On Practice...

For days, she attempted to plan what she was going to say to him. As summer emerged and the initial shock rippled outward, she made inward, emotional notes.

And she cut her hair.
Twice.

But when the day came, it was more about just getting there. No matter the countless, unsent emails or the lengthy written drafts.

The experts say face-to-face is always better.

And she got there first.
Ordered black coffee. No cream. No sugar.

When it was finally her turn, her mind peeled back for the pages.
Retrieved nothing.
The blue void sighed back at her and she was left with only one phrase.

"I thought you'd love me for a long time."



And upon this, she prepared for everything else.

On Transition

Reflection on the first weeks

It was a time when coffee fixed the bloodshot eyeball
And waffled face.
It was a time when a cigarette
Meant no harm at all.
It was a time when lovers
Could do it behind the sofa.
It was a time when notebooks
Weren't required.
It was a time when music meant the whole
Space of an hour or a T-shirt.
It was a time when 3 AM was no different
Than 6 AM.
It was a time when things were pink
And covered in kisses.
It was a time when words were spoken
Between eye, hand, and toe.
It was a time when sun stayed awake
A little longer.
It was a time when roses were nothing
And daisies meant everything.
It was the time of wine
And whiskey lip-smacking.

It was the time when the human gained on
the season for but a moment.

Tangent 11: Training Wheels

When she learned to ride a bicycle, she was only four or five years-old. The bike was red, silver, and had been a boy's bike before being converted into a gleaming, mean machine, just for her.

When her father brought the bike home, a surprise, she giggled with delight each time the bike tipped from side to side, the training wheels bolstering her up, keeping her aligned and moving forward. Training wheels taught her to ride.
She didn't keep them on the shiny red bike for long.

Soon, she rode her bicycle everywhere, without the third and fourth wheel.

She never forgot the help though, the feeling of security, balance, and soft push back up each time things threatened to fall. She tried to apply this sense of reassurance in all facets of her life.

Who wouldn't appreciate training wheels? she thought.
Who doesn't want that uncensored, cushioned balance that comes from loving reassurance?

Only those who ride bikes at age four or five love training wheels.
They are meant to be outgrown, out-loved, outlived.
She learned.



When the fourth man left and fell in love with another, the training abruptly -

Stopped.

Tangent #10 - Never mind #9

The cold air makes us feel funny things sometimes. Like how she remembers the summer of 1992 in just one clip:

A setting sun over a middle class subdivision, its orange light bouncing playfully against the warped garage door and the consistent thud of a tennis ball, lopped lazily there and back again.

Back then, we didn't need to worry about permission. If we got into trouble, someone in charge issued punishment, typically lasting no more than one week. What was a week then?

A week was the summer, a tennis ball, and the familiar sunset.

Take Two

All she wanted to do was tell him "I love you."

Instead, she woke up, rolled over and just breathed, the exhale falling into rhythm with his. She couldn't bring herself to wake him.

But it seemed a very important thing to say so early in the morning, with the sun waking and the air in the room filtered by blankets and curtains. The real day seemed so very far away from this place. Hard to believe she hadn't been here forever.

She threaded her arm through his and rested her head in between his shoulder and neck. He never moved.
She lightly tapped the skin of his arm three times.

It was all she could do.

And she meant it.

Sidebar #3 - What she doesn't talk about much

You see, she was 27 or 26 years-old when she found out they don't like her all that much. And honestly, it's not really her fault. I mean, she could tone down the holier-than-thou education and word pronunciation, but that's not really a problem. It's her face. It's offensive.

I think it has something to do with that screwed up frown-smile, the one that is reminiscent of her mother and the way she holds a pen.

Besides, your family doesn't have to like you, right?
Love you, maybe, but not like you.

That's how I get through it whenever I can hear how she looks over the phone. You see, she only really discusses it with me.

I can see her over the phone, eyes squinched and the wrinkles lining up between her nose - especially that one over her right eye. Damn, that one's permanent now. I can hear the way her mouth is curling up on itself, puckered into a squooshed, lippy "oh" and shoved to the right. When she's not doing this, with her eyes rolled up in exasperation, I know she's smoking a cig.
I can hear the lighter on my end. She's fooling nobody.

I think what hurts me the most though, is that I know she's trying to be brave and tough about it. She's refusing to cry and I'm terrified that she's not feeling it the way other people would. Has it gotten that far?

I really don't know.
All I know is that I think she's amazing.
And she'll never get that - no one will tell her except me and the boy.
How far will that get her, I wonder? Does she know how important that is?

She's got a great wit and while she's ranting, she's really being funny which is my automatic tell-tale sign that she's on defense. The only other time it's apparent is when she doesn't talk at all...those are the scary moments, the times when her mind just folds in, over, once...twice...three times.

It's not her fault they don't like her. I wish I could make that okay.
That's all she's really wanted.
Is for people to notice without her having to be a complete asshole or a prodigy.

I think it's time she try being an asshole, because the super-human goals just aren't getting her there.

The Thing about Love Is...Part 2

The thing about Love

Is

That You

Just never Know.

When it will burn On

Change

Turn Grow Up

Or figure itself out
Into
Blossom.

It's not about

Flowers.

It's about

Endurance. Compassion.

Smelling good, yes.

But the Blossom part,

That's really something.