I should tell you.”

            One afternoon while I was off island, Heidi had gone to the beach with Peter and Dylan. As they were lounging on their towels, somehow the conversation turned towards the topic of kissing. The two boys began to playfully argue over which one is the better kisser. Heidi had an idea. She would close her eyes and each one would kiss her. Then she would have to say which one was better. But, she explained, there was a disclaimer. Sheepishly, she broke the “ awfully embarrassing” news that she was a prude. So, whichever boy kissed her first would be the first to ever kiss her.

            Dylan was the first. But Peter was the best. She told me she could tell which kiss belonged to what boy by the way they smelled. She told me when she smelled Dylan’s breath coming towards her lips she wanted to cry.

            “Whatever,” she sighed the day their ferry left for the mainland. “I didn’t really like them anyway.”

ACT 4

            Public tragedies are a rarity here on our island. Of course there are fatal diagnoses and confessions inside each home but it is not very often that the entire community shares a common sorrow. Still, that does not mean that they do not happen.  Two days after we started our junior year of high school, two kids from our class were killed in a boating accident. A boy and a girl, a brother and a sister. The girl was in our class. The boy was just a year behind.

            Heidi and I were sitting on her front porch steps, drinking lemonade and trying to soak up as much warmth as possible before the bitter winter cold rolled in. We heard the screen door screech as her mother pushed it open and carefully closed it behind her. I leaned over into Heidi so she could squeeze past us on the steps. At the bottom she turned to face us and squatted down to our level, folding her hands on her knees. There, she explained to us what had just happened earlier that morning. As the superintendant, she was one of the first people on the island to know.

            When she asked if we understood, we nodded slowly. When she asked us if we were okay, we both let our shoulders give a loose shrug. Neither one of us were very expressive when it came to emotion. I’ll never know whether that is a trait innate in each of us or whether one adapted it from the other.

            Mrs. May placed a hand on each of our heads. She took her one hand off of mine and let the other run down the edge of Heidi’s face until she was holding her chin with her thumb.

            When I heard Mrs. May turn the kitchen sink on in the kitchen through the open windows, I turned to Heidi. She stared out into the empty road, and beyond that, the thicket, and beyond that the sea. Her glass was pressed against her lips, but she wasn’t drinking.

            We were silent for a long time.

            Mrs. May was doing the dishes. I could hear the clatter of silverware scraping against plates and being placed in the dishwasher.

            Finally, the sink stopped running and somewhere in the house a television was switched on. I could hear the laughing of a sitcom, but I couldn’t hear what the characters were saying.

            “Say something.”
            My head snapped to look at Heidi, who was looking at me.

            “You say something,” I retorted.

            “I asked you first.”

            I shifted my body so I was sitting upright and placed my glass on the step where my feet rested. I wiped my wet fingers on the side of my jean cutoffs.

            “I think that this is going to change the atmosphere of this school year,” I said.

            Heidi nodded in agreement.

            “I think that now they are free.”

ACT 5

            It was February, but the only pink in the kitchen was the color of our cheeks, flushed by the harsh draft.  Outside was nothing but night. The small lantern hanging above the kitchen door on the porch even failed to shed a bit of direction upon the darkness.

            Heidi and I sat at the May’s kitchen table, knee deep in impossible physics problems. Her parents sat in the living room, separated by a wooden half wall, watching the evening news.

            9. You have a glass of water that is 70° F. You then drop an ice cube into the glass. What is the temperature of the water after all the ice has melted?

            Heidi groaned and dramatically let her forehead fall onto her textbook, sending her pencil to shoot off the table and across the tile floor. Her bun flopped onto my own notebook.

            “I. Give. Up,” she announced in a muffled voice.

            “We could just circle it and go in tomorrow before school. He’ll practically give us the answers,” I suggested, chewing on the tip of my eraser and staring at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling over the table.

            “Tell me again why I took this class?”

            “We ask ourselves that everyday.”

            “That is just awful.”

            Heidi’s head snapped up and we both craned our necks over towards the living room. This kid-homework-parent-news-situation was pretty routine, but very rarely did Heidi’s parents speak, let alone comment on what they were watching.

            “What’s the matter, Dad?”

            Mr. May sat with his elbows on his knees, running his fingers along his brown, prickly scruff.

            “It’s this earthquake. The destruction just breaks your heart,” he responded in his deep voice.

            Heidi stood up and leaned over the half wall to get a better look at the screen.

            “What earthquake? Where?”

            “Haiti. It happened earlier this week.”

            I got up to stand next to Heidi. On the television, an American male reporter was standing speaking into a microphone, pointing off into the distance. There was a road, a wide gravel road that seemed to travel all the way back to the horizon. On either side of the road, makeshift tents of driftwood, blue tarp, tattered cloth, and pipes stood shoulder to shoulder. However far the road went, it seemed as if the tents would be lined up beside it. You know how usually the sky makes whatever is on the ground appear to be so small? Well, this sight seemed to make the sky look thin and weary. Insignificant.

            The screen changed to the view of a new camera, where a blond woman dressed for the office sat on a plastic chair, also speaking into a microphone. She held a little Haitian boy in her lap and there were about fifteen other children surrounding her on the ground. All wore faded, unraveling clothes, all had gaping, frantic eyes, all had thick, parted lips. I saw clouds of smoke behind them. Or was it just dirt?

            All of these children around me are orphans. They had either lost their parents before the earthquake struck, or they lost them in its aftermath…

ACT 6

            “Rise up! Rise up from those ashes! Because, my friends, if you have your face buried in the ground, however will you be able to see the light?”

            “Amen! Amen!”

            “Rise up, my friends, my friends in Christ! Let me read you somethin’. This  here comes from the book of Philippians, Phillippians 3:8-11:

I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law but which is through faith in Christ. I want to know Christ- yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation of his sufferings, becoming like him in his death and so somehow attaining to the resurrection from the dead.”

            “Amen!”

            “Friends, love is a complicated word. A word that stretches from as far as the East is to the West. No one understands its expanse. But, friends, I can tell you, one of the reasons why I love Jesus Christ with all my heart and soul is because he was once a man!”

            “Amen!”

            “He was a man who has walked this earth and has felt this pain, this sorrow, this heartache! Friends, we are NEVER alone.”

            “Amen! Amen!”

            “And why did Jesus do this? Why did he agree to take on the burden that comes along with a beating heart and warm flesh? So he could rise again, brothers and sisters! He died and fell into the pits of Hell so we, as sinners, would have the possibility of eternal life!”

            “Amen! Amen! Amen!”

            “We, we look ahead into the eyes of paradise. Where there is no pain! No sorrow! No heartache! My friends, someday we will see the Lord with our own eyes!”

            “AMEN! AMEN!”

            “But before we leave this earth, before our hearts stop beating and our flesh runs cold and stiff, we have a job to do-“

            “Amen!”

            “-we have job that we must do for the Lord! Brothers and sisters, we are the face of Christ! We must live so that the people we pass in our lives can look into our eyes and say I have seen the face of God!”

            “Halleluiah!”

            “We are the body of Christ! We are His arms, His legs, His eyes, His ears, His mouth! He lives inside our hearts as long as we have faith!”

            “Halleluiah! Amen!”

            “There is a light before us, and it will not be long before we stand before God Almighty. But until that day comes, we must never take a minute for granted. May we use each to the benefit of God to the best of our abilities.”

            “Amen, Amen, Amen!”

            “Brothers and sisters, my family in Christ, do not be afraid of death. Be afraid of dying with a life that is unfulfilled and a story that is unfinished.”

ACT 7

            In Art History, we were learning about Oriental art. For homework, we were told to write a haiku. Three syllables, five syllables, three syllables. Simple as that.

            We stood up in front of the class to read them aloud.

Sun in the blue sky

Little fish in the blue sea

Blue: color of life

I saw a flying

Butterfly land on a branch

Wings settling down

Meow says the cat

Arf woof bark bark says the dog

Fun in the barnyard

What I fear the most

To hold a blank page and an

Empty ink bottle

ACT 8

            We trudged through the snow, soldiers in heavy boots making their way home.

            “So, I think I am going to ask my parents about traveling overseas this summer. The government sponsors trips for students, you know. I guess they want us to be more cultured or something.”

            I couldn’t help but let out a little HA but quickly buried my mouth inside my scarf, wrapped up to my chin, when I saw Heidi’s face, obviously hurt.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “Heidi, you have never even been on mainland. You have never been anywhere else besides here. How are you going to get on a plane and go to a totally different country?”

            “Why not?”

            “Well-“

            “It’s not like you’ve been to another country either!”

            The wind blew in circles around us and we shrugged out backpacks higher up on our shoulders and snuggled deeper into our winter coats. We marched along in silence.

            “So, where would you go?” I broke the silence.

            Heidi stared straight ahead.

            “Um, maybe Haiti.”

            “Heidi, I don’t exactly think the government is going to pay for a young girl to travel to a country currently in ruins.”

            She snapped her head around to give me the death stare. I’ve seen that face before. Recently, I have seen it quite a lot.

            “Why not?”

            “Well, for starters, its dangerous.”

            “So what? Do you know how many people are there already with the Red Cross and-“

            “Yes, but those people aren’t sixteen years old.”

            “So you think I should just wait until I turn twenty five? What difference would that make? What if I don’t even live to be twenty-five? What if I died right now, huh? What if I dropped dead right now?”

            “Well, you told me you wouldn’t care.”

ACT 9

            I stood on the stoop outside the kitchen door. The same lamp was hanging above me as the one when we watched nightmares unravel on the television, worlds away. It still refused to shed any light into the darkness. But now, it wasn’t because of the thickness of the night, it was because the night was already ablaze by the clearest sky of the year, a sign that spring was approaching. Every star was bright and distinct, each in their precise place throughout the dusty Milk Way.

            Each star does not move itself. Each has its own spot. They all move together. One unit, I pondered.

            The austere winter weather seemed to have pushed into the May home, leaving room for this crystal night. It was a Friday and I had come over to pick Heidi up to go downtown to a friend’s. Before I even knocked on the door though, I could feel the tension that had built up inside the house. I heard the screaming. The slamming. So I stood, waiting for the storm to pass.

            I heard stomping through the kitchen, quieter through the living room, the foyer. The screen door squeaked open and crashed shut. Stones scattered and clacked as Heidi stormed across the driveway and across the road to the thicket. I could see her in the light of the stars, her hands balled up into fists, stiff at her side.

            There was one thick trunk among all the thin saplings lining the road. That is where Heidi took refuge. She sat down on tree’s protruding roots, wrinkled but strong, and leaned against the trunk. There, she finally let herself cry, weeping into the night up at a nonexistent moon.

For When You Are Feeling Alone

please remind yourself

the vultures will go to where

the dead body lies

No Name #2

blessed are those who

wait for the day in silence

with open watchful eyes

Noose Moon

from the start of time

the moon has hung by its neck

dangling from a noose

it has no control

wavering dead porcelain

letting the night lead

Rules

“To be or not to be”

Hasn’t that always been the question?

I hate how the world has molded my mind, has squeezed and folded, shaped it to think that things are bad when they are perfectly fine
to think that something is wrong with me when there actually is not.

Rachel Corrie once wrote, “freedom is the rule.”

But recently I have begun to think that freedom is the exception.

Boundaries are the rule.

Personal awareness bordering the line of conceit.

Social acceptance.

These are the rules that we live by and we can never return.

We are already up to our chins in filth. There is no turning back now.

I thought the modern day promised to supply an infinite stream of knowledge?

No longer am I satisfied.

Perhaps it has become the source of a certain knowledge that I no longer wish to acquire.

For in the end, it is wisdom that I seek.

The ability to look at this world with an unfiltered eye.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 6 (the end)

There was only half a moon in the sky, but it was just as bright as one that was full.

            The stars were invisible underneath the fluorescent streetlights and neon bar signs, but I still knew they were there.

            I found myself sauntering over to the canal where the industrial ships motored through towards the docks. If the weather was pleasant, I would sometimes come here and just sit for hours. Being by the water was such a comfort for me. I loved to just sit on the edge and let my bare feet dangle over, crossing my arms on the lowest rail and leaning my chin into its nook. I would stare down at my reflection in the water, watching the tiny waves distort the image.

            But now, as I sat there on the concrete, my reflection looked more foreign than ever. It was barely visible in the light of the moon and far off street lamp- barely recognizable at all.

Maybe that will be you someday.

I was hurt now, but I had also been hurt countless times before. What could I possibly expect? This wasn’t disappointment. This was just the aftershock of my own selfish fantasy. Even after all this time, I still seemed to always expect something more than the worst. 

The wind began to pick up slightly, whipping my hair around in my face, pricking at my open eyes, making them tear.

I thought of Karin. I thought of what he could possibly be doing at that very moment. Had he fallen back asleep? Was he pacing his room with all the lights flicked on? Was he out in the streets looking for me? No. Stop that.

He didn’t understand. How could he?

I thought of the Christian at the heavy metal door, with the sweatshirt and the clipboard. I wondered if Karin would ever be turned away someday.

I was pulled out of the depths of my mind when I felt a wave of water wash over my foot, cold as the ocean in January. I was stunned to see how rough the water inside the canal had grown to be. I had never seen the water splash up so high. The wind didn’t feel strong enough to cause such a riot.

Suddenly, an enormous crack of thunder resonated through the city, rumbling the pavement. A wave sloshed completely over the edge of the canal, drenching me through my clothes. I jumped up and held onto the railing with both hands. I couldn’t see any other person.

Before the earth could recover from such a blow, another shook the city by the roots. At the same time the thunder rippled through the night, the entire sky lit up, an endless white, blinding me, washing the entire city out by its austerity.

For five seconds, all was quiet. Nothing throughout the entire city of Philadelphia stirred.

But just as quickly as the silence settled over, chaos broke out again as a massive earthquake rumbled the pavements. A giant crack raced through the city, speeding with the sound of an atomic bomb dropping thousands of feet.

White. All I saw was white. All I heard was the buzzing, a shrill sound, like an insect flying into my ear.

Then, the earth gave way underneath me, the railing jerked out from my reach. I fell into the crashing water and was pulled under the diabolical waves. And all was silent.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 5

The full moon outside shed a surprising amount of light into the apartment. It was funny how the room seemed so dark, yet I could see all around me. A paradox.

I sat up on the couch, my boney legs crossed in front of me. Karin had given me an old sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. But the pants were so large, they were uncomfortable, so I had taken them off and settled for the tattered sweatshirt, which hung down loosely past my knees. I twirled a strand of hair around my finger, but it quickly bounced out my reach back up towards my scalp.

Across the room, I saw the shape of Karin’s body under the blankets on his bed. I watched his chest heave up and down with every methodic breath.

I was so cold.

I felt so alone.

I wondered if Karin felt the same way.

Quietly, I stepped off the couch. The wooden floor was cold on my bare feet. I began to walk towards the bed; very aware of every step I took, yet not really thinking at all.

Now I could see his face.

His eyelids were black. Or it could have been that they were extremely sheer, and his bottomless eyes were showing through. He slept on his side, hunched over away from me. He had pulled the quilt completely around him, so that only the skin of his head was visible. His mouth parted a little as he breathed in and out.

Maybe that will be you someday.

Before me I saw a wounded man. A husk of a human being whose insides had been unfairly taken. Someone who was afraid to fight back. Someone who was very, very alone.

Someone like me.

Every muscle ached to lie next to him; to climb under the quilt and feel his warm skin against my own, to bury my face in his tangled hair. I wanted to tell him I understood, that he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

So I did.

            Holding my breath, I lifted the corner of the old quilt, revealing his bare back. His skin looked even more ghostly in the moonlight. He didn’t even stir.

            I climbed onto the bed, kneeling first, then slipping my legs under the covers. The mattress springs creaked. But it was a pleasant sound, a sound of home and affection. Again, Karin didn’t budge. Cautiously, I released my breath.

            Leaning on my elbow, I starred. In the milky light, his hair was a million tiny threads, swirling in different directions.

            Suddenly, he began to move. I held my breath again as he slowly uncurled his legs, stretching them out before releasing them again, pulled up the quilt around his shoulder, and sighed.

            He was so wounded. I could see him bleeding.

            When I was sure he was completely still again, I lay down so that my head was on the other pillow, still facing his back.

            He didn’t have to be alone.

            I lifted an arm and gently wrapped it around his chest, the quilt and the sweatshirt between each other’s skin. My fingers played with the edge of quilt, grabbing the worn fabric so it rubbed between them.

            Karin stirred, but I did not pull away. He inhaled, and then exhaled long and dramatically. He turned over onto his back so he was looking at the ceiling. My hand lay on his chest, palm down, fingers limp.

            “Your home,” he mumbled.

            I smiled at the words.

            “Shhh, it’s okay. We both are. It’s okay.”

            My pointer finger traced a circle on his chest, around and around.

            He grinned a toothless grin in his sleep.

            I was helping him.

            His eyes didn’t seem quite as dark anymore. But maybe it was just the light.

            He mumbled something.

            “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay go back to sleep,” I cooed.

            He grinned again.

            “Maggie. Mags, your home.”

            My finger stopped, mid-revolution.

            As quietly, as I slid into the bed, I slid out, padding across the floor to gather the little I had.

            “Mags, come on, girl. Please stay. Please stay with me,” I saw him sitting up in the bed. His eyes were the only part of him visible in the darkness. No longer did they seem so distant. As I stared back, they looked yellow and glassy, like some kind of creature. Creature fear.

            So relatively fucked.

            Before he could say another word, I vanished out the door and into the night. A faceless phantom with nowhere to go.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 4

   Karin lived in a large apartment complex on the outskirts of the university campus. It was an ugly building, probably built in the 70’s, boxy, brown, simple, cheap, about ten stories high. Light blazed through a few windows in the second floor and I could hear the heart-shaking beat of a base keeping time to some one-hit-wonder. A metal fire escape wound around one side of the building, and I saw the silhouette of a woman on one of the higher levels, holding a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

            I followed Karin up the front stairs and into the main hall. As I stomped up the stairs in my heavy, degraded boots, my footsteps loudly echoed off the white bare walls.  Karin was silent in his Chuck Tailors, barely making a sound.

We walked up four flights of stairs.

            Finally, Karin walked down a white hall and dug a hand into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet, then a key, which he then used to unlock the door. He had to push pretty hard since it was a bit jammed, so when it finally flung open, he was sporadically thrown into the room under his own efforts. He flicked on a switch by the door and a lamp lit up somewhere.

            I expected the apartment to be a lot messier. Isn’t that how most college kids lived?

            But the space looked quite organized. It was small, really just one large room, split by a brown concrete half wall. One side held a bed and a large corner desk; the other contained a kitchenette and round card table with two folding chairs. I noticed one closet, and one simple wooden door leading into a bathroom. Maybe it wasn’t organized though, maybe it was just empty. I remembered him saying something about roommates, but I saw nothing that indicated that Karin shared this space.

            Karin put his keys and wallet on the table, then shrugged off his jacket and hung it casually over the backs of one of the chairs. At the sight of this simple gesture, something in my heart dissolved, something in my mind screamed HOME HOME HOME DADDY I’M HOME.

            As he walked around the apartment turning on more lights, I sauntered over into the kitchen area and gazed up at the simple pleasures I had forgotten.

A microwave. A microwave to pop a bag of popcorn, then remove the bag and run and leap onto the couch in the family room next to a friend. To eat while watching a movie, laughing at the character’s falls or crying for their pain.

A sink. A sink with a faucet to wash your hands before sitting down to a dinner table surrounded by family members and generational dishes filled with steaming servings of mashed potatoes or casserole or Hamburger Helper.

A bowl. A bowl to put in fruit, or ice cream, or cereal, or soup. To fill with tiny candies and place it on the coffee table for when company comes. To fill with little treasures found throughout weeks of summer, to place on your bedside table so you can touch them before you go to sleep.

I could feel Karin’s eyes piercing through mine.

“Cynthia?”

I turned around but still didn’t meet his eyes.

The walls were painted a pale green. If they weren’t contrasted against the brown trimming, they could be mistaken for white. His bed was made, sheets stiff and smooth, a patchwork quilt lay folded at the foot. In the far corner, Karin had leaned his guitar case against the wall under a floor lamp next to a pile of paperback novels with names like Lolita and Frankenstein.

Karin’s desk appeared to be the messiest thing in the room. Countless piles of papers were sprawled along the surface, held together by giant clips. Multiple books lay open while others were turned uncomfortable upside down.

Above the desk, Karin had taped dozens of photographs. As I wandered closer, I saw the faces of strangers. Some smiling, some making funny faces. Most seemed to be posed, but a few looked like candids. Those struck me the most. In a candid, genuine emotion is shone. No one can hide behind the “Say Cheese!”-type smile forced upon by the photographer. They are truly able to capture true moments in time.

In one picture, Karin was sitting in the bed or a pickup truck. He looked different. Younger, yes, but also just more…usual. His hair didn’t seem quite as white, and his eyes not as black. He wore and old t-shirt and baseball cap with his hair bursting out from its seams.

He had is arm around a girl, sitting beside him. She had long legs, thin as rails, one straight out in front, the other bent at the knee. Her hair was red and curly, but very tame. She wore black aviator sunglasses and had her head turned in towards his chest, laughing, the top row of teeth showing perfectly.

Karin himself had his eyes pointed downwards at the top of her head. His mouth was shut, but his lips were pressed into a crooked line, as if we were suppressing a smile. His eyes really weren’t as dark. Although it was just a photograph, they didn’t seem to have that same magnetic pull that I could feel now. Instead they were shallow. It was as if you could skim your finger right through them and be able to touch bottom. But still, they were much clearer, his emotions manifesting obviously.  I saw contentment, longing, and happiness.

I took a step back to look at the collection of photographs as a whole, and noticed that the girl appeared in a majority of them. Strangely enough though, she wore the same pair of sunglasses in every one. Strangely enough, Karin’s eyes looked exactly the same in every one.

“Cynthia?”

Finally I turned to look at him, allowing him to meet my gaze. Karin, there, today, in the living flesh. There was no lens. Just our eyes.

I cocked my head towards the wall.

“Whose she?”

His eyes darted again, the same way they frantically jumped when Polly had awkwardly introduced him to us that night. He was uncomfortable.

“She’s not entirely in the picture right now,” he said slowly, dragging out the words.

I chuckled at the ironic reply, and I saw him starring at me from the corner of my eye.

He looked hurt. I began to wonder if his hollowness was a result of this girl. Had she shoveled him out? Leaving nothing but a carcass? His eyes…it was like he had put up opaque, black screens, impervious to any emotion escaping.

But then again, she was just a figure in a 3X5.

I heard Karin clear his throat.

“So, I only have one bed here in the apartment. You are welcome to sleep on the couch. Or I might have an air mattress somewhere…I could try to dig it out if you’d prefer that.”

I shook my head back and forth in short little jerks.

“No, no its fine. The couch is fine.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll grab some extra sheets. The bathroom is over there,” he pointed to a cracked wooden door on the other side of the room. “You can use that if you’d like. And, um, if you need anything just ask.”

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

Without any response, Karin turned around to open a giant, two-door closet behind him. He pulled on a chain hanging from the ceiling, causing a single bulb to illuminate, casting his long, lonely shadow across the floor.

Then I too turned around, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me