A Life Like Freshly Washed Linoleum

The air was fresh with the scent of new babies,
Of kisses on foreheads and enviously soft skin.
A strange homecoming; with three instead of two,
New furniture and accessories not included.

Quiet echoed in the doorways,
Except for the occasional scream for nourishment,
But peace prevailed and the floors stayed clean,
Although they got mopped less often.

And now? Now, the floors are dirty as soon as they're washed.
And the air is fresh with the scent of peanut butter.
There are four now, and soon after there will be five.
New furniture and accessories still not included.

Quiet happens only briefly,
And usually we're too tired to hear it.
Peace is something we remember fondly, just like clean floors.
But what we have is better than shiny linoleum.

The Strength of Action

There was a strong sensation on her heart, like a can being crushed by powerful fingers, and it was so overwhelming that she could hardly breathe. She could feel her lungs; each distinctly and both much too clearly. It made every breath a conscious effort, a slow and inevitable suffocation surrounded her.

The descent was maddening, this terrible turmoil of crushed heart and ragged breathing. She felt herself falling in to a dark pit that she was too weak to climb out of. Her stomach turned. She crawled along the muddy ground of her mind, struggling to form a single thought. She struggled more to turn the thought in to words, and when she finally forced them out they whispered hoarsely but said nothing.

She tried to yell. She tried to articulate her pain and confusion and frustration. But instead, she meekly whimpered, feeling her lungs rise and fall, feeling her heart straining to beat. A smaller self inside of her weakly banged at the walls of her chest, struggling for freedom. It was no match for the cold exterior she had developed over the years.

What is the answer? She wondered. Death? Escape? Insanity?

Nothing resonated. Nothing truly soothed the pain.

But the knocking on her chest grew stronger, and somewhere from deep in her soul an answer shouted, MOVE.

Move? She furrowed her brow in thought. She shook her head and responded, impossible.

The voice answered, MOVE.

She resisted still. She could barely breathe, could barely lift a limb. Move where? She didn't understand.

OVERCOME. MOVE. TRY.

She thought she had been trying. But the knocking intensified, and she was suddenly aware that she hadn't tried at all. She had merely reacted.

She reached her hand above her head, feeling for some leverage. Every inch of the journey was painful. She still struggled to remember to breathe; her muscles trembled and her crushed heart tumbled on, threatening permanent dysfunction.

She toiled a long while, although she couldn't say for sure how long. An hour? A day? There was no way to know. It was dark in the pit, and she couldn't see any light above. She focused on every movement, yelled out with every bend of a limb. Everything hurt, but the knocking pushed her on.

Keep moving. Keep trying. Keep doing.

She still wasn't sure what it meant or what it was. But she noticed she wasn't struggling to remember to breathe. And later, she noticed her heart no longer felt crushed. Her body moved freely, and her voice came out strong.

As she reached a hand out of the dark, muddy pit, she sighed. She was dirty, and tired, and confused, but she was also relieved. And she knew that no matter what, if she just kept moving, she could conquer.

Lola Learns to Fly

Lola Learns to Fly


Lola was only four the first time she flew. Although she's now aware, as a logical adult, that her first flight was a daydream (most likely inspired by a nearly fatal head injury earlier that week), she still remembers it like a memory, not a dream. Sometimes she wonders==maybe she really did fly that day. Every time she thinks of it, even now, 23 years later, it is still as tangible as the grass between her toes.

The whole scene is incredibly clear in Lola's mind. She was four. The day was bright and hot and a little humid--a typical day in Texas. Lola was miserable because she couldn't go swimming with her sisters. She had twelve stitches stretching across the top of her forehead where her hair began and her face ended. The pain was minimal now, except when she raised her eyebrows, but the hair near her injury had been shaved and her scalp was itchy. She kicked a rock down the narrow sidewalk in front of her family's apartment, sticking her bottom lip out in an impressive pout. She wanted to swim so badly. She was hot and bored and she missed the delicious sensation of cool water gliding along her skin and lifting her smoothly to the surface. But she couldn't get the stitches wet. And no amount of pleading had convinced her mother that she would keep her head dry if she was allowed to go into the pool.

There were no other children around (Probably all in the pool, Lola thought to herself grumpily), and the heat of the day kept any adults who might be around inside near an air conditioner and a sweating, cold glass of sweet tea. She was alone, standing on a hot, dry sidewalk bordering an even hotter blacktop parking lot. The heat shimmered off the pavement, looking like translucent waves from a distance. Lola began to imagine that the air around her was as thick and deep as the humidity made it feel. She was suddenly pushing her way through the heavy air, each step's energy forcing the air outward in jiggly waves, reminding her of Jell-O. As she stood there twirling her arms and watching the air bounce around her, Lola had a sudden and very compelling thought. With the air being so thick and heavy, she might be able to swim through it, since she couldn't get in the pool.

Lola had always loved water and had learned to swim at a very young age. At four, she could already swim the length of the pool, traveling along the bottom where the pressure of the water squeezed at her eardrums. It was the feeling of gliding through the water that she was pining for--feeling it all around her but moving past her at the same time, never touching the same water twice in a row.

The more Lola thought about swimming in the air, the more convinced she became that it was possible. She wondered how she should begin. Should she lay back and try to float, tipping her head back until her legs began to rise, like she did in the pool? No, she thought this air is thicker than the water. And besides, if I'm wrong I might hit my head again. And Mom would KILL me if I came home bleeding again.

Though this thought was fairly reasonable, it was quickly countered by a strange twist in her 4-year-old logic: she needed a running start. Lola pushed through the air until she reached the end of the sidewalk--the farthest she was allowed to go by herself. She could just barely hear giggles and splashing coming from the pool.

Lola stuck her arms straight out at her sides and took a deep breath. She inhaled sharply and then puffed out her cheeks, holding her breath like she was getting ready to dive. She started running as fast as she could, quickly picking up speed despite her tiny legs and the heavy air. After a few steps, she pushed off the ground with her right foot, stretching her arms over her head and pointing her toes. She dove in to the heavy air, having faith that it would catch her and hold her like water.

She was right.

Instead of falling flat on her face like any logical adult would have suspected, Lola glided gracefully through the air. Once she was moving, the air stopped feeling heavy and gelatinous. Instead she felt soft and weightless, like floating on water without the wet. Tiny giggles escaped her throat as she twirled and dove across the bright afternoon sky. Although she was a brave little girl, she was also prudent, and decided to stay close to the ground, just in case her sudden gift of flight was short-lived. She hovered just a few feet of the ground, marveling at how different the world looked even from this relatively low height. She rolled over on her back and relaxed, letting out a contented sigh. Feeling like she could stay this way forever, Lola was disappointed to hear voices approaching from the pool. Her sisters were returning.

Lola decided she'd rather not let anyone know about her ability to fly, so she floated back down to the ground and crouched on the ground, pretending to watch a little hill of bright red fire ants as they scurried to and fro. Her older sister, Katie, called her name and admonished her for getting so close to the fire ants; didn't she know they would bite her? Lola shrugged and stifled a laugh. If only her sister knew what Lola did. Flying was a lot more interesting than fire ants, anyway. She ran to her sisters' side, grabbing Katie's hand as they headed toward their apartment.

Lola thought she'd be able to fly again another day, but every time she tried, she couldn't do it. The air never seemed heavy enough again, nor her feet light enough. Somehow she knew she was still capable of it, but the situation was never quite right. She longed to feel the wind on her face again, and to feel the freedom of air beneath her feet. But she settled for a nice, long swim three weeks later when she had her stitches removed. After that day, she always imagined herself flying every time she dove in to the pool.

dew

Creativity Boot Camp
Day 6
Topic: fluid

Today's challenge was to step outside of our "rules" of our craft and try to change it up a bit. Since I'm a little all over the place--I write essays, fiction, and poetry--I was trying to think of what would be outside of my "normal" way of writing. I finally decided on a haiku, because it is a fixed form (a style I rarely ever write in), and it forces you to write very simply (I usually write long, descriptive phrases/sentences). So, here's my stab at it.

dew

translucent orbs form
reflecting light, rolling down
the green morning leaves

bittersweet accomplishments

Creativity Boot Camp
Day 5
Topic: Grow


There are few things in my life as precious as witnessing my children learn something new. There is such sublime joy to be found in these tiny moments. Suddenly, the bad day I had melts away in the presence of their innocence and simple contentedness.

There are milestones, of course--first steps, first words, potty training-- but there are also a great deal of other "firsts that don't get quite as much cultural attention. They are nonetheless milestones that mark the cobblestone streets of youth.

As parents, we notice all of these.

First time putting on your own shoes.

First time drawing a picture (that actually looked like something!).

First time building something by yourself with your blocks.

These aren't huge things. They may not be particularly life-changing. But they are still exciting and important.

It isn't entirely because they learned to do something new. It's not just because we watched them try, unsuccessfully, until one day something clicked. Moments like these are precious on a much grander scale, as well.

These little moments--these day-to-day accomplishments-- are hard evidence of the growth our children are doing every day. They might be mundane, but they are still sacred, precious miracles.

Like finding a flower this afternoon where there wasn't one this morning.

I live for these daily milestones, but witnessing them is bittersweet. These moments make me proud and joyful, but they also remind me that time is passing. Some time all too soon, day-to-day joy will be harder for them to discover. Some time soon, they won't be sheltered under my wing.

This is the hardest part of parenting.

Because the very thing I'm working hardest at is also something I wish didn't have to happen.

I'm helping them grow.

LOUD like lightning

Creativity Boot Camp
Day 4
Topic: Heavy Metal

LOUD like lightning
And bright like thunder
Pressing my eardrums
Like earth torn asunder

Pressing my eardrums
Like earth torn asunder
Shaking my ribcage,
Pulling me under

Shaking my ribcage,
Pulling me under
Pulsing, convulsing,
Is it music? I wonder

Pulsing, convulsing
Is it music? I wonder
LOUD like lightning
Bright like thunder

In the Park

Creativity Boot Camp
Day 2
Topic: Picnic

Mandy felt a little strange packing a picnic for one, but it was such a beautiful day out that she didn’t want to waste it. She sliced strawberries and peaches, made a sandwich, and brewed herself some tea. When she was finished creating her meal, she placed it all in a large, brown wicker basket lined with red and white gingham. A picnic wasn’t a picnic without that basket. Her grandmother had given it to her when she was a little girl, and she often staged elaborate tea parties on the front lawn, carrying her wares out to her porcelain-doll “guests” in the picnic basket. Back then, it had been a little difficult to carry, since it was nearly as big as Mandy. Now it fit comfortably in her hands, although she still felt like a little girl whenever she used it.

Mandy grabbed the picnic basket and carried it out to her bicycle, where she attached it to a rack on the back. She suddenly felt very silly, all dressed up in her white floral print sundress, getting ready for a picnic at the park. It was definitely cliché, but not something people ever actually did. Mandy liked to do things differently from other people whenever she could. It got her in trouble sometimes, but mostly it was innocent fun. It made her sublimely happy.
The perfect summer day also made Mandy happy. The sun was high and bright, and the air was just the right temperature. She lifted her sunglass-clad face to the sky and felt the warm rays touch her skin. A breeze carried the scent of newly bloomed roses and smoky charcoal grills. Right then, it felt amazing just to be alive to enjoy the day. Mandy smiled to herself and climbed on her bike.

Arbor Park was only a short bicycle ride away from the old Victorian house where Mandy’s apartment was. She rode her bike here every chance she could get; at least four times a week. She loved to sit in the grass between the towering maples and oaks, watching people as they chased their children or walked their dogs. Even though she liked to be different from other people, she still had an affinity for society; watching the way people interacted was always intriguing to her. There was amazing insight to be gleaned from passively observing the world. And it was even more amazing to do it in the warm sunshine, sprawled across her favorite yellow quilt.

It seemed to Mandy that the scenery of the park changed every day. Most of the people did the same sorts of things—throwing a Frisbee, playing tag, reading a book on a park bench—but she rarely saw the same people. There were always new people to observe; even when they were doing different things, each person’s individual nuances were unique. Once, Mandy spent an entire week observing different people as they read in the park. Some curled up on the bench, as if they were on a couch; some crossed their legs stiffly and glanced occasionally over the tops of their books. Each person she watched had a new movement or facial expression that captivated Mandy.

Of course, there were also other “regulars” at the park, people Mandy could always expect to see there: the old man with the coke-bottle glasses who always seemed to be looking for something, and the young woman with two children whom looked like twins. There was one regular park patron that Mandy found exceptionally interesting, and he happened to be in the park today. He was a young man who looked to be about the same age as Mandy. He was tall, thin, and a little bit awkward, but Mandy still thought he was handsome. He always sat in the same spot, strumming an acoustic guitar.

When Mandy had first seen the man in the park, she had figured he was there for attention. Often, girls would stop for a few moments and watch him play, twirling their hair around their fingers and giggling. Mandy assumed that sort of attention was what brought the man here.

Over time, she started realizing that her initial assumption was very wrong. She noticed he always picked the same spot to sit, and it was a fairly secluded spot, almost entirely surrounded by shrubs. And he never acknowledged the giggly girls that stopped to watch him play. He would sit, totally engrossed in his music, often closing his eyes and matching his facial gestures to the notes he played.
She didn’t know his name, and hadn’t had the courage to ask, so she called him Toby. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to name the stranger in the park; she hadn’t named the old man or the woman or the twins. Mandy thought maybe it was because he played music, and she was also a musician. It made her feel like they had something in common. And there was also the fact that she found him attractive.
In fact, to be quite honest, Mandy had a little bit of a crush on “Toby.” She was always sad if he wasn’t in the park, and in her deepest quiet thoughts she would sometimes imagine having amazing conversations with him. He seemed to be just as interested in being different as Mandy was. At least, she liked to imagine he did, based on his indifference to attention and her internal decision that they were soul mates.

On this day, Mandy heard “Toby” playing before she even saw him, and her chest swelled with excitement. She didn’t think anything could possibly make this day more perfect. Beautiful weather, a lovely picnic, and a chance to watch “Toby” as he strummed his guitar. She sighed happily as a wide smile spread across her face. Her green eyes sparkled in the bright afternoon sunshine.

Mandy chose a spot for her old, yellow quilt and laid her wicker basket down on it. Today she chose a spot much closer to “Toby’s” alcove than she normally did. The song he was playing matched her mood perfectly, and she wanted to be close enough to listen. Although it was no surprise, she was a little sad when he didn’t look up from his guitar when she sat down. In her imagination, he’d see how different she was from the other girls who stopped to watch him play. But he treated her no differently. He simply continued to play.

Sitting there on her old yellow quilt with her picnic lunch, Mandy found herself almost as engrossed in “Toby’s” song as he seemed to be. She lost herself in the gently lilting phrases. They made her think of flying kites near the ocean. She could almost smell the salt in the air. A small, nagging voice in the back of her mind was trying to talk to her, but she ignored it. She continued to enjoy the sensation of salty sea air in her face, the guitar’s chords rolling over her like waves. But the nagging voice continued to poke at her, and her concentration was broken. At first, she couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but then she realized what it was. She was being watched.

Mandy looked up abruptly and was greeted by “Toby’s” bright hazel eyes. He was watching her intently, but he didn’t miss a single note of the song he was playing. The rest of his body continued to sway and move with the music, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. When she realized he was looking at her, she jumped, spilling her tea down the front of her dress. She felt the skin on her face growing hot as she blushed.

At that moment, Mandy wished she could be anywhere else. She wanted to run away, but that was fairly impractical; she couldn’t just leave all of her stuff in the middle of the park. Besides, she didn’t think she needed to look any crazier just then. Her embarrassment overcame her logic, however, and she quickly got up from her blanket, hastily shoving her belongings back in to her wicker picnic basket. That was when “Toby” stopped playing his song.

“Ah, don’t go! It’s nice to have such an attentive audience,” he said, smiling genuinely and catching Mandy’s eyes with his. He set his guitar aside and strode over to Mandy’s quilt. Mandy watched him come toward her, not quite sure if she was awake or dreaming. After a second thought, she was sure she was awake. None of her dreams about “Toby” had gone like this. Usually she was witty and charming and incredibly interesting. Right now, she was a slack-jawed, tea-stained oddity. This was most definitely real.

“Toby” sat down on Mandy’s quilt, not bothering to wait for an invitation. He opened the lid to the wicker picnic basket and glanced inside. “What’s for lunch?” he asked with a wide grin on his face.

Like an Elephant's Tusks

Creativity Boot Camp- Day One

Topic: Ivory

Mandy sat in the window seat looking out at the early morning rain. The world looked like a washed-out version of itself, as if the constant spring downpour had washed away the colors, like the slow erosion of paint on the side of a barn. She hummed softly as drops of rain chased each other down the window pane.
The world inside Mandy’s mind was, just then, more brilliant and bright than any sunny day had ever been. She was composing a cheerful melody. As the notes bounced soundlessly through the green eyes of her mind, she imagined what they would feel like if they were real. Warm, she thought, like rocks on a sunny day. And like love.
She wondered what she meant by that. There was an unexpected pause in her internal symphony, and then a bridge led in to a totally different tune. She saw love then, and it looked like Caleb: tall and awkward with his wide smile and light brown hair. Her heart smiled and she hummed on, enjoying the new key her wandering mind had chosen.
After a few more silent moments of imagining him and humming her song, Mandy stood up from her resting spot. She glanced once more at the washed-out world outside the window and walked across the room to her piano.
The piano was old and worn. It had been her grandfather’s, and Mandy had rescued it when he passed away. Her grandmother wanted to throw it out; it wouldn’t stay in tune and half of the keys were chipped and dull. But Mandy loved the slightly off-key sound of that old piano, and her fingers relished in every chip and crack of the ivory keys. They made her think of real ivory. Not shiny and polished like some illegally imported trinket, but chipped and dirty and well-used, like the tusks of an elephant.
Mandy opened the lid of the little upright piano, exposing the tired keys. She lovingly caressed them, recognizing the distinct character of every one of them with her fingertips. This was the piano she learned to play on, and it would always have a special place in her heart.
Her thoughts drifted back to Caleb just then. He, too, had a special place in her heart that time would not diminish. There were certain things about him like the cracks on the piano keys—little idiosyncrasies she knew so well—that made him forever dear to her. Although she had many times tried to set aside her memories of him, she could not. She held on to him as steadfastly as she did the piano.
Mandy took a deep breath and pressed her fingers down on to the keys, playing the first chord of her song. The piano reluctantly sounded the notes, sighing slightly as it did so. The discordant sound of the old instrument was comforting to Mandy’s ears, and she smiled to herself. Music never sounded quite so sweet on any other piano.