patti and the room.

five days of a cold that has laid me down, hard and fast.  fatigue is overwhelming and quirky; i almost fell asleep several times while watching the new episode of "fargo" last night, which was almost sacreligious.

i got out of work early today--only two parent-teacher conferences and i was done.  i pushed my meetings aside and headed to the pet store to buy frozen rats for my classroom snake, who just this morning i found curled up inside the futon in our classroom.  i mean, literally INSIDE the futon; i had to cut the bottom fabric from the underbelly and there she was.  she had been missing for two days.  i can't help but wonder what she was heading out for, what kind of life she was seeking away from her heating pad and newspaper shreddings.  

at home, i ate a bowl of ice cream that could do nothing for my cold except exacerbate it, but i didn't even blink as i spooned it into my mouth.  i watched bad tv on my ipad, my headphones covering up the sounds of my daughter's tv show across from me.  isolated and insulated.

i put on long pajamas and socks, despite it being 86 degrees outside.  it was cooler in the house, and it is almost the end of october, so on principle i just decide to go with autumn.  the other day i wore my doc martens for the first time in months, because it was in the 60s when i woke up.

alex was on a work call in our room, so i made my way to my son's room to read and rest.  he's away with his school this week, camping.  his room is exactly the way it looked the second he stepped foot outside its doorway--which is to say darkened, cluttered, and his.

i layed on his bed, tucking myself in under the comforter.  i opened the shades a bit, because i need daylight to remind me to wake up after a few minutes of napping.  i turned on the fan for white noise, and picked up the patti smith book that has been my light for the past few days.  i started to make a list of all of the authors, painters and philosophers that she mentions whom i do not know, but gave up due to its size.  who cares if i don't get her references?  all i know is that she is pulling me in, over and over again, thinking about her watch cap and olive oil brown bread and lists without commas.

and then i read this:

"We want things we cannot have.  We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. . . I want to see my children as children.  Hands small, feet swift.  Everything changes . . . Please stay forever, I say to the things I know.  Don't go.  Don't grow."

my son is gone for a few days, and gone for good.  gone for the good work of growing up, gone to himself, to his friends, to his place in the world without me.  he began this work when he took his first steps, weaned himself from my milk, slept by himself--but the real meat of this job began this season.  he chooses to stay up late, well after i've crashed for the day.  he talks to his friends via texts.  eats dinner and then has another meal later.  he doesn't ask for help except when he does and then it is frought with my inevitable failure at not being able to craft an answer that works for him.  

he is on his way out, and the world is going to be so fucking lucky in a few short years to have him amongst the grown people who can do, and change, and make, and be.

patti's words made me cry a little bit, but only a little.  being in his room makes me feel close and far at the same time, but it is comforting to me.  i don't expect much from him these days, and when i am given the time of day or a hug or a "thank you for dinner, motherrrr" i quietly contain my happiness and respond with blase affirmation. 

i can take you or leave you, i tell him.  you doofus, i tell him.  dude, i tell him.

i rest my head on his shoulder when i hug him now.  he doesn't know this, but it gives me great joy.  i built you, i think.  i'm the one who has made it so you are tall and gangly and beautiful and strong.  i have secret pride in all the damn fine work i've put into you, kid.  someday i'll tell you about it.

in the meantime, i curl up on his bed and put his rabbit between my arms while i read.  i think of him on a beach with a bunch of teenagers, wind flying around them; all dirty feet and no showers and stars above him as he sleeps out in the open at night.

they are all for you, i think.  every single one.  

here and there.

and just like that, i am driving on shady roads.  dappled, hidden curves, spots of sunlight poking through; i realize that this is such a novelty to me now after riding in cars in Los Angeles for the past 21 years.

i drive around here in borrowed cars, smiling out loud at the "turtle crossing" signs.  when i walk i see the remains of dead frogs who didn't make it across the street in time.  i hear all the birds sing and they sound more fulfilled than the birds in Los Angeles, if such a thing is possible.

and the clouds.  good god almighty, the clouds.  filled up, soaked in their own glory, the possibility of water from them to me is almost too much for me to bear.  

i am inundated with the beauty around me, here in New England.

but still, i miss my people.  i miss the dogs who adore me, who sit on the new red couch, waiting patiently for us to come back.  i miss feeling like i am part of something that needs me.

here, i am just floating along for a while, and i'm not sure it does me good.  i mean, i know it does me good, this vacationing, this down time, this simplicity of day; but it is difficult sometimes.

between two worlds is my place in this life.  i have always been that way, and perhaps always will be.

when i am there, i miss here.

when i am here, i miss there.

constantly searching for the home that i know is just hidden inside my gut, if only i could reach it more readily.

but damn, massachusetts, you know how to wreak havoc with a girl's heart.  

brave new whirl.

home sick today.  first time in a while.  i've got a wicked-ass head cold and i'm worn out, people.

it's been a long time since i've swum in this blog-lake o'mine.

i watched documentaries today: "advanced style", "20 feet from stardom" and "the punk singer".  a lot of women.  if you haven't seen these docs, you should.  

i finished with the kathleen hanna movie, and i'm sitting here in my messy house, my dog snoring, using part of the table that isn't taken up by the enormous 1000-piece puzzle of jungle animals that my family is working on...

i'm sitting here feeling fired up, wired to my sick core, thinking about my life.  reflecting upon it, as it were.  watching "the punk singer" brought a lot of memories forward again; bits and pieces of myself that i let sink to the bottom somewhere, covered up by what is right in front of me--namely my family, my children, my job.

i wasn't on the bikini kill train back in the early 90s.  i had found ani difranco, and she satisfied my need for a female feminist musical role model.  i remember reading about bikini kill--seeing the announcements for concerts in Los Angeles, but they scared me.  the idea of punk rock scared me.  it was too much for this massachusetts girl.

watching the documentary today, i was blown away by the power of the music, by what the riot grrrls were trying to do, trying to bring to pop culture.  what kathleen hanna had to offer me that i was not present for.  it's all a little bit heartbreaking, as i think back to what i missed.  

i can't help thinking that i could've been one of those women, either in the audience or somehow up on stage.  those were my people, save for the fact that i already had a boyfriend whom i would marry a few short years later; save for the fact that i felt the need to have children, to settle down, to feel security; save for the fact that i wasn't brave enough for all of it.

there is something in me that makes me crave the bravery i left behind.  it was there in small amounts while i was at calarts--when i wrote about kicking the shit out of mike tyson after her raped desiree washington--or when i jumped up on the bar at the roxy to perform my monologue about my shaved head--or when i got naked on stage and talked about the perfect body and how it wasn't mine--but in retrospect all of that shit just seems played out, like everyone did that, all of my like-minded women tried those moments on for size just like me.  and sure, there is bravery in that, but was there really originality?  revolutionary thought?  brilliance?

probably not.

i had this idea that i would somehow continue to create art and subvert the patriarchy my entire life.  i really did.  i thought i would save teenage girls from themselves and from fashion magazines, and be a part of the third-wave feminism that i so fiercely believed in.  and then what happened to all of this fervor?  it got redirected to wedding plans, preschool teaching, pregnancies, toddlers, daily lives of dogs and bills being paid and the agonizing consistencies of what has come to be my life.  my life.

there is nothing wrong with this life of mine.  it is a good and well-placed life, full of love and happiness and promise.  i have not failed myself, but i am sad today.

i miss being brave, whatever it looked like.  i miss that woman who used to ride her anger around town, looking for fights because she knew she was the one with justice and truth on her side.  i miss the person who thought she could be a part of something that could change minds.

then again, maybe i just miss the spotlight.  maybe i miss the idea that i could be the lead singer, the one in the kickass t-shirt and tights, screaming her words while the audience begged for more.  don't all people want to have that moment?  is this just another piece of my status-quo-ness coming through?

i remember back then when i was writing about being a girl that i had fury in my pocket, and all it took was one good word or look to make me grab hold of it and wield it like a machete.  but even then, sometimes my anger felt disingenuous.  like i couldn't be that mad, because i had never been raped.  like i wasn't allowed to give over to it all because my childhood had been relatively normal. like i wasn't allowed to just be mad at the world the way it was, because i wasn't willing to go all out for it.  i wasn't willing to give it all up to go on my quest because deep down inside i was too scared to give up what was comfortable and real to me.

i was lacking real courage, it seems to me now.  but maybe not.  

i think it's ridiculous that right now, sitting here at the table, no lights on and the cloudy sky keeping my head and house dim; right now i want to put together a band of 40-year old women who still have something to say about the state of things, who don't know how to play instruments but want to do it anyway, who can somehow put aside all of their kids' schedules and daily committments to get together and become a force for good.  right now, that's what i want to do.

i could still be brave, i think.

the week behind...

in the midst of writing about other people this week; young people that i love and admire, finding details about them, uncovering the good stuff in their daily life at school--in the middle of all of this my life continues to trudge forward in all of its absurdity.

trying to color my hair and failing again, then finding a fixer-product at target and ending up with slightly reddish hair.  not the plan, but in the end, who gives a shit?

my lovely dog needing surgery, costing so much money that we don't have, knowing that we'll pay whatever it is we need to--or more specifically, put it on credit--because that is what you do when a family member needs to be mended.

working from home and realizing that silence is a balm.

(as i wrote that my other dog is in the back yard, yapping away at a squirrel.)

thinking about charlie hebdo and france.  about islaam and peaceful practitioners, about religion taking such fierce hold, about how my children cannot understand what would lead someone to do that.  no faith to be found in this household, other than faith in the earth and trees and dogs and ice cream and people.

still people.

feeling the winter melancholy pull me down, surround me in my grandmother's old bedspread, demand that i give over to the inevitability of this time of year.

the crookedness of my little life, the beauty in it.

trying to love every single fucking inch of my skin, because i deserve it.  resolving to put lotion all over my body every day -- not just my legs -- because my floppy belly and tiny breasts and ever-widening posterior deserve moisturizing, too.

anticipating the next two months of madness and scheduling and work, work, work.  traveling to virginia with 37 ten, eleven and twelve year-olds for five nights and days.  taking a red-eye with said children.

wallowing in some kind of selfishness, worry; festering money problems, uncertainity about stable income, knowing somewhere we'll be okay.  at least that's what the card on the goddess wisdom app told me today.

feeling jealous.  it's such a nasty thing to feel jealous.  i am ashamed.

wanting new music to listen to; music that wails (horn sections are a must) and cries out (soul singers) and demands that my heart bursts from my chest.

wondering when the peace kicks in.

bartering with myself about exercising.  about being okay with my 43-year old body and soul.

listing to do's along with groceries.  feeling accomplishment but knowing it's the teenage version of it.

feeding a squirrel in the tree near our house.  

wearing socks, glorious, cozy, fuzzy socks.

eating an entire plate of mashed potatoes for lunch yesterday; knowing that potatoes are my heritage, my history--or at least tellling myself that so i can eat more of them.  also that they are a winter staple, but in summer i'll eat lighter things.  believing this to be mostly true.

feeling unbelievable gratitude words that fuel me.

crying again.  grateful that i no longer have medicine inside of me that makes that response difficult.

wanting to move my body, to not be sedentary.  i will not be sedentary.  

being able to hear the clocks ticking in my house.  my heart beat.  my dogs' breathing.  letting all the quietness and loudness of my brain mix together into some kind of funky ease.  i am okay, somehow.

absurd, yes.  okay, yes.  

  

stair. well.

i used to love to read Nancy Drew mysteries.

my favorite was my first: "The Hidden Staircase."  it wasn't so much the character of nancy drew--who, truth be told, was a bit of a snob--or her friends bess (the "plump" one) or george (the "boyish" one, perhaps with a long-standing quiet love for nancy herself?)-- nope, for me, it was really about the cases themselves.  and that hidden staircase?  what could be cooler than that?

my favorite scene was the one where the girls tried to figure out how to climb up the old staircase without making a sound.  they started at the bottom and kept track of what stairs made noises in the middle, on the sides--and then charted a course up to the top that eventually was soundless.  i was so enamored of this.  i think i've tried a version of this on every single creaky wooden stairs that i've come across.

this vacation home, i've realized that that sidestepping, that dodging and ducking and finding the right place to put your feet in order to remain quiet--that, my friends, is what it is like to be with family during the holidays.  

i have to find my own footing, tiptoeing on the balls of my feet, using my toes for balance.  i have to hug the walls and stop whenever i feel a break is coming.  i literally have to freeze myself; make myself colder than the 40 degree air outside.  i have to stand and breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

on and on and on i breathe.  

i try to make the breath go all the way down to my thighs.   i want them to feel the oxygen, to sturdy themselves again by the circulating cells and air.  

i breathe and breathe.  and breathe.

and i love the stairs.  i really do.  i love how cranky and fussy they are, and i love how much i know them.  how i skip a certain step each time.  how i know that deliberately pounding down them gives my body the knocking-around it needs.  how i can hit my head on the lower steps if i don't pay enough attention.

i love the stairs.  the boxing-dance that i do on them is my annual choreography.  i've got nothing to do but find the right places to land; and land with grace and gentleness, if at all possible.

it's not always possible.  the stairs are tired, and so am i.  but we do the best we can.

upon turning 43.

yesterday i took a walk in the morning.  it was my birthday.  i was by myself, hustling along rural streets in massachusetts.

i was in heaven.

as i walked, i thought about how it felt to be another year older.  how i thought so much about making my birthday day so full of things i love, of people i want to be with; how even though i'm an adult my birthday always feels so important.  monumental.  as i say each time, "this year is a really big deal."

and yet it's not.  it's just another day, another moment in what will hopefully be my long and meandering life.  

but still, it feels right to celebrate when i was born.  yesterday i figured out it had to do with being an xmas baby.  i was brought home on xmas day, wrapped in ribbons by the nurses (back when moms stayed in the hospital for three days).  present.  gifted, even at three days old.  my parents drove me home in an old car, me in my mom's arms, and when they arrived at their third-floor walk-up apartment my newborn lungs took in the freezing cold air around me, and my position as a advocate for cold winters began.

i adore wintertime.  i've written here before about how it chips away at my soul, not living where we get a true winter snap of weather.  i've come to terms with it lately, but it doesn't mean that i don't immediately engage that part of myself when we come back for the holidays.  the fact that my birthday is inevitably part of that reinforces it to me; welded to my soul yet again.

winter is about rest.  the wide world around me is resting.  the trees stand stock still, devoid of accessories--except for the ones who proudly strut their needles year-round.  the ground smells wet and marshy.  the air that escapes from my mouth as i walk can be seen--can be seen, i tell you--and i get to participate in circulating oxygen to all.  

everything is quiet, and if it isn't, it should be.  

even with no snow in the forecast (60 degrees on Christmas Day--i'm so sorry), i find ways to dig deep into winter.  the world around me seems surreal, made-up.  nature is tired.  so am i.  

there is inevitable ugliness in the decay and dirty snow, and it is there that i find such beauty and hope. i am like that pile of dirty snow, it seems.  i stick around.  underneath the top layer there is a purity, a sincerity, a cleanliness that offers truth.  forty-three years later, i respond to dirty snow, to piles of mud, to broken-up ice near the edge of the pond.  there is nothing resplendent in these images, but to me, they are the simple proof that winter is gorgeous.

by proxy, i am too.

shame and disconcerting embarrassment on sunset boulevard.

i won tickets to go see the band bleachers today.  they had posted on facebook yesterday, something about a secret show in hollywood, and i threw my name in the email hat.  i never, ever win these kind of things.

except this time.

so i try to find someone to go with; a last-minute date on a work night, someone who really likes jack antonoff and his music.  i come up short, and therein begins an four-hour debate with myself about whether or not i attempt this concert thing by myself.

the general consensus from work people and family people is that i should go.  i ask facebook people, and their replies are similar.  "fuck yeah!" seems to be a common response.

i decide to do it.

i leave school without my phone.  after retrieving it and leaving again, i realize i have left the only piece of clothing that can possibly make me feel somewhat appropriate to this endeavor: my faux leather jacket.  i rush back and get that too.  

let me also say that the doors open at 8pm, but that i have a conference call set for 7pm regarding one of my students.  it is a call filled with all kinds of therapists, parents, and teachers; one that will require me to use my teacher brain and voice and words to foster the discussion.  

so i run home, telling alex that i will not enter my house, but that he must meet me in the driveway with the phone charger.  i pull up to see my family dancing in the driveway for me.  they are so proud of me!  they think i'm awesome, driving into hollywood on a thursday night to see a band by myself!  they make me feel really good.

i stop at whole foods and get a crappy-ass burrito and a wonderful holiday-themed peppermint stick dark chocolate bar.  i start the drive into the city.

at 7 pm i illegally dial the call-in number for the conference; and approximately 7 minutes later as the psychologist is about to give the official diagnosis i am driving past highland and the call is dropped.  after dialing back in, i try to glean what the good word is from context.  i am trying to navigate and listen at the same time.  

it's all a wee bit absurd.

i turn onto sunset boulevard and i see the venue.  there is a bright yellow fiat or something outside, all lit up with lights and a couple lines of people who look really happy to be there.  i find an outstanding parking spot and sit and listen to the conference call.  it is in-depth and thoughtful.  i am listening intently, while staring at the clock, thinking about the inevitability of me leaving my car and joining that line of people outside the place.

i put my key in my tiny zipper pocket of my jacket, my license in my back pocket, my lipstick on --because it is the only weapon i have to protect me-- and i head out. 

when i get into the VIP line i'm still on the phone, trying desperately to muffle the sounds of sunset blvd. in the background.  i am checked in by a nice young woman.  i am standing in front of two nice young men, and surrounded by many nice young people looking at their phones.  

i am 15 years younger than most of these people.  i have on bigger clothes than most of these people. i have more children than most of these people.  i have less money, less credibility, more stretch marks, and more solid footwear than most of these people.

i am also wearing my docs.  i forgot.  weapons on the feet and face.

we wrap up the call. there is gratitude for the collaboration, for the upcoming work we will do together to support the child. it's too bizarre, standing outside, having this discussion while limos drop off important-looking people in front of me.

i am caught between two worlds: one i know really well and the other i'm trying to date, but just for tonight.

the line starts moving and we head inside.

everyone's hair looks really good.

i feel the corporate sponsors' presence.

i imagine the music being played in front of me.

i try to imagine the floor filled with jumping, dancing bodies; everyone enjoying the music.  everyone happy to be there.

it is now 8:40.  i am sitting on a huge couch by myself, with a free rolling stone magazine in my hand.  i try to read, but the lights are red and low and i don't have my glasses.  i. don't. have. my. glasses.  see that young man above?  he is without his glasses as well, but that doesn't seem to be stopping him because he probably does not need them yet.

i sit there and try to look casual.  i imagine that people are seeing me and thinking that maybe i am a seasoned music critic for an online magazine, or maybe one of rolling stone's old stand-by journalists. 

i do not belong to anyone else there.  there is no one i know, or can relate to.  i start to feel like i'm going to cry, which makes me chuckle softly to myself.

i get up, look for the bathroom, which takes me downstairs.  i peek into a corridor where the band has a dressing room, and see two other band names (unknown to this music critic) on the other doors.  i hang a left and hit the women's bathroom and as i pee i know that i am on my way home.

i grab my free magazine and head out, brushing past smoking hipsters, fancy music execs (I assume) and very, very pretty women.  i leave through the VIP stanchions and brush past fancy-pants people--past the 20s-themed bar next door where the flapper and her boyfriend are entering--round the corner past the homeless woman on her couch and into my car, where i phone my people and tell them that i have failed.

i failed!  i am full of shame!  i am crying from embarrassment!  i feel stupid!

i talk to myself on the drive home and reason that common sense has won, that bleachers wouldn't have gone on until 10:30 or so, that i wouldn't have gotten home until after 1 am, that i was so far out of my comfort zone that i could give myself a ticket out of there without judgment.  

but man, i felt like an asshole.

i did feel so brave, trying this on for size tonight.  doing something that was so out of character--bold and brazen and alive.  but it didn't fit me.  it really didn't fit me.  i didn't look good in VIP-event attire. 

i look much better in my pajamas and cozy socks, at home with my people.

goddamnit, though, i really wanted to post pictures of up close shots of the band, and be able to tell you all that i rocked it.  but i didn't. 

in the end, it was just me in a pleather jacket, biding my time until i could escape.

body.

i'm writing this standing up, in my kitchen, making butternut squash risotto with toasted sage.  i'm wearing my pajamas and my coziest socks, and i have just finished listening to "the moth".  i am feeling content.  happy.  peaceful.

in a few days, my husband and i will renew our vows in front of our Los Angeles family.  it's an excuse for a party, really, but why not throw in a ritual on top of it?  i'm especially looking forward to the part after all the business stuff when i can throw it down on the dance floor with all of my people, mixed together in one glorious, sweaty mashup of dance fever.  

i love these people.

in the midst of preparation for all of this--making lists, ordering tables, checking on rsvp's--i've been struggling with the very ridiculous dilemma of what to wear.  in my mind, this time i would wear white (since last time i wore blue and shocked my grandmother; not sure she even considered it a real wedding).  i thought maybe i'd buy a new dress, which didn't seem feasible until my best friend gave me a gift certificate to modcloth (i am truly spoiled by my eternal best woman) and then alex helped me pick one out, and it turned out to be blue again.

hell, it worked the first time.

it hasn't arrived yet, but i'm not hopeful it's gonna fit me. the warning was there, in the review section: "this tends to run large in the bust."  HA!

it turns out i am not PROPORTIONAL.  this is the fancy way of saying that i am crooked through and through, and out of whack like a broken teeter-totter.  in short:

my hips are very wide

my middle is expansive

my breasts are tiny

and my heart is askew.

here's the thing, damnit:

i know, I KNOW, that all of this meandering and mucking in my mind is bullshit.  Bullshit.  i know that my body is a good one, a damn good one, actually; it has served me well and treated me to a life of strong movements.  i can dance, i can run, i can stretch, i can be turned on, i can cuddle, i can snuggle with my children, i can comfort with these arms of mine.  it is a good body, and decidedly deserves better than me.  however, it's stuck with me, so i must continue to strive to love it, above all else.

i am a size 8-10-12 from top to bottom, and they don't make dresses like that.  my husband likes to imagine me in flirty dresses from the fifties, but all of those women had waists, honey; mine left around 2011.  i daydream about having the bustline to fill out those dresses as well, but my little breasts are just not going to do me the justice of growing up.  

(although i once heard someone say breasts can grow during menopause: can it be true? do i dare hope?)

no matter what, this saturday i will tell my husband that i'll spend more time with him, that i am in for another chunk of time in this marriage, that we are too good to not do this for as long as we can.  forever, if i dare say so.  he loves me and i love him and we have a great family and saturday is about celebrating that, no matter what i look like and what dress i can squeeze into.  

he thinks i'm beautiful.  i think i'm beautiful, too; at least i try to.  today i'm trying to.  i'd like to feel beautiful in a dress that fits my body well.  

i know i'm better than this post, but i need to talk about it; if i don't, the quiet little crappy-ass voice in my head will work its nasty magic and make me feel shame-y about this little body o'mine.

i think i'll be okay.  i have women around me to help me figure this out; i have the words of jena strong and anne lamott to fall back on (like i do, again and again); i have a family who loves me no matter what; i have the ability to rise above this societal machine that makes me feel less than--or more specifically, more than i'm supposed to be.

this is all me; these hips, this belly, the wideness in my shoulders and back, the small breasts that fed two babies so frickin' well, the shoulders that alex loves, the thighs that touch--they fucking rub against each other all day long, people, just like they should!--this is all me, and i claim it, over and over again.

i just had to remind myself out loud here.  thanks for listening.

on forgetting i have a son.

he's been gone since monday, camping with his school.  i gave him a big hug that morning, felt his ribs press back into me, his shoulder blades living up to their name; he allowed me to kiss him on the cheek, and then he was off.

i wasn't sad.

one kid is easier to maintain, to manage; even when she is a feral creature.  one kid means one pick-up at one school, one extra meal to make, one person to read a book to at night.  easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

and i'm not missing him, even now.  except for the times when i am.  and those times hit me like a brick to the head, because they come just after the moment when I FORGET I HAVE ANOTHER CHILD.

i'm serious.  

there is a moment that has come to me repeatedly in the past couple of days where i simply forget about him.  it's almost as if he was never here, never made, never my boy.  his converse on the floor look like my converse, so there's no confusion there.  he doesn't leave his shit around the house like his sister, so there is no evidence of him.  the pictures on the wall could just be a kid we used to know, or maybe a cousin in massachusetts.  

this is the moment, the second that lasts enough for an inhale and then just as quickly escapes me when i jump back on the reality-train and feel like the worst parent in the world when i remember him, remember. my. son.

and it all floods back to me in a wash of hastened heartbeat and rescuing relief:

my kid!  my firstborn!  my boy!  

he called my breasts "big ma and bop" for the last year that he nursed. 

he used to wear pajamas to school with a superhero cape for good measure.

he knew every snake on the planet.

he made friends with everyone.

he swung a bat with such grace and ease that it made his father cry.

he loved his baby sister with ferocity and protectiveness.  he was the first to make her laugh.

and now:

he lays on the floor with the dogs; they stare at each other with respect and understanding.

he rereads "calvin and hobbes" every couple of months.

he listens to coldplay and says, "have you heard this song?" like it's brand new.

he climbs up on the roof and sings a chorus from a lumineers' song, and the neighbors next door join in.

he still hugs me, still wants me near.  still loves me, i'm pretty sure of it.

he says every night, as he has since he could talk, "goodnight, sleep well, come and check on me soon."  actually he says, "come and check on us soon", because he always, always remembers his sister.

and now, here i am, after forgetting for the slice of a heartbeat, remembering my Milo; the boy who turned me into a mother and makes me rejoice for the future of this planet, because all saints be praised, 

he is actually on it.

shazam!

this is what it feels like to be in process; to have your brain letting go of the foreign stuff embedded within; to have nothing but yourself to balance you out, a few days after the last tiny half of a pill has been ingested:

there are hourly electrocutions! double-takes of the mind!  a little shiver, a little shake!  holy shit, it's like a frickin' rollercoaster on acid up in here!

i look down for one second and my mind just skips a wee bit.  not enough that you'd notice it, but enough that i am disconcerted, completely and utterly.  it's almost like being dizzy, except that i can't claim that lovely physicalness of motion.  it's sort of like when you get a shiver in the cold and you can't control the shake; this, my friends, is all in my mind.  

mostly.  sometimes it shoots a little arrow down my hands and arms, tingly all, the way you'd feel if you touched a bit o' electricity.  static cling in my body; this glorious thing that is jonesing for the meds the way i search out good bakery items.

i'm trying to ride this out.  i know it's only been a few days, and i'm in at the tail end of my little experiment, but man, these fried-brain moments are most unpleasant.  i am here, but i am not here.  i feel okay, but i don't feel so good.  i am drug-free, but i am still bucking along on top of the bronco called "zoloft".  

yee haw!

i love myself enough to know that this whole thing might not work, and i might need those meds again.  i might decide it's better for me, and my family, and my world.  and that's okay.  it really is.

but i also love myself enough to want to try to find out what it's like to be in my own head again, without the little foreign do-gooders messing with my junk.  i might be able to take care of my own junk, damnit.  it might just be okay, as long as i keep meditating and exercising and eating lots of ice cream and chocolate and laughing raucously, without fear of reprisal.

for now, i'm just going to cradle myself as much as a person can who's about to embark on a 3-day open-air camping excursion with 37 ten and eleven-year old students, 8 parent chaperones, and three other teachers.  what better time to wean myself from my smack, i ask you?

what better time?

i ask you:

what could be more beautiful than me, just ten minutes ago?

what could be more stunning in its specificity of purpose, of its determined nature and focused bones on the task at hand?  what, i ask you?  

there i was, naked; truly naked, not just laying-down-on-the-bed-looking-inviting naked.  full light in our tiny bathroom, bleach tile cleaner in hand, ready to do what needs to be done in order to fully clean our mildewed, rectangular phone box shower.  

i open the shower door and begin spraying wildly, hoping that somehow my strong conviction against bleach in homes will be forgiven by the eco-friendly goddesses around me; also hoping that the goddamn stuff works because nothing else has.  immediately i realize that the window that looks out over our neighbors' driveway must be opened for ventilation; my eyes are starting to water.

i rush to the window and try to push it open with one hand, realizing that i am nekkid but also grateful that my gay neighbors won't mind if they glimpse me, sprawled and jangly, trying to give myself some fresh air.  at least i think they won't mind.  maybe they will mind.  shit.  get it open, get it open, get it open--there, fresh air.

ha!  fresh air!  hahahahaha!  it's still 100 degrees outside, so "fresh" isn't exactly accurate.  opening the window feels like opening the oven door to check on some brownies.

but still, i need something other than bleach-air; heck, i need something for my eyes.

"alex?" i yell out, door closed.

"yeah?"

"can you get me some goggles, please?"

i hear rustling, walking, cabinet being opened.  i hear him approaching the door--and then the handle turning--and then i thrust my hand out to grab my swimming goggles, because no one, no one should look at me right now.  i am too stunning to behold.

but wait, i thought i was--until i put on the goggles.  then, and only then, do i truly feel that i have reached the apex of my adulthood thus far.  there is no other point in my life where i have felt more like an older person than when i glimpse myself in the mirror: bare, stomach swollen from the recently eaten nachos, dirty hair up in clumps around the band around my head. . . of all that is holy and true in this world, it was at this moment that i finally knew that i have grown up.

and then, kneeling down in the shower, scrubbing hard at the stains while my belly and arms jiggle along with the sound of the brush; changing positions and being vaguely aware that my nether regions are mixing in with the bleach fumes, wondering what kind of damage can be done to my special purpose ("vulva?  hang in there, lady..."); then marveling at the fact that hey, this poison stuff really does work!  man oh man, i've been trying to make things happen with baking soda and vinegar and meyer's clean day and method, but at this moment, all of those do-gooders can go fuck themselves.

me and bleach!  together!  a match made in bathroom heaven!

there is nothing more real than what just happened in there, people.  THAT is life; life on all fours, life that demands your grab the brush with both hands and thrust your way around the tile.  life well-worked for, life well-lived.  except for the bleach-poison that i've just inhaled.

all this, the gloriousness that is me, reveling in my beauty and the new sexy clean walls of my shower; and when my daughter asks to see what i claim is a very clean space, she peeks her head in and claims, "it doesn't look that clean to me."

i'm putting my goggles back on, just so i don't have to look at her for the rest of the night.

calm before.

i'm listening to the dulcet tones of "the simpsons".  

my kids, like all good american children, are enjoying "the simpsons" marathon on fx, and although we are about to park our butts in the large lot that is known as "the school year", we decided to give them one more night of all-out delight.  truly, their choice of show could be worse.  if nothing else, lisa simpson is one of my heroes.

anyway, tomorrow i begin as a 5th/6th grade teacher.  the room is ready, sort of.  i gave the wrong number address to the shipping company who is sending us new futon couches for the cozy/meeting area (giving them the number to the preschool where i taught over ten years ago) so it's been a crazy journey trying to locate said pieces of furniture.  they were supposed to show up today, but i stayed until 5:30, to no avail.

i've given over to the idea that the room is not perfect, nor would it be even if the goddamned couches had shown up today.  still, it's sorta a bummer, considering it was because of my own brain not quite working the way it should.

i've given over to the idea that my hair is not the way i'd like it to look, but since i cannot make it grow overnight, i am resigned to a quasi-louise brooks kind of thing.  whatever.  it's just hair.

i've also given over to the fact that i am wading into unknown territory tomorrow.  i've come to grips with the reality of me never having taught 5th and 6th grade before, of me moving from Kindergarten to pre-adolescents.  watch me do it.  just watch me.  i don't know what it will look like yet, but i know it's going to happen no matter how much i twist myself up about it.

it's strange to think about the amount of anxiety circling around houses tonight, on the eve of a new school year.  i know my children will have trouble falling asleep.  they've already told me so.  and last night i tried to drift off but kept having visions of things i had forgotten to do, so i'd grab my phone and type a note and try to get back to some deep breathing and nice beachy visualizations.  it worked, sort of.  

i saw some of my new students today, as they came in to say hello, and i saw myself in their faces--saw our mutual nervousness and anticipation and hope, hope, hopefulness for a good year.  for love and acceptance and feeling smart and full of prowess and power and creativity.  hope hope hope.

tomorrow morning, i'll wake up early and try on a dress and cross my fingers that it fits well enough and decide which pair of converse to throw on with it.  i'll make my lunch and pack my bag and jump in my car and wind my way over to the correct address of 14702 sylvan street.  i will parallel park somewhere with extreme talent.  and then i'll walk in through the gate, my heavy bag on my shoulder, my sneakers giving me buoyancy and emotional support, and grab my key and open the classroom door.  

and i'll walk in.  and just like that, my new school year will have begun.  with or without couches; with or without overwhelming feelings of confidence--i'll just be in it, doing it, living it, with twenty-one other humans who feel pretty much the same way i do.

just like that, we begin.

trapped.

so much sadness over robin williams.  over those who choose suicide, and those they leave behind.

that's all i'll say about it.  many more have said things that are better.  more eloquent.

today i woke up early for the second day in a row.  i tried to grab hold of the dream that i was having to lull me back to sleep, but that never works for me.

i got up and put on my gear and headed over to lake balboa park, which is a big expanse of land near my house.  i figured i'd walk/run the perimeter, which is about five miles.  i was not feeling overly energetic, but what the hell.  what else was i going to do at 6:25 in the morning?

the sky was actually beautiful.  there were clouds to greet me, and the sun was just poking through.  it felt good to move.  i listened to "this american life" and laughed out loud a few times, and said good morning to my fellow early-risers.

i was behind a woman walking a gorgeous pit bull--the ones they call "blue"--and i lost myself in the daydream of stopping and saying hello to the doggy.  she started walking inwards towards the golf course which is in the middle of the park.  i followed her, figuring that she knew a path across that i didn't--up for an adventure--not in a big rush to get home.

she walked about fifty feet and then stopped, checked her phone and then turned around.  at this point i had walked past her but she wasn't in the mood for a stopgreet, so i kept going.  i didn't want her to think i was following her, which i was, but i didn't want to creep her out or anything.

so i kept going.  

i walked around the driveway, past some buildings with trucks and golf carts, out the other side, and suddenly i was on the golf course.  in the middle of the golf course.  i looked around for a way out--a path through--but there wasn't anything, so i headed for the other side of the course where there was a fence, and hopefully a way out.

i walked for a few minutes, my headphones on, when i heard someone screaming at me, "MISS!  MISS!"  i turned around and saw a man in a golf cart following me.  at this point i knew i was in trouble, but being me, i was also defiant.  fucking golf course.  fucking waste of good land.  stupid fucking manicured lawns and men playing a dumbass game.

these are the thoughts that went through my head.

he pulled up close to me and said, with a furrowed brow, "Miss, you cannot be here.  This is the golf course.  You cannot be here."

"I know.  I got trapped."

"What is that?"

"Trapped.  Stuck.  I'm looking for a way out."

"You have to go back--there is no way out."

at this point I knew that there was no way i was going to hop on his little cart and have him escort me off the premises.  i asked him in an incredulous tone if there was a little gap in the fence way over yonder--there had to be--but he told me no.  i then told him that i was going to simply jump the fence, as if 40-something women at 7 am jump fences regularly at his golf course.

"That would be bad.  You could get bad hurt--or fall.  Bad."

i told the fine gentleman that i would be fine, and then i took off running over the greens.

"MISS!  MISS!"

i ignored him, and kept running, turning my head now and then to keep an eye on the golfers.  what must they think of me, i wondered.  who cares, i thought.

i ran sort of haphazdly, trying to gauge ahead where the fence looked the strongest.  the course was bordered by a simple chain link fence, except most of it was pretty flimsy.  i needed something with a bar on the top, something that looked familiar to me, something i could scale just like i did when i was a kid.

i finally found my spot, dodging the large lawn mower in the process, and grabbed onto the fence.  it was about 10 feet high. oh shit.  the last time i climbed a chain link fence i was at least fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger.  i began to panic, but i couldn't handle the thought that the groundskeeper was watching me, waiting for me to escape or fail or both.

i tried to stick my feet through the holes in the fence, but my toes don't fit perfectly into them the way they used to.  still, i managed to hoist myself up, shaking like hell, my hands hurting immediately.  i got to the top and swung my leg over, said "yup, yup, yup" to myself, got my other leg over and let go.  i fell to the ground on two feet and immediately started walking again, as if to show the cars and people passing by that my manuever was in my plan all along.  

my hands burned all the way back to my car.

as i drove home after finally finishing the five miles, i kept thinking of my groundskeeper friend, and how he was going to be sitting around his dinner table tonight, telling the story of the white woman who walked across the golf course and then jumped over the fence.  i hope his family laughed with him, hoped he told the story with glee and embellishment, making me even more combative than i was in real life, maybe--or telling them that as i jumped down from the fence my shirt got caught and ripped.

i hope they all laughed really, really hard.

i would.

those good old days.

my high school is being razed, replaced by a gorgeous building that will house generations of kids from franklin.

this is what my high school looks like now.  piles of old chairs, rotting wood, bits and pieces of nothingness--piled up to be carted away to the dump.  that building above was the gymnasium--known to us as the field house--and there was a giant panther painted on one of the walls.

it was there that i ran laps during PE and practiced tennis by hitting the balls against the wall and watched basketball games with boys i wished were my boyfriends.  

it had the smell of unproven sex, sweat and desperation.  it smelled as if john hughes had commissioned a fragrance called "high school".  it was glorious.

now it's gone.

i'm not really all that nostalgic about the building itself, but it does feel a bit strange to see it destroyed. when i pulled up to look at it, there were three guys in the parking lot, looking at it as well.  were we all there for the same reason--to pay our last respects?  did they have feelings of sadness or longing?  did they have the same impulse that i did--to jump the locked fence and make off with something tangible to remember it by?

i would've loved to pick through that pile.  that kind of stuff is my jam, anyway, but can you just imagine finding a chair and bringing it home?

if only home wasn't Los Angeles.

i'm thinking about all of those boys and girls that i was in school with--now men and women with prostate exams and mammograms and hair loss and trick knees and all the trappings of adulthood: mortgages, divorces, aging parents, children.

children who will be going to the new high school, never to know the sweet and sourness of that old building.

we've all changed so much, and yet we haven't.  our bodies have--my hands are proof enough, what with their age spots and veins and crinkled-up skin.  but still, these hands love to put my hair behind my ears, just like i did when i was 16.  my legs might have had trouble climbing up the fence--it sure as hell wouldn't have been graceful--and they have more cellulite and spider veins than i care to mention (but i just mentioned)--but they are as long and formidable as when i was a teenage dream.  and my head--the brain that resides in it--oh man, let me just say that i am so glad that my head has grown up.

'cause that girl back there, she didn't know what to do with that brain of hers.  now it seems to fit me  so well.  

except when it doesn't.  well, work in progress and all that.

it's sort of sad to see it gone.  those old hallways.  those front steps where i fell down in front of melanie when she told me about that kiss.  damn, that was fun.

time marching on, just like me in the franklin high school band back in the day.

sigh.

tuesday night.

had to watch my kid being tortured today.

her big toenail got smashed a couple of weeks ago, and it finally reached the stage where we needed some intervention.  after letting her scream and cry about the injustice of it all for a while, i took her to my mom's doctor and paid $220 to have a nurse practitioner take some toe pliers and try to nudge it off her toe.

this procedure lasted five minutes, and the girl held onto me and moaned and clutched at my hands in pain, and i just sat there and watched as the nurse determined it couldn't come all the way off, so she had to cut as much of it as she could.  

it was pretty gnarly.

still, i was so proud of my kid.  not because she didn't cry, but because she gave over to what had to be done, and took it with grace.  she gave over to five minutes of constant pain.  no one had to hold her down or bribe her.  she did it her nine-year old self.

okay, maybe i offered her a trip to target afterwards.  there was a bit of bribery.  i admit it.

still, i'm proud of her.

i'm down to my lowest dose of my meds in a while, and getting the "brain zaps" that so many people wrote about on the web. it happens all of a sudden; there's an electricity that goes down my right arm and then a jolt that hits me and makes me dizzy on my left side.  very disconcerting.  drives me a bit bonkers, but i know it'll be gone in a few days, once i adjust to the new dose.  it's strange, knowing that i'm putting my brain through this, but i remain my own science experiment.

i sent postcards to my old class and my new class today.  i'm ready to get ready for school.

this morning my parents started sniping at each other at breakfast, and i had to leave the table.  i realized that i wanted to write IMMEDIATELY; the impulse was so strong it almost bowled me over, but writing has become difficult lately.  mostly because i don't know how honest i should be.  even just writing about my parents arguing makes me feel a bit odd; i don't care about pouring stuff from my own damn self out here, but when it gets into family dynamics i edit the hell out of things.  

i don't like to do that.  i wish i could just say what i could say without judgment.

my father is currently laughing out loud by himself to "young frankenstein" (the gene hackman scene) while my mom is hanging with the kids in the pool, wearing her "bad" bathing suit. she saves it just for the family.

trust me, no one should see it.  

i drove around my town today, doing errands.  went to the post office and sent three boxes of books, including one full of magazines from my great-grandmother.  i think i'll save talking about those for another post.  went to the supermarket, saw my parent's neighbor, amazed by all of the Red Sox goods on display.  saw people glance at my tattoos and make judgeyjudgments and well, okay, sorry, whatever.  drove fast in my mom's kia, knowing somehow the car was happy to feel the acceleration, just like me.

i'm working my way towards friday, when we fly back to Los Angeles.  i cannot wait to love my dogs hard, to see my friends, my people, to feel the crappiness of my very own mattress instead of trying to figure out how to sleep comfortably on those set out for me here.  i look forward to having my clothing in drawers, to be able to find things i am looking for, to curl up on my own couch watching television that i have chosen to watch.  

such simple pleasures.

still, i know there is the inevitable letdown i will feel once i have left this land behind me for another summer.  i know there will be melancholy and missing and i will be okay with this.  

i just heard--from the room where my dad is watching the movie--"hello, handsome!--- this is a good boy... YOU ARE A GOD!"  

as alex says, no one yells better than gene wilder.

i'm proud to be part of a family that frequently quotes mel brooks' movies.  it's part of my heritage as a middle-class white girl, and i'm okay with that.

i'm okay with all of this.  i have to be.  i am.

triste.

sometimes it comes in low-tide waves, just barely making my ankles wet.

other times it hits me in my gut and my breath escapes in a gasp, no way to control it.

when i see the devastating drought in my home city, the land parched and raw

or glimpse another photo of a dead child in the Middle East

or see the clouds forming their nighttime dance

or hear the sound of my daughter's faraway voice

when i read the poem that talks of walls in the heart

or see the faces of these people i love when they speak of their work,

or sway to the song that makes me swoon

or hug the friend goodbye, our hearts knocking against the other's.

it is palpable, this sadness and melancholy. it is next to me now, sure as my glasses' case and lip balm and book to read. it is in this room with me, despite the single bed and chest of drawers. it is mine, all mine, all me, and tonight i can do nothing but snuggle down with it tight and pray for the rain to accompany our dreams.

bennington.

i wake up so many times i can't even count, and each time i sink deeper and deeper into the plastic mattress provided for me by the good college.

in the morning, i have pulled the covers up around my face, and my feet are desperate for warmth.  i look at my phone, at the weather, at instagram, at facebook, at the lack of email i was hoping for.  i look at the clock again.  i close my eyes.

at some point, i simply throw the covers off and sit up, and then marvel at the dent left by my body on the mattress.  concave gloriousness, and my back is moaning in protest.  i grab the wall and stretch myself, hearing the pops of air circulate in my muscles.  i am sore.

i make my bed.  this is important.

i pull down the standard levolor shade and watch it spring back up, and then i see what the morning looks like.  today it is cloudy and cool, and the tiny birds that are housed in the strange apparatus across from me are full of excitement.  i wish i had my dad's eyes, or a pair of binoculars.  

off in the distance ican see cars on a small highway.  there is no sound to accompany this sight.

a few moments later i will get up and begin the proceedings to take a shower, hoping my door doesn't wake up those around me.  we can hear each other's alarms, phone conversations, footsteps across the old wooden floors.  we creak together.  it is an odd thing, brushing your teeth and standing in your towel while talking to your co-workers.  however, it is also comforting.

the white walls do nothing but soothe me here.  although i do catch myself thinking about pinning up some pictures.  i am inclined to draw or paint; neither particular skills of mine, but somehow this place makes me think that i am capable of such endeavors.

my brain sleeps hard; there is much needed to process at the end of every single day.

the wildflowers outside proliferate.  there are no gardeners calling the shots.  the trees break limbs themselves and the forest floor heals them up real good.  the women here don't wear make-up, mostly.  there is a simplicty to clothing, to hair, to footwear.  

teva sandals thrive here.  

the birds are louder than the machinery.  the skies open up whenever they damn well want to.  the paths to breakfast are covered with dew and soak my sneakers, and i happily sit in the wetness while i eat my oatmeal and say good morning to my colleagues.

dear james,

when i saw you yesterday at the eric carle museum i was a little high, i admit it.

i had just seen louise fitzhugh's original pen and ink drawings from "Harriet the Spy," which is one of my favorite books of all time.  i saw each one in all of its glorious simplicity and rendered with the care of someone who was truly blessed with understanding human beings.  i was pretty moved, to be honest; which means i cried a little bit in the small gallery, standing in front of Harrison Withers and Mrs. Plumber and Harriet in all of her spy gear and especially at the picture of Sport and Janie from the end of the book.

and then when i went into the gift shop, well, you saw what it was like there.  it is always hard for me to walk out of there without spending too much money, but then again, i always spend too much money.  when i first saw you i had already bought nine books and left but then i ran back inside to buy the "Charlotte's Web" tote bag as well, because it was still calling my name.

and the woman at the counter with the beautiful skin wanted to take a picture of my Harriet tatttoo and she did, and that made me a little bit buzzy, as well.

however, james, YOU were my main inspiration of the day.

there you were, in your wraparound, rubber blue glasses and buttoned-down shirt, holding a collage from the art studio.  you showed it to me so proudly, and then stated, 

"everyone should try something new now and then."

the whole store was listening to you.  we were all enthralled.

so i began asking you questions, and you began asking me questions, and suddenly i knew that your family was from texas and you were going to vermont later

(and i interjected that i was also going to vermont later as well)

and we shook hands and you said, "nice to meet you, holly."

and your mom said you should tell me why you are going to vermont (and this is when i guessed: homeschooled-christian-onthespectrum-sensory needs--but honestly, that is just some teacher bullshit that you don't have to worry about, james) and then you told me that you studied vermont and they had real maple syrup there and mooses! and then you said, in a whisper-secret voice, "do you know who i learned about who is famous from there?"

and i said, "who?"

and you said, "snowflake bentley." with a huge smile.  and then i couldn't contain myself, james, i just couldn't.  i said, "you know what?  i have TWO picture books about him!" and you said, "so do i!" and then i said, "and guess what?  because i'm an adult i can have some tattoos, can i show you something?" and i turned around and lifted my necklace and showed you my neck, where a bentley snowflake is part of my skin.

and you said, from behind me, "you have a SNOWFLAKE!"

and then you hugged me.

your parents were trying to pull you away, because they were shopping and on vacation and they needed to keep you moving, so when you went to the other side of the store and i stood in line at the register i thought it was over, our little moment.

but then you kept talking to me, and peeking at me, and telling me that we could meet in Vermont.  that we would probably see me there.  you told me that you would be at ben and jerry's later--would i be there?  and that when you got to your hotel, you would draw me a picture and send it to me.

six years old, you told me.  of course.  i am the flame for six-year old moths like you.

so james, even though we did have to wave goodbye (eight times) and even though i probably won't see you in vermont (although maybe i will--maybe we are fated to be together again) i wanted to tell you something.

people will probably have a tough time with you, james.  they won't understand everything about you--your enthusiasm for life, your gregariousness, you wide-open heart--and they just might throw some judgments your way as you get older.  (and i did already in the gift shop, and for that i am sorry.)

you, my fifteen-minute friend, are a treasure.  your light is undeniable and powerful, and you will bring great joy to this world.  you probably will change it for the better.  you will be a force to reckon with, and you will create new and wondrous things that will make this world shine brighter.

you, james, are simply fantastic.  and if someday you are stuck between thoughts or people or finding it hard to trust yourself or wondering how to connect to the next moment of your life, just know that i am in your corner, james.  i will remember you always and hope that you somehow can feel me pulling for you.

thanks for making my acquaintance and keeping me very occupied while waiting in line, and thanks for showing me your art, and thanks for reminding me that there is hope, always hope, just simmering in a small child.  i can always count on that, can't i?

hope you love vermont, james.  i'll keep my eye out for you.

love,

your friend holly

fragments.

driving to target to return the second fan of the season

still marveling at the stone walls along the way

listening to local radio ads and trying to find the accent i used to have

it's hard when you're not local anymore.

watching my daughter ease herself through her first major injury

--toenail smashed in door--

breathing through her pain like labor

then later chasing sticks in the backyard, hobbling around chanting 

chumash songs.

s'mores again, damnit.

using my mom's stamps and hearing how happy that makes her.

looking at my toenails and wanting someone else to paint them.

knowing i have to pack but avoiding that process because it seems momumental.

family secrets spilled like salt on the table, with limited reaction all around.

driving by the flower beds i helped to plant that one summer when cars still honked at my ass.

humidity wrapping me up in its embrace.

the sounds of people walking in this house

creaks of floorboards and wood 

waking me up from slumber and soothing me back to sleep.

my lips burning from too much sun.

sharing space with a dear friend 

wonderful in her steadfast kookiness

knowing i will be like her someday, and

then realizing i already am.

thank god.

talking like a teacher and knowing i am one.

cutting the back of my hair without looking

and trusting the dull scissors

blinking my eyes closed for longer than i need them to be.

the Red Sox game in the background like classical music.

pebbles stuck in the bottoms of my running shoes

fishing them out brings such sweet satisfaction.

anticipatory flighty thoughts that 

worry my soul

but still my heart.

the feel of my daughter's hair after swimming;

thick with salt and clay-like in its bendability

the thought of a brush repellent.

succulent cucumbers

from my father's garden

picked by my kid with glee

and i miss them already.