Silence is never silent. If anything, my mind gets louder as everything else gets quieter. That's when all those nameless characters in my head start clawing at the walls of my mind, bent on escaping onto paper or computer so they can be real and keep the loneliness away. And that's when the headache starts.
The ground is uncomfortably uneven, but I am too lazy to switch positions or shake those annoying ants off my clothes. It's also rather cold, and the sky looks like it's ready to cry on me at any moment, but I'm not about to go back home. Sometimes being alone is the easiest way to dull how much I miss you.
I miss you. The words shimmer and cringe behind my eyes, and I'm both disappointed and amused. It's not really fair to miss you. I just like you too much. Maybe if you were more disagreeable, I wouldn't miss you so much, and then I wouldn't have to bite my tongue off every time I see you, for fear I'll blurt out how much I longed to see you this week.
If I said that once, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. But no, I'd tell you every time, and then you might think I'm annoying and clingy and then I'd be the disagreeable one.
A drop of rain falls on my forehead and I jump. Rain is a distraction, an interesting diversion from the dryness of life. Only that's a bad analogy, because my life isn't dry; in fact, it's already interesting without the rain. It's cold out here though, and the rain makes it worse.
But I'm not getting up, because I'm lazy.
You're getting back today or tomorrow. I was hoping it is today, but then I remembered you'll be tired and jet-lagged and so I should leave you alone. I put my hands behind my head and close my eyes. I'm going to be so muddy after this.
The characters in my head are starting to get desperate. I have no paper and no computer and I don't know how to appease them. I don't need the ideas they are begging me to use; I've written hundreds of things, I've been in the paper, in magazines, published online. I don't need new ideas. I have plenty.
And I miss you.
I laugh out loud as that thought comes flitting back over my stream of consciousness. How is it you take over my mind so much? It's so cliché I almost hate it. But I don't. I like you, and I like thinking about you. You could be rid of me if you were more disagreeable. I smile.
The rain is steady now, and bitterly cold. I begin talking out loud to appease the clamor inside my mind. The voices jump ahead and back and forth, conversing, and I let them. It's easier than copying them down, because sometimes I am tired of the fantasies I create, the fantasies I cannot enter into.
The ground is getting softer, and for some reason that makes me laugh and all the little people and voices get quiet to listen. Laughing is the easiest way to get rid of them. They'll come back, but sometimes, I like to be without them.
Although, sometimes I need them because they stop me from missing you. But maybe missing you is alright. I smile and keep my eyes closed because it's raining on my face. The cold feels good for once, which is surprising, but not unappreciated.
I sit up. I wish you were here just so I could have a hug. But you probably wouldn't want to hug me since I've been lying in the grass in the rain.
"I miss you," I say aloud.
Someone laughs behind me. I stand up and you pick me up and spin me around, and it didn't matter that it's raining and I'm all wet and cold.
"I missed you too."
And I laugh.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Monday Nights
You were always taller than me. So much taller, and I would have to stand on my tiptoes if I ever hugged you around the neck.
My ADD is a constant companion, especially on nights when I need to get something done. Tonight it's math, and tonight it's not really night but very early morning. Maybe three. Maybe later. It's been one hour since I stopped being tired, and I have an hour at best until the caffeine crash kicks in. Math. Focus. Math.
I write down a formula. Something simple. "A squared plus B squares equals C squared." I have to replace the variables with constants, like how you mix ingredients together to make cookies. I ate all the cookies already. I was thinking ahead this time, I made cookies a half hour before I remembered the math I hadn't done. I smile, wondering if you'd be proud of me making cookies before even knowing I needed them.
Math.
Math is one of those subjects that gets increasingly hard to concentrate on the later it gets. Some things you can just mindlessly copy down and pretend you aren't plagiarizing anything. Plagiarism? No, I didn't plagiarized anything. Why would you ask? It's too hard to spell, much less accomplish...
Concentration doesn't happen often enough for me to plagiarize anyway. I just make things up. They're far more interesting my way.
Math...
Find three consecutive multiples of 4... this isn't even hard math. I blame my current distraction on the old grandfather clock that's ticking away cheerfully as if it doesn't know I'm trying very hard to do my math. Math is hard enough to do without that tick-tick-tick back there. The first tick is louder than the second and they alternate, back and forth, back and forth, like a sort of gong destined to drive me insane.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how to raise my right eyebrow.
The clock rings at me to tell me it's three thirty in the morning. The noise startles me and I drop my pencil under the desk. While I am searching in the dark for my pencil, I come across my phone which I lost three days ago. Once you called me while I was doing math and you were bored and I was trying very hard not to say something ADDish. But you said something about height, and I burst out with my thoughts on being short and hugging you. And I made you laugh.
I find my pencil and crawl back into my chair. My caffeine is wearing off and I try very hard not to fall asleep on my books. Math. Math. Math. The grandfather clock starts ticking to those four letters, and this amuses me for awhile and I forget about my math.
Its sort of funny how easily I am distracted. Having ADD helps me laugh at my ADD. I don't know why. I rarely make sense. But I am never bored with myself, even if I can't hold a conversation for more than three sentences.
Math!
I notice with surprise I only have to work one more problem. No more cookies, no more caffeine, and I'm so relieved to finally sleep that I don't care about the three hours of sleep I'll get.
This makes me laugh.
My ADD is a constant companion, especially on nights when I need to get something done. Tonight it's math, and tonight it's not really night but very early morning. Maybe three. Maybe later. It's been one hour since I stopped being tired, and I have an hour at best until the caffeine crash kicks in. Math. Focus. Math.
I write down a formula. Something simple. "A squared plus B squares equals C squared." I have to replace the variables with constants, like how you mix ingredients together to make cookies. I ate all the cookies already. I was thinking ahead this time, I made cookies a half hour before I remembered the math I hadn't done. I smile, wondering if you'd be proud of me making cookies before even knowing I needed them.
Math.
Math is one of those subjects that gets increasingly hard to concentrate on the later it gets. Some things you can just mindlessly copy down and pretend you aren't plagiarizing anything. Plagiarism? No, I didn't plagiarized anything. Why would you ask? It's too hard to spell, much less accomplish...
Concentration doesn't happen often enough for me to plagiarize anyway. I just make things up. They're far more interesting my way.
Math...
Find three consecutive multiples of 4... this isn't even hard math. I blame my current distraction on the old grandfather clock that's ticking away cheerfully as if it doesn't know I'm trying very hard to do my math. Math is hard enough to do without that tick-tick-tick back there. The first tick is louder than the second and they alternate, back and forth, back and forth, like a sort of gong destined to drive me insane.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how to raise my right eyebrow.
The clock rings at me to tell me it's three thirty in the morning. The noise startles me and I drop my pencil under the desk. While I am searching in the dark for my pencil, I come across my phone which I lost three days ago. Once you called me while I was doing math and you were bored and I was trying very hard not to say something ADDish. But you said something about height, and I burst out with my thoughts on being short and hugging you. And I made you laugh.
I find my pencil and crawl back into my chair. My caffeine is wearing off and I try very hard not to fall asleep on my books. Math. Math. Math. The grandfather clock starts ticking to those four letters, and this amuses me for awhile and I forget about my math.
Its sort of funny how easily I am distracted. Having ADD helps me laugh at my ADD. I don't know why. I rarely make sense. But I am never bored with myself, even if I can't hold a conversation for more than three sentences.
Math!
I notice with surprise I only have to work one more problem. No more cookies, no more caffeine, and I'm so relieved to finally sleep that I don't care about the three hours of sleep I'll get.
This makes me laugh.
And Counting
It's been three hours since I last saw you, three hours since I said goodbye again. Three long hours, three short hours since you disappeared around the corner with a smile. I hate that corner, you know, because you always go around it and then I don't see you.
It's been two and a half days since we went to see that old black and white film, and we were the only two in the theater. Two and a half days since we sat with your arm around me, shouting at the bad acting of those timeful characters, and laughed. We laughed. Remember that? It felt good to laugh.
It's been a day less than a week since we walked all the way up to the top of the hill, the hill that overlooks everything and anything lovely and ugly. You can see the entire city, but the city's not very big, and it makes you feel lost in some sort of matrix that you can't escape from. It's been a day less than a week since I couldn't find my heavy coat, and I went anyway even though it was almost below zero. A day less than a week since you told me if I didn't take your coat, you'd have to hold me close until I was warm enough to walk back down. A day less than a week since I didn't take your coat.
It's been two weeks and three days since you came back from that eternity of a week. Two weeks and three days since I spent so long convincing myself it was alright to miss you. Two weeks and three days since you came the other way around the corner, and I have never loved that corner more.
It's been just a month since you held my hand and we ran along the river until I couldn't breathe anymore. Just a month since I leaned against your chest and you kissed my forehead. Just a month since you pushed me into the river and then declared your undying love while watching me struggle back to shore. I like your laugh.
It's been fifty-seven days since you kissed me for the first time.
It's been seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day happened. Seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day, standing in front of the video store, waiting for it to open. Seventeen weeks since I stood on tiptoe and impulsively kissed your cheek. Seventeen weeks since you turned around and picked me up and hugged me so tight, just because I kissed you.
It's been three thousand, eight hundred sixty-four hours since you came around that corner just to say you missed me.
It's been four hundred fifty-three thousand six hundred minutes since we held hands for the first time, at a concert for some band that was horrible. But I didn't mind.
It's been four hundred ninety days since I found out you loved me. And four hundred eighty-three days since I told you I loved you.
And it's been 2.37 years, 856.05 days, 20,761.2 hours, 1,245,672 minutes since you came around the corner. 123 weeks since you smiled at me for the first time.
Only fourteen hours till I get to see you again...
It's been two and a half days since we went to see that old black and white film, and we were the only two in the theater. Two and a half days since we sat with your arm around me, shouting at the bad acting of those timeful characters, and laughed. We laughed. Remember that? It felt good to laugh.
It's been a day less than a week since we walked all the way up to the top of the hill, the hill that overlooks everything and anything lovely and ugly. You can see the entire city, but the city's not very big, and it makes you feel lost in some sort of matrix that you can't escape from. It's been a day less than a week since I couldn't find my heavy coat, and I went anyway even though it was almost below zero. A day less than a week since you told me if I didn't take your coat, you'd have to hold me close until I was warm enough to walk back down. A day less than a week since I didn't take your coat.
It's been two weeks and three days since you came back from that eternity of a week. Two weeks and three days since I spent so long convincing myself it was alright to miss you. Two weeks and three days since you came the other way around the corner, and I have never loved that corner more.
It's been just a month since you held my hand and we ran along the river until I couldn't breathe anymore. Just a month since I leaned against your chest and you kissed my forehead. Just a month since you pushed me into the river and then declared your undying love while watching me struggle back to shore. I like your laugh.
It's been fifty-seven days since you kissed me for the first time.
It's been seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day happened. Seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day, standing in front of the video store, waiting for it to open. Seventeen weeks since I stood on tiptoe and impulsively kissed your cheek. Seventeen weeks since you turned around and picked me up and hugged me so tight, just because I kissed you.
It's been three thousand, eight hundred sixty-four hours since you came around that corner just to say you missed me.
It's been four hundred fifty-three thousand six hundred minutes since we held hands for the first time, at a concert for some band that was horrible. But I didn't mind.
It's been four hundred ninety days since I found out you loved me. And four hundred eighty-three days since I told you I loved you.
And it's been 2.37 years, 856.05 days, 20,761.2 hours, 1,245,672 minutes since you came around the corner. 123 weeks since you smiled at me for the first time.
Only fourteen hours till I get to see you again...
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Words We Don't Say
It's sunny today. It's so painfully bright, but I can't close my eyes because the sky is the most nostalgic shade of blue and those stupid clouds are like memories that won't go away. The grass holds me like I sometimes wish you would. It keeps me from sinking into the dirt and it prevents my heart from running away.
This is my favorite place to be. I feel so small and intimidated, like at any time I could be crushed by the giant foot of significance. I feel unimportant and unrecognized, flat on my back staring at those hideously beautiful clouds. The sky is so big, you know. So many places without memories.
I like how you always make me come out here when I have a meltdown and can't stop crying. I lay down on the grass and clench those pleasant green blades and stare. You sit next to me for awhile and you don't say anything until I've calmed down enough to talk.
The first two words I say are always the same. It takes such effort to male my voice work again, and my eyes are red and swollen from the unstoppable crying. I am so ugly right now. But it doesn't really matter, because I'm so small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized.
"I'm sorry."
You stretch out on the grass next to me, the sides of our heads almost touching, our bodies at a forty degree angle. I hold onto the grass tighter because it's not fair to miss you when you're right beside me. The endless game plays over in my mind, I debate saying so many things. You ask me what's wrong, what if I told you I miss you so much it tightens my stomach into a twisted lump, every time I let myself remember laughing with you? You ask me to tell you why I'm crying, what if I told you it's because I'm so, so, so afraid of nothing?
Every day is a constant battle of repressing my feelings, because I don't want you to know how much every word you say to me means. I get disgusted with myself, because I hate clichés and recently I've been such a walking cliché machine. I hate the idea that I'm like every other teenage girl who has ever loved a boy. Sometimes I want to be different, just so you'll never find anyone else quite like me.
But it doesn't really matter. I'm small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized... and so ugly today.
I realize tears are sliding from my eyes, and they tickle my cheek as they fall away. Out of the corner of my vision I can see you watching me.
"What's wrong?"
Oh, I hate your voice. It makes me want to laugh and cry and tell you everything that hurts me. It makes me feel loved and protected and cared for, it makes me feel special and beautiful, and all the things I know I'm not.
I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood, because the pain is a distraction from the horrible humiliating tears coming from my eyes. I wish I had no eyes, because then I couldn't cry and then I would never be ugly because of all my crying.
I wonder if it hurts you when I avoid answering when you ask me what's wrong. I wonder if you know it's not because I don't want to tell you, but because I don't know how to make the words mean anything and I don't want to irritate you with my rambles about all the things I do to make it easier. I wonder if you know that sometimes I cry simply when you say goodbye, because I wanted to say so much but I couldn't and I don't want you to leave.
And sometimes I wonder if it annoys you that I cry so often, and if it would annoy you more if you knew every time I cried. And other times I wonder if it's possible that I could be respected for my excessive crying.
Sometimes I wonder if you think I should be stronger. Sometimes I wonder if I ever help you. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I went away. Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?
"Hey."
I close my eyes and bite my lip harder. My face flames as you slide your hand into mine. Just like the first time we held hands. My face was burning, but my heart was in heaven.
"Is that out of guilt?" My voice is low and broken. I hate my voice after I've been crying. Everything about me is horrible when I cry.
"No." You tighten your hold and I wonder why that makes me want to start crying again. "No, Ellie. I want to."
I force my ugly, red eyes open again, but I don't trust myself to look at you. Your fingers run over mine and my face burns but maybe, maybe, maybe you missed me...
The sky is still so blue, and I hate it. No, I love it. Pain swirls in my lip and the sunlight makes my insignificance more defined. The clouds float by and I have the urge to blow them all away.
"Don't cry anymore, Ellie," you say, quietly, earnestly, like you're afraid to wake me up. "Please don't cry anymore."
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Ellie."
The pressure on my lip increases, but there still is no blood. I realize I am gripping your hand as tightly as I hold onto the grass, and out of shock I start to let go. You tighten your hold and I stop biting my lip.
You sit up and pull me up beside you. Our shoulders brush gently and the feeling in my stomach explodes. I could be sick from relief. My tiny hand still rests inside yours, and for some cliché reason that I don't hate so much, I feel so incredibly safe right now.
"Tell me what's wrong, Ellie."
I allow myself a glance at your face, and I want to tell you. You watch me quietly, keeping my hand safe inside yours.
The words come, those terrible words I was so afraid of releasing. The pain of trusting is countered with the happiness of trusting and I don't know when I started to cry. I force my voice over the hurt in my throat and keep talking, and you listen and you don't tell me to stop crying.
"Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?"
I lose my voice to just a whisper, and as the last words come you put your arms around me and I rest my head against your chest and try very hard to stop crying. You hold me close, just like the grass, and for some reason you don't need to say anything.
You have a funny way of making bad days just a little bit better, and making life just a little less unhappy, and making a smile come just that much quicker. And you make me feel so special and significant and important and recognized, all those things I must be to you, just by holding me close sometimes.
The sky is such a nostalgic shade of blue, and those clouds floating by are like memories, and I don't say I love you but you know I do.
This is my favorite place to be. I feel so small and intimidated, like at any time I could be crushed by the giant foot of significance. I feel unimportant and unrecognized, flat on my back staring at those hideously beautiful clouds. The sky is so big, you know. So many places without memories.
I like how you always make me come out here when I have a meltdown and can't stop crying. I lay down on the grass and clench those pleasant green blades and stare. You sit next to me for awhile and you don't say anything until I've calmed down enough to talk.
The first two words I say are always the same. It takes such effort to male my voice work again, and my eyes are red and swollen from the unstoppable crying. I am so ugly right now. But it doesn't really matter, because I'm so small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized.
"I'm sorry."
You stretch out on the grass next to me, the sides of our heads almost touching, our bodies at a forty degree angle. I hold onto the grass tighter because it's not fair to miss you when you're right beside me. The endless game plays over in my mind, I debate saying so many things. You ask me what's wrong, what if I told you I miss you so much it tightens my stomach into a twisted lump, every time I let myself remember laughing with you? You ask me to tell you why I'm crying, what if I told you it's because I'm so, so, so afraid of nothing?
Every day is a constant battle of repressing my feelings, because I don't want you to know how much every word you say to me means. I get disgusted with myself, because I hate clichés and recently I've been such a walking cliché machine. I hate the idea that I'm like every other teenage girl who has ever loved a boy. Sometimes I want to be different, just so you'll never find anyone else quite like me.
But it doesn't really matter. I'm small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized... and so ugly today.
I realize tears are sliding from my eyes, and they tickle my cheek as they fall away. Out of the corner of my vision I can see you watching me.
"What's wrong?"
Oh, I hate your voice. It makes me want to laugh and cry and tell you everything that hurts me. It makes me feel loved and protected and cared for, it makes me feel special and beautiful, and all the things I know I'm not.
I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood, because the pain is a distraction from the horrible humiliating tears coming from my eyes. I wish I had no eyes, because then I couldn't cry and then I would never be ugly because of all my crying.
I wonder if it hurts you when I avoid answering when you ask me what's wrong. I wonder if you know it's not because I don't want to tell you, but because I don't know how to make the words mean anything and I don't want to irritate you with my rambles about all the things I do to make it easier. I wonder if you know that sometimes I cry simply when you say goodbye, because I wanted to say so much but I couldn't and I don't want you to leave.
And sometimes I wonder if it annoys you that I cry so often, and if it would annoy you more if you knew every time I cried. And other times I wonder if it's possible that I could be respected for my excessive crying.
Sometimes I wonder if you think I should be stronger. Sometimes I wonder if I ever help you. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I went away. Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?
"Hey."
I close my eyes and bite my lip harder. My face flames as you slide your hand into mine. Just like the first time we held hands. My face was burning, but my heart was in heaven.
"Is that out of guilt?" My voice is low and broken. I hate my voice after I've been crying. Everything about me is horrible when I cry.
"No." You tighten your hold and I wonder why that makes me want to start crying again. "No, Ellie. I want to."
I force my ugly, red eyes open again, but I don't trust myself to look at you. Your fingers run over mine and my face burns but maybe, maybe, maybe you missed me...
The sky is still so blue, and I hate it. No, I love it. Pain swirls in my lip and the sunlight makes my insignificance more defined. The clouds float by and I have the urge to blow them all away.
"Don't cry anymore, Ellie," you say, quietly, earnestly, like you're afraid to wake me up. "Please don't cry anymore."
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Ellie."
The pressure on my lip increases, but there still is no blood. I realize I am gripping your hand as tightly as I hold onto the grass, and out of shock I start to let go. You tighten your hold and I stop biting my lip.
You sit up and pull me up beside you. Our shoulders brush gently and the feeling in my stomach explodes. I could be sick from relief. My tiny hand still rests inside yours, and for some cliché reason that I don't hate so much, I feel so incredibly safe right now.
"Tell me what's wrong, Ellie."
I allow myself a glance at your face, and I want to tell you. You watch me quietly, keeping my hand safe inside yours.
The words come, those terrible words I was so afraid of releasing. The pain of trusting is countered with the happiness of trusting and I don't know when I started to cry. I force my voice over the hurt in my throat and keep talking, and you listen and you don't tell me to stop crying.
"Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?"
I lose my voice to just a whisper, and as the last words come you put your arms around me and I rest my head against your chest and try very hard to stop crying. You hold me close, just like the grass, and for some reason you don't need to say anything.
You have a funny way of making bad days just a little bit better, and making life just a little less unhappy, and making a smile come just that much quicker. And you make me feel so special and significant and important and recognized, all those things I must be to you, just by holding me close sometimes.
The sky is such a nostalgic shade of blue, and those clouds floating by are like memories, and I don't say I love you but you know I do.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Strawberries
My favorite berry was always a strawberry. I hated the flavor. I hated the color. I hated the way they looked, all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it was my favorite berry.
I used to sit outside in the lawn with a bowl of strawberries and a bowl of sugar. I wouldn't eat the strawberries. I hated them. I ate the sugar.
You used to come and you'd eat the strawberries and I'd eat the sugar and you'd tell me about college. "It's fun," you'd say. "I like it."
I think you liked college the same way I liked strawberries.
The first day you left for college I asked you if you would ever come back. I couldn't see you getting in that car and leaving me forever. You laughed and pulled my hair and told me you'd always be back. "I'll always come back for you," you told me.
I cried the day you left and Nana couldn't make me eat and Papa couldn't make me sleep and I sat outside with my strawberries and wished someone was there to eat them.
Strawberries have an ugly color. Red. Red is the color of blood, of hate, of anger, of rage. It's the color of smashing my fingers in the car door. It's the color of squashed cats under car tires. It's the color of despising someone's very insides. It's the color of scars and of burning.
It's not the color of love because love isn't red. Love is blue or green or gray. Not red.
I counted every day you were gone at college. I wrote them up my arms and down my legs and over my face. My birthday was on the 167th day and I ate sugar and flattened strawberries under my bare feet.
Papa was angry when he saw the strawberries and he took away my paper and I went outside and screamed...
You called me late at night and said happy birthday.
I remember your birthday because it was exactly 203 days after mine and 167 plus 203 is 390. Nana said I did useless math but I did it for sanity's sake and I don't know what she meant but I know I had to. I had to count and add or I'd scream. You used to help me count the strawberries and all the seeds on them.
You came home for the holidays and I sat in the snow with my strawberries and I told you how much I hated them.
"But they're my favorite," I said. I had to make you understand.
You nodded solemnly. "Like college," she said.
I threw a strawberry at you and watched the red splash on your white shirt. It reminded me of blood and smashed fingers in a car door and the cat under the tires and I was scared and I ran away. I heard you calling my name but I was afraid to look at you.
You caught me and held me and told me it was okay, it was alright.
I never cry.
That summer we sat on the beach and ate strawberries. I counted the seeds and there were 390 on the biggest one and that made me sad.
I hated the water. I threw all the strawberries you didn't eat into the water and you were quiet and watched me.
You found someone you loved and I watched as you got married. I came to your wedding and gave you a strawberry and you smiled...
My favorite berry is a strawberry. I hate the flavor. I hate the color. I hate the way they look all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it is my favorite berry.
I used to sit outside in the lawn with a bowl of strawberries and a bowl of sugar. I wouldn't eat the strawberries. I hated them. I ate the sugar.
You used to come and you'd eat the strawberries and I'd eat the sugar and you'd tell me about college. "It's fun," you'd say. "I like it."
I think you liked college the same way I liked strawberries.
The first day you left for college I asked you if you would ever come back. I couldn't see you getting in that car and leaving me forever. You laughed and pulled my hair and told me you'd always be back. "I'll always come back for you," you told me.
I cried the day you left and Nana couldn't make me eat and Papa couldn't make me sleep and I sat outside with my strawberries and wished someone was there to eat them.
Strawberries have an ugly color. Red. Red is the color of blood, of hate, of anger, of rage. It's the color of smashing my fingers in the car door. It's the color of squashed cats under car tires. It's the color of despising someone's very insides. It's the color of scars and of burning.
It's not the color of love because love isn't red. Love is blue or green or gray. Not red.
I counted every day you were gone at college. I wrote them up my arms and down my legs and over my face. My birthday was on the 167th day and I ate sugar and flattened strawberries under my bare feet.
Papa was angry when he saw the strawberries and he took away my paper and I went outside and screamed...
You called me late at night and said happy birthday.
I remember your birthday because it was exactly 203 days after mine and 167 plus 203 is 390. Nana said I did useless math but I did it for sanity's sake and I don't know what she meant but I know I had to. I had to count and add or I'd scream. You used to help me count the strawberries and all the seeds on them.
You came home for the holidays and I sat in the snow with my strawberries and I told you how much I hated them.
"But they're my favorite," I said. I had to make you understand.
You nodded solemnly. "Like college," she said.
I threw a strawberry at you and watched the red splash on your white shirt. It reminded me of blood and smashed fingers in a car door and the cat under the tires and I was scared and I ran away. I heard you calling my name but I was afraid to look at you.
You caught me and held me and told me it was okay, it was alright.
I never cry.
That summer we sat on the beach and ate strawberries. I counted the seeds and there were 390 on the biggest one and that made me sad.
I hated the water. I threw all the strawberries you didn't eat into the water and you were quiet and watched me.
You found someone you loved and I watched as you got married. I came to your wedding and gave you a strawberry and you smiled...
My favorite berry is a strawberry. I hate the flavor. I hate the color. I hate the way they look all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it is my favorite berry.
The Crowds
Every day we hear how unique we are, how not a single one of us is like another. We are wonderul just the way we happened to be born. We don't need to be someone else. I don't need to be someone else...
So why is it still so hard to accept?
"Hey you."
I try to remember the last time I called you first. You don't seem to understand the strange fear I have of dialing someone's number. Of dialing your number. I have it memorized, but I rarely use it. It's sort of amusing, in a very unamusing way. But I called you three seconds ago, and now I'm analyzing your voice. Even though I don't need to.
"Hey," I say, my voice strangely unnatural to my own ears.
It's funny how I never plan out what I'm going to say to you when I call you. All my effort is put into pressing call after I type your number, slowly, so I have plently of time to change my mind. By the time I hear your voice, I'm scrambling to think of something to tell you. Why did I call? I don't know, I just had to talk to you...
"How are you today?" Your voice sounds natural. Do you practice that, or is it just part of the wonderfulness you possess?
I think I made up that word.
"I'm alright." Well, no, I'm not alright, because I wouldn't have called you if I were. When I'm alright, I wait until you call me, or sometimes I text you, or sometimes I'm happy and I lie on my stomach and draw pictures in my Notebook of Notebooks.
"What's wrong?"
I smile to myself. I wonder why it makes me feel better just to know you noticed when something is wrong. It wouldn't matter if I had cancer or a gun through my stomach, as long as I knew you cared.
Okay, that would still matter, but it wouldn't hurt as much.
"I'll tell you in a minute. How are you?"
"Worried about you, now."
Oh, I'm a selfish, horrible little brat.
"It's nothing huge. Don't worry about me. Are you busy?"
"Of course not."
I never know if you are really busy or not, because when I ask, you never are. At least you never say you are. But maybe you are today. Maybe you have three tests to study for and four big projects that are due tomorrow and so much homework that you probably shouldn't be talking on the phone right now and you probably should skip dinner so you have a better chance of finishing it...
"Jez?"
Oh.
"Jez, you okay?"
Yes. Yes. "I'm okay." I feel bad now for making you want to make sure I'm okay. "Are... are you busy tonight, for a few hours, maybe?"
I don't ask if you're free, I ask if you're busy. Silly.
"Of course."
"Okay."
"I'll meet you at Sammy's in 30 minutes, okay? Are you good with that?"
"Yes." 30 minutes is a long gap, and if I get there early I won't be okay, but you probably are busy before then.
"Hang in there, Jez." Your voice is smiling and I feel a little better.
"I love you."
Of course I go to Sammy's early. Sammy's used to be the place where my brother Sam worked, but then he moved to Oregon with his bride. We still call it Sammy's. It's a dorky little coffee shop and I don't even drink coffee, but you and I have always met there. And then we walk away from Sammy's and go somewhere where there are less people.
I don't like people.
Sammy's is crowded today, and I feel that familiar uncomfortable feeling pressing into my spine as I slide inside unnoticed. No one who works here knows me, and sometimes I like that and sometimes I don't. Today I need someone to usher me to a booth before I have some sort of fit.
I find a booth on my own and crouch on the seat, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, my shoulder pressed into the wall. I watch the table design and the reflections on it, refusing to look up and meet anyone's gaze. The unexplainable fear that someone will ask me what I want to order is a lump in my throat.
Sometimes I wish Sammy hadn't moved.
Every time the door opens, I want to turn to see if you're here yet. But no one comes to sit by me so I have to assume you haven't arrived...
"Jez."
I jump.
"Hey you."
You sit down next to me and look at me. "Are you alright?"
I nod.
"Come here." Your arm slides behind me, but I can't move. You look concerned for a moment, and then glance at my fingers gripping the sides of my legs as if I'll lose them if I let go. If there's pain, I haven't noticed.
"Do you want to leave, Jez?"
"I can't," I whisper. I have to keep looking at you; I can see people walking behind you, I can hear their voices buzzing into my mind. "I can't. Not yet."
"Relax, Jez. It's okay."
I concentrate on removing my arms from around my knees. You pull me closer and I close my eyes. I can hear them in the back of my mind, they're still talking, they never stop talking. And there's so many of them...
"Tell me when you want to go." Your voice buzzes against my hair.
A small child screams a few feet from me. I hear the mother's voice scolding the child gently, but it's too late. Every muscle in my body stiffens, and panic settles down into its psychotic system.
"Jez." Your hands are on my shoulders, holding me still. "Jez. It's alright."
"They want to kill me," I whisper.
"No one wants to kill you. Jez, look at me."
"They're going to kill me." I can't stop the shaking, and I can't open my eyes because I don't want to see a knife to my head.
"Jez!"
My face is wet and cold, and someone's pounding a hammer in the back of my mind. Your grip tightens but I can't feel you anymore, I can't hold my head up, someone must be shaking me because I can't hold still...
Someone picks me up and I let out a frightened scream. They can't take me away, I have to stay here, if I leave then they are going to kill you and I need you and I need you to be alive. Someone's talking in my ear but I can't hear them, I can't understand what they are saying to me, and I wish the earthquake in my body would stop because it's getting hard to breathe. I don't know where they're taking me, I don't want to die, I have to be with you because I need you, I love you, I love you...
"Jez."
Someone slaps me. My eyes fly open and there you are. You're holding me, we're out of Sammy's, we're gone, everyone's gone. My bloodless face flushes painfully and I hide against your chest.
"I'm sorry," I mumble. I must have been crying; my voice sounds like it.
"Relax, Jez, you're hurting me."
I realize I'm gripping your arm hard enough to strangle someone, and with effort I let go.
How many times has it been? I know it's getting worse. It used to be that it wouldn't happen when I was with you, until the crowds wanted to kill you too. Sometimes they want to kill me, sometimes they want to take me away and keep me from seeing you, sometimes they are all mass murderers and sometimes they kill babies. Now they want to kill you.
Your arms are still around me, and you're saying something in my ear but I can't hear it because I'm crying so hard.
"I want it to stop," I say, quietly, desperately.
"It's alright."
"I'm so sorry."
"It's alright. It's not your fault."
"I'm sorry..."
"Jez."
Your arms tighten and I stop talking.
"What happened this time?" You don't say it accusingly, just curiously. Sometimes I wonder how you can stand it, how you can stand me and my fits.
"They wanted to kill you," I whisper. "They were going to take me away and they had knives and they killed that little girl."
You don't ask me what little girl. "No, they didn't. They didn't kill anyone. You're still here, you're here with me and you're all right."
"I know."
We walk back to my house, and you keep your arm around me and the few people I see don't bother me. The panic goes away and I feel almost normal again, as normal as I've ever been. By the time we stop in front of my house, I can laugh.
I look up at you and you smile. It's so good to see you smile, you know.
"You be alright then?" you ask.
"I'm better."
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you anyway."
I stand on my toes and kiss your cheek.
"Thank you."
So why is it still so hard to accept?
"Hey you."
I try to remember the last time I called you first. You don't seem to understand the strange fear I have of dialing someone's number. Of dialing your number. I have it memorized, but I rarely use it. It's sort of amusing, in a very unamusing way. But I called you three seconds ago, and now I'm analyzing your voice. Even though I don't need to.
"Hey," I say, my voice strangely unnatural to my own ears.
It's funny how I never plan out what I'm going to say to you when I call you. All my effort is put into pressing call after I type your number, slowly, so I have plently of time to change my mind. By the time I hear your voice, I'm scrambling to think of something to tell you. Why did I call? I don't know, I just had to talk to you...
"How are you today?" Your voice sounds natural. Do you practice that, or is it just part of the wonderfulness you possess?
I think I made up that word.
"I'm alright." Well, no, I'm not alright, because I wouldn't have called you if I were. When I'm alright, I wait until you call me, or sometimes I text you, or sometimes I'm happy and I lie on my stomach and draw pictures in my Notebook of Notebooks.
"What's wrong?"
I smile to myself. I wonder why it makes me feel better just to know you noticed when something is wrong. It wouldn't matter if I had cancer or a gun through my stomach, as long as I knew you cared.
Okay, that would still matter, but it wouldn't hurt as much.
"I'll tell you in a minute. How are you?"
"Worried about you, now."
Oh, I'm a selfish, horrible little brat.
"It's nothing huge. Don't worry about me. Are you busy?"
"Of course not."
I never know if you are really busy or not, because when I ask, you never are. At least you never say you are. But maybe you are today. Maybe you have three tests to study for and four big projects that are due tomorrow and so much homework that you probably shouldn't be talking on the phone right now and you probably should skip dinner so you have a better chance of finishing it...
"Jez?"
Oh.
"Jez, you okay?"
Yes. Yes. "I'm okay." I feel bad now for making you want to make sure I'm okay. "Are... are you busy tonight, for a few hours, maybe?"
I don't ask if you're free, I ask if you're busy. Silly.
"Of course."
"Okay."
"I'll meet you at Sammy's in 30 minutes, okay? Are you good with that?"
"Yes." 30 minutes is a long gap, and if I get there early I won't be okay, but you probably are busy before then.
"Hang in there, Jez." Your voice is smiling and I feel a little better.
"I love you."
Of course I go to Sammy's early. Sammy's used to be the place where my brother Sam worked, but then he moved to Oregon with his bride. We still call it Sammy's. It's a dorky little coffee shop and I don't even drink coffee, but you and I have always met there. And then we walk away from Sammy's and go somewhere where there are less people.
I don't like people.
Sammy's is crowded today, and I feel that familiar uncomfortable feeling pressing into my spine as I slide inside unnoticed. No one who works here knows me, and sometimes I like that and sometimes I don't. Today I need someone to usher me to a booth before I have some sort of fit.
I find a booth on my own and crouch on the seat, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, my shoulder pressed into the wall. I watch the table design and the reflections on it, refusing to look up and meet anyone's gaze. The unexplainable fear that someone will ask me what I want to order is a lump in my throat.
Sometimes I wish Sammy hadn't moved.
Every time the door opens, I want to turn to see if you're here yet. But no one comes to sit by me so I have to assume you haven't arrived...
"Jez."
I jump.
"Hey you."
You sit down next to me and look at me. "Are you alright?"
I nod.
"Come here." Your arm slides behind me, but I can't move. You look concerned for a moment, and then glance at my fingers gripping the sides of my legs as if I'll lose them if I let go. If there's pain, I haven't noticed.
"Do you want to leave, Jez?"
"I can't," I whisper. I have to keep looking at you; I can see people walking behind you, I can hear their voices buzzing into my mind. "I can't. Not yet."
"Relax, Jez. It's okay."
I concentrate on removing my arms from around my knees. You pull me closer and I close my eyes. I can hear them in the back of my mind, they're still talking, they never stop talking. And there's so many of them...
"Tell me when you want to go." Your voice buzzes against my hair.
A small child screams a few feet from me. I hear the mother's voice scolding the child gently, but it's too late. Every muscle in my body stiffens, and panic settles down into its psychotic system.
"Jez." Your hands are on my shoulders, holding me still. "Jez. It's alright."
"They want to kill me," I whisper.
"No one wants to kill you. Jez, look at me."
"They're going to kill me." I can't stop the shaking, and I can't open my eyes because I don't want to see a knife to my head.
"Jez!"
My face is wet and cold, and someone's pounding a hammer in the back of my mind. Your grip tightens but I can't feel you anymore, I can't hold my head up, someone must be shaking me because I can't hold still...
Someone picks me up and I let out a frightened scream. They can't take me away, I have to stay here, if I leave then they are going to kill you and I need you and I need you to be alive. Someone's talking in my ear but I can't hear them, I can't understand what they are saying to me, and I wish the earthquake in my body would stop because it's getting hard to breathe. I don't know where they're taking me, I don't want to die, I have to be with you because I need you, I love you, I love you...
"Jez."
Someone slaps me. My eyes fly open and there you are. You're holding me, we're out of Sammy's, we're gone, everyone's gone. My bloodless face flushes painfully and I hide against your chest.
"I'm sorry," I mumble. I must have been crying; my voice sounds like it.
"Relax, Jez, you're hurting me."
I realize I'm gripping your arm hard enough to strangle someone, and with effort I let go.
How many times has it been? I know it's getting worse. It used to be that it wouldn't happen when I was with you, until the crowds wanted to kill you too. Sometimes they want to kill me, sometimes they want to take me away and keep me from seeing you, sometimes they are all mass murderers and sometimes they kill babies. Now they want to kill you.
Your arms are still around me, and you're saying something in my ear but I can't hear it because I'm crying so hard.
"I want it to stop," I say, quietly, desperately.
"It's alright."
"I'm so sorry."
"It's alright. It's not your fault."
"I'm sorry..."
"Jez."
Your arms tighten and I stop talking.
"What happened this time?" You don't say it accusingly, just curiously. Sometimes I wonder how you can stand it, how you can stand me and my fits.
"They wanted to kill you," I whisper. "They were going to take me away and they had knives and they killed that little girl."
You don't ask me what little girl. "No, they didn't. They didn't kill anyone. You're still here, you're here with me and you're all right."
"I know."
We walk back to my house, and you keep your arm around me and the few people I see don't bother me. The panic goes away and I feel almost normal again, as normal as I've ever been. By the time we stop in front of my house, I can laugh.
I look up at you and you smile. It's so good to see you smile, you know.
"You be alright then?" you ask.
"I'm better."
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you anyway."
I stand on my toes and kiss your cheek.
"Thank you."
Friday, November 12, 2010
Unbroken China Doll
She's curled up among mountains of cushions and blankets. It's as if she's made of china, and she's in a pillowed box, safe from everything outside that can crack her delicate frame. Her eyes are half-closed, her white fingers holding a book made of cloth. Her face, framed by a silky wave of soft brown hair, is peaceful and detached. She doesn't smile.
And yet, for all this beauty, for all this protection, she is nothing more than any other girl on the planet. She connects to the outside world, and it bothers no one except those who view her as that precious china doll.
Tonight, it's raining, and the light from the street lamps outside her window shine a ghastly pattern on her face. Her eyes reflect a light that is not purely from the glow outside; street lamps cannot give that radiance of longing. How many times must she be told that the world is cruel? How many times must the door be shut when she wants to go stand with her face uplifted to those falling droplets? How many times must the dangers be pointed out?
To be fair, they had never told her the rain was dangerous. She had never asked to go stand in the rain — the skill of asking questions had been gently suppressed until it no longer bubbled to the surface on that indescribable volcano of curiosity.
Perhaps tonight, she is thinking of a question. Perhaps, whatever she is reading has brought some of that childish curiosity into the shadows again. If there are shadows, there is light as well.
But maybe not. The light that burned briefly in her eyes flickers and is gone. The ghosts around her sigh an imperceptible sigh. Resignation seems to weigh heavily upon her shoulders, those shoulders that have never borne the gravity of decisions.
It is unfortunate that this said resignation does not appear as a choice before those innocently void brown eyes.
The apparitions stir as this thought floats through the minds of disuse. What are her eyes lacking? they whisper, wondering silently. It is not her eyes that lack, indeed no — it is what her mind has not been opened to. A china doll sees nothing but a hard, sharp world that poses the prospect of suffering and death at every turn. For a china doll, yes, this earth is nothing more than a furnace to stand in and hope for a prolonged life. For a china doll, the world is luck, and the only precautions available are to stand back and pray.
She looks up now, and it is disheartening to see how beautiful she is. Unscarred and unmarked by the world of nothing but hatred toward china dolls. She is so perfect, so flawless, she looks almost brittle. Maybe if she smiles, her face will shatter and all we will see is an empty skull, bloodless and cold.
Yet she does smile, stretching out her slender, white arms to the ghosts huddling around her. It is sickening to see how she welcomes them. Are solid, blood-filled, breathing bodies too dangerous for a china doll? But yes. They are.
And yet, this girl is not a china doll — being treated as one does not make her so. If you keep her in a cage her entire life, she will not shatter like glass when you drop her. No, for she is not made of china.
Her ghosts are surrounding her, frantically trying to alert her to her predicament. There is more to life than being safe, they whisper desperately. If you are always safe, how do you ever learn what to avoid? It is just as your immune system; if it is never used, it will not protect you when a disease infiltrates your body.
She moves delicately over to the window. Throwing them open, she leans out over the sill, and the cold, biting water blows in. Her eyes are on fire. The phantoms that have so long been her companions retreat in terror.
A strange, deadened silence presses down, muffling the sound of alarmed footsteps rushing up the stairs. China doll, china doll, their cries echo off locked doors and carpeted walls. The girl seems not to hear them. She places her foot on the ledge, and suddenly leers back at the door.
It bursts open, and all those who view her and care for her as a china doll come in. They are disturbed, they are afraid she shall be scratched by the glass, by the rough wood.
China doll, china doll...
The ghosts have calmed. They know she is no china doll.
The girl smiles, and unbidden comes an image of a fleshless, bloodless, empty skull.
She throws herself from the window, and those who keep the china doll scream.
The ghosts smile. She is not a china doll. The drop was not lengthy. She has discovered her true self.
The others rush to the window, staring over the edge. There, on the stones below the window, lie the shattered remains of the china doll who was once a girl.
Quotes, Politics, & Sunflowers
"If I never met you, I wouldn't like you. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't love you.
If I didn't love you, I wouldn't miss you.
But I did, I do, and I will."
I saw that two months ago, on a sign in the post office. It was directly beneath a poster for the fat lady running for state representative. I remember smiling at the quote, and immediately loving it, and wondering if the fat lady had anyone she could say that to. Love comes in strange ways, I suppose.
That was the day I met Jack, ironically. What an average name. Jack. I walked out of the post office and he was there, holding the door for me. I was in a happy mood after reading that quote, and I remember smiling breezily at him and saying, "Thanks, Jimmy."
I called all the boys I knew "Jimmy." It was a boring, equally suited name that any boy could call his own. Jack just grinned at me, stuck out his hand, and said, "No problem, Sally."
My name was Silvadon, thanks to my helplessly romantic mother. Everyone called me Donny, though, even if it was a boy's name.
I shook Jack's hand — but I didn't know he was Jack yet.
"I'm called Donny," I said cheerily.
"Jack," he replied, and grinned again. "See you around, squirt."
* * *
I read that one on a Dove chocolate wrapper. I laughed when I read it, and pinned it up on my wall. When Jack called me that night, I told him about it.
"Oh, really?" he said. "Gosh darn it, Donny. Mine said the same thing."
* * *
Jack sent me that one in a tiny green envelope that was hardly big enough to write my name on. He wasn't poetic, so I knew he stole it. I found the biggest envelope I could find, and the bluest sheet of paper available, and in white crayon, I wrote huge letters across it.
YOU STOLE THAT. IT'S CORNY. BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.
I've never seen a mailman look so infernally irritated.
* * *
The fat lady was elected state representative, and Jack and I discussed whether or not she had someone to miss. We decided that yes, she probably did, and he was a tiny, scrawny shrimp of a man who wore baggy pin-striped suits and a bowler hat.
"I'll bet he wears 80-year-old cologne," Jack said seriously, as he studied the fat lady's picture. "He got it from his grandfather, who could never be bothered to wear it. He had 23 wives and only the 23rd had no sense of smell. And she had a giant tattoo on her nose, Donny, it was a picture of a skunk. And her mother, now, she was the rebel of the family..."
"Jack, you look like an owl when you're thinking, did you know that?"
"Naturally, Donny darling, only the stupid look like anything else."
"I look like a grasshopper when I think."
Jack looked at me gravely. "No, you look more like a pigeon or something. Ow, that's my shoulder, dang it, Donny..."
That night, I called and left a message on his phone.
"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."
* * *
My friend Beckie was in a car accident and she died. I couldn't think for three days straight, and I think Jack understood, because he didn't call me. The fourth day he did, though, and he asked me my favorite flower.
"I don't want flowers, Jack," I said, dully.
"I won't give them to you then, Donny."
I was quiet. I had started to cry.
Jack began to talk to me. I didn't hear the words, and I had no idea what he was saying to me. But I listened to his voice and his tone, and for awhile, I didn't feel so lonely.
I wrote him a note later that day, and sent it to him snail-mail. Like the post office. Like the first day ever.
"There are so many things I'm not sure of in life, but with all certainty at this very minute, all I know is that I miss you."
* * *
"Donny."
"Yes, Jack."
We were sitting in the sun, on top of a hill. It overlooked the chemical plants of the city, all the garbage that no one knew was there. I didn't care. Jack had his arm around my shoulders, and I had my eyes closed tightly enough that no tears would squeeze out.
"Donny, what's that you've got in your hand?"
I looked down. In between my fingers was the smallest blue flower I had ever seen. I hadn't even noticed I'd picked it.
"It's tiny," was all I said. My voice cracked and I couldn't go on.
"Wait here," Jack said, and suddenly ran down the hill. I pulled my knees up to my chin and a tear trickled down my cheek.
Jack appeared at my side exactly 4 minutes and 14 seconds later. He was carrying the most enormous sunflower I had ever seen. He smiled, somewhat apologetically, and placed it in my hands.
A note was attached, a note that said, "I don't miss you and you alone, I miss you and me together."
And then he leaned down, and for the first time ever, kissed me.
* * *
"Sometimes it's better to put love into hugs than to put it into words."
I smiled when Jack looked shy. I was standing on a bridge, with him next to me, and the moon was bright and full. He had his arm around me, in a protective sort of way. I could feel his heart pounding against my shoulder.
"Love you, Jack," I said briskly.
I swear I could feel him get taller.
He leaned down so he could whisper in my ear.
"Do you think the fat lady with her bowler hat boyfriend ever said this to him?"
And he kissed me, and said, "If a hug represented how much I loved you, I would hold you in my arms forever."
"You stole that," I whispered back.
"Answer the question."
I smiled dreamily — or at least it felt dreamy.
"I bet she did."
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