Thanksgiving

It's time I face the reality of the situation with more ease. I've been in a chaotic panic for months, haunted by illusions and distortions of my former self. The truth is I've been washed away on the canes of dandelion seeds, whisking in the wishes but not the passions of our inevitability.

Seven (Rough Draft)

The men in striped uniforms were clinging to the fence like rabid animals, rattling their metal cage. The sound echoed through my ear drums in contrast to the roaring applause. It was the bottom of the seventh inning and my eyes stood dry, lost in a trance on the pitcher’s mound. Although my retinas burned, they remained focused on that solid, rubber plate. The clapping of my father’s hands grabbed my consciousness, bringing me back to reality.

“Honey?  Hello? Anybody home?” I looked back at him with wide eyes, finally blinking, showing he had caught my attention. He always said I had the attention span of a three year old.

“I’m going to get something to drink, you want anything kiddo?”

“Pepsi is fine,” I mumbled with a half-crooked grin. 

He stumbled to his feet, heading for the middle aisle, still watching the last batter as he headed off on his adventure to the concession stand. He took his first step up the stairs at the same moment a young boy made an energetic leap towards the field.  His tiny hip, covered by a crimson jersey, pushed my dad to the side with significant force.  I watched in terror as he struggled to keep his balance. His knees caved in like the bending of a straw and he caught himself on the metal bar in the middle of the aisle. Forgetting to breathe, I choked on my words of concern. Sometimes I wonder why I ever put my dad in these risky situations. Sometimes I wonder if I failed to be the daughter he always wanted.

                                                                        ***

Looking back, I find it strange that I fail to remember when I blew out my first candles, threw my first baseball, stepped my first step, or even ate my first spaghetti dinner.  Of course, I still held onto those days where I used all ten fingers, the best utensils I had ever known. Of all the fond memories of my youth, I chose to remember the nightmarish ones. These are the ones where I always find storms surrounding me; no matter what intentions the weather had that particular day. On these gloomy mornings, I find that everyone’s eyes look so dead, even when those same eyes might have been radiating light seconds before they deceived you. These are the days where you find yourself reconsidering every second of that morning over in your head for years after.  Every question known to man proposes a battle within your mind and one cannot help but to ask ‘why?’

            I was seven. I held no concept of death, and no notion of hurt or worry. In fact, the only understanding of pain I had ever known was the sharp sting of a pestering bumblebee on my shoulder. In fall, I made leaf piles, and in the winter, I made angels of snow. In spring, I danced through meadows of dandelions and grass, and in the summer, I built houses with boxes, clothespins, and blankets. I was seven and I held no concept of death, no notion of sorrow, and no definition of depression.

My instinct tells me that it rained for at least a week before that day came. There was seven days of God bathing the earth with droplets of renewal and revitalization. I stood on my stool that morning to peer outside of the window. The sidewalk chalk rainbow had disappeared.  That precious image had diminished along with the princess I drew in all her nobility, and the sun with its rays that, too, had been saturated.  At the time I truly believed that the mist left behind by the rain would wash my images back up into the blue raspberry sky.

On the television to my left was a yellow-feathered bird counting and spelling the shows 30-minute time slot away. My little body could not stand another sit down after my legs had been yearning for freedom. Some adults have no idea how anxious we get as children.  We sit, waiting with such gleeful anticipation for the rain to stop, the puddles to form, and the sun to glaze the earth with warmth. This was better than Saturday morning television, a chocolate sundae, and maybe even candy.

My dad read the newspaper with such a fierce concentration that particular morning. Only he and I knew that he only read the comics, though. Whenever mom would ask what the news said that day, he would always reply with urgency, "Not now honey, this is breaking stuff,” only then peering over the corner to wink at me with a sly grin. He enjoyed a cup of coffee with his paper, always trying to hold in his laughs by taking a sip. He was a jokester, my dad. I hastily jumped on his lap and tossed his papers aside. Coincidentally, the paper landed with the comics facing upwards, to my mother’s surprise. I begged him to come outside with me and play catch.

Most people think that daughters prefer the company of their mothers in shopping malls. But it is much different for me; I desire the company of my father. I wanted to be the son my father never had, so we played catch habitually. Between each toss, something magical happened, and I was never really sure what this feeling was. For a seven-year-old girl, hearing your father whooping and hollering after your throw smacks his glove is one of the more fulfilling experiences in life. It’s better than ice cream cake, better than having your finger paint picture hung on the fridge; even better than Disneyworld.

We would always throw in the street. Ever since I turned five, playing in the driveway or yard did not offer a big enough area. I was a super hero in my own eyes. I ate my peas and carrots along with drinking my milk in three gulps. I was a bona fide athlete waiting for a scout to draft me by the age of six. I could throw higher than a tree, and farther than at least seven miles.

This particular day happened to be somewhat busy, traffic speaking. When I saw a car coming behind my dad, I'd shout out to him and we'd dash off towards the grass: my sanctuary. The cars would saunter by, their drivers and passengers always giving approving looks towards my dad and me. The elderly couples would always point at me and smile while moving steadily in their champagne coloured Buicks. But there were always those other cars (sometimes junky looking, sometimes normal everyday cars, sometimes even really expensive ones) that would flash by like lightening, not even glancing at the girl in the brewers cap playing a game of catch with her father.

Now, we had a routine that we followed. We would throw close to each other at first, sometimes talking in between throws about school, sports, and sometimes even boys. "Can’t live with em, can't live without em" my dad would always say with a chuckle. I never paid attention to the cliché about men saying this about women, and embraced our long conversations appreciatively. I told him about our gym class we had the other day where we had to learn how to square dance. That is the one where you swing your partner and dosey doe. Well, all the girls in my class thought that dancing with a boy was nasty, so most of the girls danced with the girls and most of the boys danced with the boys.

But not me, I told him. I proudly reiterated how I had worked up enough courage to ask a nice boy named Chris to dance with me. He and I were great friends, I added. We were actually boyfriend and girlfriend, but I was too shy and embarrassed to tell him. He was proud of me for asking him and said I was very mature for my age. I liked that. Dad always made me feel like I was on top the world.

After throwing a short distance, we would gradually start moving away from one another, inch by inch, like tug of war with an invisible rope. We would see how far we could separate from each other and still be able to get the ball there with one looping fly. He taught me how to use the laces to throw the ball straight, and how to jump-throw when you wanted to launch the ball so hard that it turned into a flaming rocket. He knew so much about baseball, my dad.

When we were far enough apart, maybe the length of a small city block, he would start throwing me pop ups. He would throw them so high that I always believed the ball would get jealous of the birds, sprout its own wings, and stay up there forever. But it always came down and I was always right there to catch it. "Two hands," he always said, "Gotta catch it with two hands." I never let a ball drop once.

I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to throw the ball as high as the moon and just as hard so that it would burn the tips of his fingers when he caught it. I am not sure if it was the lack of outdoors or the sheer excitement building with each throw, but I began to get extremely aggressive every time the ball left my mitt. He loved every second of it. His smile echoed through the street whenever my ball spanked his hand.

"One more throw," he called out, "one more and then we'll go in and make lunch for your mother."

I had one more chance to impress him with my abilities. I had one more chance to show him how much I had improved. I ran forward a couple of steps, lunging the ball into the air. It went sailing through the afternoon sky with a fierce roar. It looked like a tiny spec, an orbiting satellite in the sky. Although the ball was thrown with so much zeal, the accuracy remained in question. My dad immediately started running backwards, his eyes like that of disciplined snipers, never losing sight of the white and red spinning sphere. His legs took him away from me and towards the falling end of the dying comet.

But in my awe at my throw, I forgot to be cautious. I forgot to tell him about the car coming down the road. I forgot to tell him that this was one of those cars, which like untrained horses, gallop faster and faster when they should be slowing. I forgot to tell him that as the car became clearer, the woman was reaching for something on the passenger’s seat. She was not looking at all out her crystal windshield. I was seven and the cat had my tongue; I have always hated cats.

The ball hit his glove and the car hit his body.

His body was like a leaf caught in a gust, thrown into the air doing so many complicated aerials, unknown to the greatest of gymnasts. How many times had I seen this scene in Saturday morning cartoons? Batman was hit by so many cars passing by, but he would get up with a groan and walk forward again. I was so sure my dad would rise from the concrete mat. In fact, I don't remember being really concerned with it. It did not bother me that the car continued racing off into the distance. No, this was just a little bumble bee on my shoulder, or a cross stitch on my knee.

My mother looked so frightened as she ran outside, battering open the front door like an Amazon Queen, screaming her rallying cry. She plastered herself to his side and held his head in her hands with eyes numb to the world. She told me to go get help, to call 911. But I couldn't. Even with the strength of Hulk Hogan and the ambition of Rambo in my body, I would still have not been able to move a muscle. I was just a painted statue, devoid of any emotion.

The red paint of the car must have been fresh; it was everywhere, on his clothes, in his hair, on his skin, even absorbing into the road. It was everywhere.

I laid down my glove in the middle of the street, placed my cap on top of it, and went inside to catch the last few minutes of Saturday morning television. I hummed along to Mr. Rodger's ending song, and made myself a bologna sandwich.

                                                                  ***

Dad plopped down in his seat, passing my soda over to me as I stared blankly at the perfectly shaven grass painted on the field. Thinking I held the cool beverage firmly in my hand, my dad let it go.  The sweaty cup slipped through my palm, splashing the dark liquid on the denim of my jeans. I gaped blankly at my father as he reached for extra napkins to soak up the Pepsi that had spilled on his lap as well. I didn’t move. The sight of the dark stains turned to crimson. My mother’s cry was ringing in my head. I felt the warm rays of that Saturday afternoon sun beating down onto my complexion.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” he replied with a shrug.

 I was seven the last time I played catch; I was seven.

The Benevolent

The educators who become borderline insomniacs, though their students may be careless.
Environmentalists who pause in a rainstorm to watch a dozen petite snails make their way across the damp soil.
Those who caress giant coffee mugs and stare out into a vast abyss of oceanic sky.
Who defeat anxiety, stumbling nostalgically through a crowded shopping mall.
He who traces his beloved’s elongate stretch marks calmly, patiently waiting for her to give life. 
Those who turn their burdens to kites, watching them float until they are out of reach.
She who dresses in the rays of the morning sun, unashamed as her ample body stands free.
Those who listen, hanging on others words like a noose swinging in dismay.
Who hide secrets amid stars, and writes love notes on the shores of tranquility.
Those who dance in the streets, outlining the city lights with their shadowed glow.
The lonely man wandering down aisle nine in search of denture cream.
Who remain awake at the odd hours of dusk, admiring nature as the sun swallows dew pastures and dulls the transparent shadows of midnight street lamps.
Attempting to take a perfect photograph in an impossible light.
These people, unaware, are saving the world.

Hanging by Illusions

Somewhere deep beneath the ancient,
hidden ruins of my mind,
in an untapped jungle abyss.
I'm hanging on your words like a noose,
swaying back and forth in perpetual dismay,
air cut from my lungs like razors to flesh
and I'm breathless, lifeless.
Your words, like paralysis, conquer me
and I can't muster speech.
I can't muster movement.
So I hang.

His eyes glow with radiance unknown,
a searing clear; in that glassy reflection,
I can't see myself.
It's like staring into two gaping windows,
peering into a world so pure, so lustrous.
I want so badly to spring into this world
of infinite greens, crystal waters, beautiful scenes,
a never ending void to sit down beside
untouched rivers to cleanse my ravaged mind,
sprawling mountains, teeming with untraveled caverns,
perfect to hide my bleeding soul,
deep behind the timeless protection,
dislodged from reality.

I wanted more than anything to dive into his eyes,
lose myself and the pain for just one last time.

I'm a woman hanging.
Taunted by dreams and haunted by illusions,
living in a world of mirrors,
screaming at my reflections
of what can never be.
So with sad eyes, I carried on,
through this maze of ambiguity
and out into the world I wish I'd never known.

Following the Night

The air burns with the scent of black mist as creatures track through the tangled forest. Soon the autumn sky will linger passionately and the sun will set on its horizon. It bleeds crimson, tears rolling down the infinite canvas. Its colours melt erratically, some kind of solemn chaos as the light hides away behind the moon. The stars appear and scream through the dancing birches, as if they were jealous of the city sky scrapers for taking away their beauty. Rigid twigs snap underfoot and the scent of pine beckons life deeper into the woodland.

But the ceilings of stars remain jealous, piercing through the dark, velvet, sky like a glimpse of intangible hope. But tonight their intangibility almost seems obtainable, as the soft breeze caresses bare skin; a cool remedy for a somber soul. Encapsulated in the abode of nature, echoes of independent fowl reverberate through the pines, rustling their tired needles with a breath of hope. Ahead stands an obtrusively long stretch of mud and rocks. It is a path that extends its grasp towards the serene horizon, as if it has no intention of ending.

Brown leaves that smell of soggy sap fall delicately along the path, swaying through the whistle of the blustery weather. They frolic slowly, without any sense of direction or guidance; a reflection of confused and sauntering footsteps. Drops of dew fall eagerly from the heavens and slide down the trunk of an old maple tree. The damp bark frowns in melancholy. It is cold and helpless, like the weary foot of a slave. It stands behind feeling rejected, but the forest begs for continuance.

The path soon splits off, and the left passageway is chosen. The soil hardens from midnight’s cold breath and the pathway lamp flickers aggressively. In the distance there is a tall wall composed of loose rocks and soft clay. They feel of sandpaper, breaking off into sheets of chalk that reek of sulphur. A bird has built its nest in the cave of the wall, weaving shoe laces and straws into his permanent dwelling. However, the barrier is soon left behind when a skunk appears, threatening its lovely perfume of putrid eggs.

The trees soon gather together for warmth, and the path is left murky. The moon is now the only guidance that remains, and it glistens off the puddles lurking between the indentations of rocks. The path then comes to an end, and crunchy gravel replaces the touch of soft sludge as the cement sidewalk is reached. The houses ahead are lit like a flame in a lantern, a welcoming scent of pumpkin and ginger lingering from the window sills. Laughter comes from inside, but drowns away with the murmurs of the wind.

The pounding of a bouncing basketball and scuffed sneakers trails along this empty street. Two young men with sweat pouring from their brows pay no mind to the peaceful serenity of the night and interrupt it with their shouts of exasperation. I turn towards the empty football stadium up the hill from the rowdy boys and step into the bright, artificial lighting on the pasture. The aroma of cut grass is masked by the gym bag filled with sweaty equipment. However, across the field sits stacks of old benches, covered in vines that wrap so intricately around them. The trailing plant feels brittle and snaps easily. With that, the journey continues down the empty field and past the intersection with the blinking champagne coloured stop lights.

Gallivanting over a sewer, a gust of wind appears from beneath and smells of fresh dryer sheets. A neighbour smiles ruthlessly as her Labrador gallops towards me like a stallion. His fur feels of wet hair that has not been combed properly or conditioned. Fingers run through the knots of his locks and I continued forward. Soon the familiar scent of curry and coriander rushes through cold veins and makes them supple again. Hastening up the cement staircase, an entrance is found. It closes and locks out the threats of the frigid air and howling wind. This is home.

Thirteen Ways to Understand a Runaway

I
The train tracks spread infinitely,
And the runaway searches for meaning
On her path going no where.

II
I was trapped in a cell
Staring at the same four walls
That should be comforting.

III
My runaway glows in the moonlight.
Her strength is my muse.

IV
That man guides the runaway.
She’s lost.
The runaway follows that man.
She’s lost.

V
The runaway hears but never listens,
She speaks but never talks,
She contemplates without thinking,
Speechless, indifferent, digression.

VI
The little girl I once knew,
Hides with intent to return
But the runaway flies
Like a once-caged bird.
She cries,
But shows no remorse.
She is certain.

VII
O mothers of virtue,
Why must all brides be dressed in white?
Your runaways are unique.
Does the red of their robes
Not appeal to your eyes?

VIII
I know there are paths to success,
And paths to destruction
But the runaway knows
The journey to both
Are worth taking.

IX
When the runaway left,
She left a void.
One of many.

X
When the runaway returned,
Temporary as it may have been,
Some rejoiced in her absence,
While others sulked in the loneliness.

XI
The hours become days,
And time is displaced
Wandering in despondence
He fears for her,
Although the runaway
Is truly well.

XII
The streets are silent.
The runaway must be crying.

XIII
The hunger was nourishing,
The sadness was strengthening,
And the trials were lessons.
The runaway knew,
Freedom beckoned her.

Giving Thanks to Mediocrity

Thanks for the uncanny college tuition fees that make me want to off myself with a sledge hammer before I even reach teacher’s college.
Thanks for the bigotry towards Islam and bringing the world together as equals.
Thanks for Bill O’ Rielly and Glenn Beck.
Thanks for the billion dollars spent for a photo op at the G20 summit.
Thanks for all the homeless, starving people that we pass nonchalantly without care.
Thanks to the absurd media coverage that watch miners playing Play Station underground while innocent people in Pakistan live on their rooftops surrounded by deadly flood water.
For the merriness of poverty all around us!
For the old ladies with ample asses who wear Sunday hats and protest at soldier’s funerals.
Thanks for suicidal teens in such an accepting society.
Thanks for large trucks and hummers that require more gas than a wealthy ego.
Thanks for a nation of mediocrity.
Yes, thank you for making me feel welcomed as a middle class citizen.
Smile your fake smiles of solitude.
And most of all, thanks for the treachery amongst a sea of serenity.

Eye Spy.

Through every crowd of human beings
runs a river of deep blues,
sea foam greens,
and caramel browns.
The eye is outlined by bristles
of a paint brush, commonly used
for butterfly kisses that tickle the skin.
Inside these football shaped slits
lies a filmy, white bulb
complimented with crimson veins
creeping across a coat of lacquer.
The iris radiates hues of gold and auburn
while acting as a garland
around an infinite black abyss.
Salty pools of water sink
into the duct of the eye,
allowing streams of mascara
to trace a map down a damp cheek.
The blossoming red branches
become more vibrant and
the russet cornea seems to be floating
in a sea of whisked cream.
Blinking away the puddles,
they glisten like that of fireflies
dancing in the darkness.
The one window in which you see through
is of the utmost unnoticed.

Unrestrained Whiskers

His beard is the untamed forest,
a trimmed shrub on a Sunday morning,
a paintbrush plucked of its limp bristles,
chaotic lashes growing thick and spontaneous,
like moss composing on the chin of a boulder.
There’s remnant stubble on the barber’s floor,
smelling of whiskey and menthol cigarettes.
Stale cuisine remains crusted to the mane
until a fresh waterfall pays its due.
Permanent or temporary,
I find it always returns.

And yet, despite its prickly nature,
there is serenity.
It is a sanctuary where I can hide,
undisturbed and slumbering
amongst a jungle of braided grape vines.
I wash my face in the river
of his warm wool thatch,
and float peacefully
along the tress of tranquility.