The bowl of sugar sat there, staring up at him, as if to say “Welcome home, sucker.”
He wondered for a long time, if he hadn’t have just left it there and forgotten about it. I could’ve just picked it up and set it down elsewhere, he rationalized.
Glancing over his shoulder, he checked the contents that remained on top of the microwave. He made a mental list, analyzing each jar. Flour on the end, first from the right. Baking powder, not much, need to pick up more at the store, second to the end. Salt, only a pinch, throw it over your right shoulder should you spill, keep intake to a minimum, third from the end. But when he reached the fourth spot, the empty spot where the sugar usually remained, he stared for a long time. It was empty, nothing but space between the salt and the powered sugar.
But when had he moved it?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
But Ethan, when did you get here?
I had a dream about you last night. It was blurred, and moved quickly. You stood before me, my face buried in your chest, crying. I begged you to love me, I begged you to stay with me and not leave.
Then I was on a train and there were a dozen people around me, all laughing and screaming. But I sat there, tears streaming down my face, heart breaking, dialing your number frantically on my cell phone.
"I'm fishing today," you said, "before the wedding."
"But I love you," I answered. "Tell me you love me too."
But I didn't hear you reply. The train stopped and began to empty. I stood on the platform, trying unsuccessfully to get your voice back. A man stopped to ask me what was wrong, and I stood there, crying, wishing I had never walked away from you, though it was the only option at the time. He hugged me, revealing he was Ethan Hawke, and I told him I loved him in 'Explorers' and fought the urge to ask if him and Uma really were breaking up.
Suddenly I was in a corner, and Bryan Adams, my old high school buddy, stood before me. He hugged me, rubbing the top of my head like he used to, and kissed me. "Feel better?" he asked.
I sobbed, my chest feeling heavy and downtrodden. And the dream disappeared.
I've had dreams like this before, always this vivid. Dreams before, like standing at your house, looking through the windows at you and a party, seeing your smile, hearing your voice, hearing your laugh, unable to find the door to get in. And the other way - inside the house, surrounded by people, only able to catch a glimpse of you every once in a while and never able to actually get near you. Recurring dreams.
You're getting married today, 3200 miles away from me.
And it still makes me cry.
Then I was on a train and there were a dozen people around me, all laughing and screaming. But I sat there, tears streaming down my face, heart breaking, dialing your number frantically on my cell phone.
"I'm fishing today," you said, "before the wedding."
"But I love you," I answered. "Tell me you love me too."
But I didn't hear you reply. The train stopped and began to empty. I stood on the platform, trying unsuccessfully to get your voice back. A man stopped to ask me what was wrong, and I stood there, crying, wishing I had never walked away from you, though it was the only option at the time. He hugged me, revealing he was Ethan Hawke, and I told him I loved him in 'Explorers' and fought the urge to ask if him and Uma really were breaking up.
Suddenly I was in a corner, and Bryan Adams, my old high school buddy, stood before me. He hugged me, rubbing the top of my head like he used to, and kissed me. "Feel better?" he asked.
I sobbed, my chest feeling heavy and downtrodden. And the dream disappeared.
I've had dreams like this before, always this vivid. Dreams before, like standing at your house, looking through the windows at you and a party, seeing your smile, hearing your voice, hearing your laugh, unable to find the door to get in. And the other way - inside the house, surrounded by people, only able to catch a glimpse of you every once in a while and never able to actually get near you. Recurring dreams.
You're getting married today, 3200 miles away from me.
And it still makes me cry.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
When I was younger, I traveled a great deal. My mother remarried after she and my father divorced, and we relocated to Michigan with my new stepfather. Every summer, and alternating holidays, I would fly to the other side of the country – California – to visit my father, my stepmother, and my half sister. It was an adventure I looked forward to every season.
My mother would dress me up in a brand new summer dress, with black patented leather shoes and frilly white socks. Upon arrival at the departure gate, I would walk proudly to the head of the line, where the gate attendant would hand me a shiny new pin of plastic airline wings and a red and white-striped badge with my name printed on it, stating that I was a “traveling minor”. After hugging my mother goodbye, the attendant would walk me down the long corridor to the entrance of the plane, where she would announce that I was traveling alone, and lead me to my window seat.
My anticipation was great, and I couldn’t wait to get off the ground. As I peered out the window, over the plane’s enormous wing, baggage handlers would run to and fro, preparing the flight for takeoff. I’d watch intently to see if I could spot my luggage being tossed into the storage belly of the plane. As we slowly backed away from the gate, I secretly hoped that a discombobulated baggage handler had mistakenly left someone’s bag on the ground, and as the plane rolled over it, we’d get to see what private items someone had packed – shorts, sandals, unmentionables, an expensive camera now fragmented into unrecognizable pieces, the only memories of someone’s recent vacation. Distraught from the mistake, the baggage handler would throw himself under one of the plane’s tires, unable to face the wrath of a manager or angry flyer. Now that would be some good airport drama!
Once the plane took off, the flight attendants would bring me notepads and pens, decks of cards, unlimited pop and pretzels. They’d say to me, “Just let us know if you need anything!” and I, wearing my invisible tiara, would smile at the thought of so many people at my beckoned call. I was the princess of the plane!
On occasion, I’d be asked if I was interested in seeing the cockpit. “Of course,” I would answer with glee, bounding from my chair restraints. Skipping down the aisle to the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot would smile back at me, and the other “traveling minors” while explaining what this instrument and this instrument did. Ah, the mysteries of commercial flight.
My mother would dress me up in a brand new summer dress, with black patented leather shoes and frilly white socks. Upon arrival at the departure gate, I would walk proudly to the head of the line, where the gate attendant would hand me a shiny new pin of plastic airline wings and a red and white-striped badge with my name printed on it, stating that I was a “traveling minor”. After hugging my mother goodbye, the attendant would walk me down the long corridor to the entrance of the plane, where she would announce that I was traveling alone, and lead me to my window seat.
My anticipation was great, and I couldn’t wait to get off the ground. As I peered out the window, over the plane’s enormous wing, baggage handlers would run to and fro, preparing the flight for takeoff. I’d watch intently to see if I could spot my luggage being tossed into the storage belly of the plane. As we slowly backed away from the gate, I secretly hoped that a discombobulated baggage handler had mistakenly left someone’s bag on the ground, and as the plane rolled over it, we’d get to see what private items someone had packed – shorts, sandals, unmentionables, an expensive camera now fragmented into unrecognizable pieces, the only memories of someone’s recent vacation. Distraught from the mistake, the baggage handler would throw himself under one of the plane’s tires, unable to face the wrath of a manager or angry flyer. Now that would be some good airport drama!
Once the plane took off, the flight attendants would bring me notepads and pens, decks of cards, unlimited pop and pretzels. They’d say to me, “Just let us know if you need anything!” and I, wearing my invisible tiara, would smile at the thought of so many people at my beckoned call. I was the princess of the plane!
On occasion, I’d be asked if I was interested in seeing the cockpit. “Of course,” I would answer with glee, bounding from my chair restraints. Skipping down the aisle to the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot would smile back at me, and the other “traveling minors” while explaining what this instrument and this instrument did. Ah, the mysteries of commercial flight.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
I tend to file my nails everywhere. It’s a habit I’m very particular about. As I sit on my overstuffed suitcase filing away, in the middle of Houston International Airport, people look at me funny as they walk by. But you never know when you’re going to shred a nail, and after years of acrylics, my nails shred like crazy.
I find the airport to be the most fascinating place in the world, actually, and this is no different. Waiting for my computer to recharge between flights, I’ve propped myself against the wall of the Pilot’s Planning Room, along the edge of the blue-tiled hallway. Also known as George Bush International Airport, Houston’s main airport is everything you would imagine an airport named after a member of the Bush family would be – confusing, poorly designed, and bland. People rush by me, carrying a veritable plethora of overflowing paper bags, foot-long margarita glasses, dead flowers from a recent wedding. Travelers venturing to far-away locales, visits with family, military training camp. Traditional Amish in their bonnets and skirts, pilots in their stuffy uniforms, salesmen who look as though they’d rather be flying anywhere other than the destination stated on their ticket.
“Michigan, eh?” a pilot asks, staring down at my t-shirt as he leaves the room I’m resting against.
“What? Oh yes,” I answer back.
“Go plug in by the President’s Club,” he tells me, dragging his baggage behind him, “There’s free Internet.”
I find the airport to be the most fascinating place in the world, actually, and this is no different. Waiting for my computer to recharge between flights, I’ve propped myself against the wall of the Pilot’s Planning Room, along the edge of the blue-tiled hallway. Also known as George Bush International Airport, Houston’s main airport is everything you would imagine an airport named after a member of the Bush family would be – confusing, poorly designed, and bland. People rush by me, carrying a veritable plethora of overflowing paper bags, foot-long margarita glasses, dead flowers from a recent wedding. Travelers venturing to far-away locales, visits with family, military training camp. Traditional Amish in their bonnets and skirts, pilots in their stuffy uniforms, salesmen who look as though they’d rather be flying anywhere other than the destination stated on their ticket.
“Michigan, eh?” a pilot asks, staring down at my t-shirt as he leaves the room I’m resting against.
“What? Oh yes,” I answer back.
“Go plug in by the President’s Club,” he tells me, dragging his baggage behind him, “There’s free Internet.”
Why do I write?
I just do, you know?
Does that seem trite?
It’s not a conscious choice I’ve made, you see.
It is merely a part of me.
I write because sometimes, there is no one there to listen. When the day has ended, and the dog snores on the floor by my feet, sometimes there is no one there to talk with me. The television, with its incessant noise, blares in the background. It assumes that someone, anyone, is sitting there, listening to whatever’s being shown on the screen. And more than likely, there is. But late at night, when I’m alone on the couch, the darkness surrounding me outside, sometimes there is no one there to listen……to me.
I write because it is the only medium I feel I’m good at. I’ve taken all the classes – tennis, gymnastics, piano, and ballet. I studied vocal music all through school, only to be told by my choir director, who was disgusted by my lack of interest in pursuing a statewide vocal competition, that I would “never succeed in music.” I followed my love of ceramics throughout the years as well – art camp, classes, private lessons - only to be left with shelves upon shelves of pots of all sizes and shapes, overloaded with errors in technique. My pursuit of graphic design grew as I studied in the Southern Hemisphere, amongst students with years of practice. I foolhardily assumed that my love of colors, fonts, and layouts would carry me through my career, only to realize it took someone with a born talent to truly succeed behind the computer screen.
I just do, you know?
Does that seem trite?
It’s not a conscious choice I’ve made, you see.
It is merely a part of me.
I write because sometimes, there is no one there to listen. When the day has ended, and the dog snores on the floor by my feet, sometimes there is no one there to talk with me. The television, with its incessant noise, blares in the background. It assumes that someone, anyone, is sitting there, listening to whatever’s being shown on the screen. And more than likely, there is. But late at night, when I’m alone on the couch, the darkness surrounding me outside, sometimes there is no one there to listen……to me.
I write because it is the only medium I feel I’m good at. I’ve taken all the classes – tennis, gymnastics, piano, and ballet. I studied vocal music all through school, only to be told by my choir director, who was disgusted by my lack of interest in pursuing a statewide vocal competition, that I would “never succeed in music.” I followed my love of ceramics throughout the years as well – art camp, classes, private lessons - only to be left with shelves upon shelves of pots of all sizes and shapes, overloaded with errors in technique. My pursuit of graphic design grew as I studied in the Southern Hemisphere, amongst students with years of practice. I foolhardily assumed that my love of colors, fonts, and layouts would carry me through my career, only to realize it took someone with a born talent to truly succeed behind the computer screen.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The Star
A tall kid, at 5’8”, he was certainly pudgy, but attractive in my mind. I had always appreciated boys who were intellectually stimulating, and could make me laugh, regardless of their size or shape. He was no different.
We began dating only three months into our freshman year. I had him in one of my classes, though I can’t remember which. He played basketball, and I was the basketball captain (which really meant I was there because I liked boys), so we often talked excitedly about the upcoming season, in between the “I love you” and “What did you bring for lunch?”
Only weeks into our “relationship”, his older brother started to harass him about dating me. It wasn’t that he didn’t like me, see, it was that his older brother’s friend didn’t like my best friend. David assured me through our neatly folded notes that we would pass during, before, and after class, that his brother’s opinion, and more importantly his brother’s friend's opinions, were not important.
In the end, his brother’s friends won out overall, and he broke up with me only after a short month of dating. It was Christmas time, and we had already bought presents for each other. We shared a humiliating present exchange after the breakup, smiling politely as we opened each other’s gifts. “I’m so sorry,” he said before he left.
He arrived the first day of our sophomore year, toned and trimmed from a summer of running and frequent basketball practice, looking less like my beloved boyfriend and more like the basketball captain he had become. President of student council, captain of the basketball, baseball, and cross country teams, and Homecoming King. To me, he was just a boy who had left me for his brother.
Years later (fourteen, fifteen years?) he still shows his face in my dreams. I can see it clearly, just as he was before we graduated – tall, athletic, a clean, dark buzz cut, gorgeous brown eyes, full lips, and a beautiful smile.
Only this time, his brother is the one left in the dust.
We began dating only three months into our freshman year. I had him in one of my classes, though I can’t remember which. He played basketball, and I was the basketball captain (which really meant I was there because I liked boys), so we often talked excitedly about the upcoming season, in between the “I love you” and “What did you bring for lunch?”
Only weeks into our “relationship”, his older brother started to harass him about dating me. It wasn’t that he didn’t like me, see, it was that his older brother’s friend didn’t like my best friend. David assured me through our neatly folded notes that we would pass during, before, and after class, that his brother’s opinion, and more importantly his brother’s friend's opinions, were not important.
In the end, his brother’s friends won out overall, and he broke up with me only after a short month of dating. It was Christmas time, and we had already bought presents for each other. We shared a humiliating present exchange after the breakup, smiling politely as we opened each other’s gifts. “I’m so sorry,” he said before he left.
He arrived the first day of our sophomore year, toned and trimmed from a summer of running and frequent basketball practice, looking less like my beloved boyfriend and more like the basketball captain he had become. President of student council, captain of the basketball, baseball, and cross country teams, and Homecoming King. To me, he was just a boy who had left me for his brother.
Years later (fourteen, fifteen years?) he still shows his face in my dreams. I can see it clearly, just as he was before we graduated – tall, athletic, a clean, dark buzz cut, gorgeous brown eyes, full lips, and a beautiful smile.
Only this time, his brother is the one left in the dust.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Blessed
When I really think about it...
...I can still feel your frail hand as I held it in mine so many months ago. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, wishing you were still here to talk with me of the past, and the future.
I remember those days, those last days in the home, when you would smile from ear to ear when I entered the room. I remember listening to every word you said, every story you told, no matter how often I had heard it before. I remember hating myself for not being able to take care of you.
Do you remember? When I taped a piece of Velcro to your emergency button, so you could find it easier? When I helped you onto your workout machine—you determined to strengthen your legs, to fight it to the end? Do you remember when I placed the angel by your bed as I struggled to choke back my tears?
The last memory I have of you—a broken man in a wheel chair, tired from years of military work, howling like an old mutt after the family finished their singing, plowing through my birthday cake with a grin. I fear I will cling to that memory for years, wishing I had said more to you then. I certainly would've had I known it would be our last memory together.
...I can still feel your frail hand as I held it in mine so many months ago. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, wishing you were still here to talk with me of the past, and the future.
I remember those days, those last days in the home, when you would smile from ear to ear when I entered the room. I remember listening to every word you said, every story you told, no matter how often I had heard it before. I remember hating myself for not being able to take care of you.
Do you remember? When I taped a piece of Velcro to your emergency button, so you could find it easier? When I helped you onto your workout machine—you determined to strengthen your legs, to fight it to the end? Do you remember when I placed the angel by your bed as I struggled to choke back my tears?
The last memory I have of you—a broken man in a wheel chair, tired from years of military work, howling like an old mutt after the family finished their singing, plowing through my birthday cake with a grin. I fear I will cling to that memory for years, wishing I had said more to you then. I certainly would've had I known it would be our last memory together.
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