The year I was sixteen was tumultuous, to say the least.
Perhaps the worst part of that year was the summertime. I was getting ready to start my senior year in high school. I remember going out every Friday night to a cafe that is no longer open, going with my friends and sitting outside in the parking lot, in various circles talking about things I didn't know much about.
I remember She Who Must Be Kept crossing the brink into some place of madness. Her mother had just passed away. SWMBK kept it together for about two months. Then one day she sat in work and began to cry until they sent her home.
I don't know how she made it home from work. Anyway she came home and laid on the couch and didn't get up for days. She was sleeping, I think. But she'd cry and vomit in her sleep. For three days, I didn't sleep because I was watching her.
My Bubby said I needed to call an adult. I don't think he realized I didn't have any other adults. My only adult looked like she was dying. When she was finally able to sit up, I handed her the keys and said we were going to the hospital.
I sat in the room with her while they put the yellow wristband around her. I was there when she began crying when the emergency therapist came in and told me quietly I could leave. She knew that I was tired, new I was close to becoming neurotic myself.
I was sitting in the waiting room of my town's hospital. We had just gotten this new fancy ER in, I remember. In the midsummer heat, my thighs stuck to the chair. I tried to call my Bubby and another friend of mine, but there was no answer.
I sat alone, in the ER.
I sat alone.
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Bubbles Pop
Her best feature was her giggle.
I don't mean her laugh. When she laughed, it was beautiful for sure. I did love it when she laughed. I loved the way it rose from the bottom of her throat, the way her head fell back, the way her laugh seemed to echo inside of her mouth before emerging like the first sip of hot chocolate.
But it was nothing compared to her giggle.
When she giggled, it bubbled up from her chest, right where her heart is. Her cheeks turned pink, and the corners of her lips tugged up gently. The bubbles popped like champagne, and they tasted bittersweet on my tongue.
I loved to watch her clamp her hand to her mouth, trying to hold in her bubbles. She bent over, trying to keep them buried deep inside her chest. I always wanted to pull her hand away, to pull her standing up straight.
Let it out! I wanted to cry. Let it out, let me hear! Let me taste the way you giggle, It could make me drunk, intoxicated on her mirth. But of course, I never touched her. I let her hold it in the way she wanted to.
She couldn't keep them all in. She couldn't hide forever. The bubbles always popped.
I was reminded of those bubbles as I watched her blood dripping down her face where the glass was embedded. The blood fell onto the dashboard with a little *pop*.
I wasn't drunk this time.
I don't mean her laugh. When she laughed, it was beautiful for sure. I did love it when she laughed. I loved the way it rose from the bottom of her throat, the way her head fell back, the way her laugh seemed to echo inside of her mouth before emerging like the first sip of hot chocolate.
But it was nothing compared to her giggle.
When she giggled, it bubbled up from her chest, right where her heart is. Her cheeks turned pink, and the corners of her lips tugged up gently. The bubbles popped like champagne, and they tasted bittersweet on my tongue.
I loved to watch her clamp her hand to her mouth, trying to hold in her bubbles. She bent over, trying to keep them buried deep inside her chest. I always wanted to pull her hand away, to pull her standing up straight.
Let it out! I wanted to cry. Let it out, let me hear! Let me taste the way you giggle, It could make me drunk, intoxicated on her mirth. But of course, I never touched her. I let her hold it in the way she wanted to.
She couldn't keep them all in. She couldn't hide forever. The bubbles always popped.
I was reminded of those bubbles as I watched her blood dripping down her face where the glass was embedded. The blood fell onto the dashboard with a little *pop*.
I wasn't drunk this time.
Imagination Prompt: High School Memory
I found this thing with StumbleUpon. It's a writing prompt generator. You click and it brings up something to write about. Well, I suppose you could just ponder the question or use it as a discussion topic. I use it as a writing prompt. I might do these at least once a week!
Today's Prompt: What was a good High School memory?
My third year of high school (we didn't have grades but yes, at an ordinary high school it would have been my junior year) I took a literature class. It must have been American literature. I took world literature my first year of high school.
Halloween rolled around, as it always does. The teacher, Jean who also taught my advisory, writing, senior seminar prep and Spanish class decided that we would have a contest to write the scariest Halloween story.
I wrote about a group of children going to play hide and seek in an abandoned factory. One of the girls had brought along her baby sister. For some reason, the Devil was meandering about and decided to have some fun. So he gives the baby sister an apple to eat, and says since she has eaten of the underworld, she has to stay in the underworld. Yes, I took some inspiration from the tale of Persephone.
Anyway, I wrote this story about these kids hiding and Satan finding and killing all of them but one. It didn't matter though, because the police came and the winner of the game was arrested for murder. The little girl just kept eating her apple.
I won but a handful of votes. My prize? Lunch at BK paid for by Jean. She let me have anything I wanted, including a slice of pie. I remember keeping the cup from my meal that day and looking at it thinking; It's like I got paid for writing. It's like I'm a REAL writer!
For one whole afternoon, I felt glamorous and talented.
Today's Prompt: What was a good High School memory?
My third year of high school (we didn't have grades but yes, at an ordinary high school it would have been my junior year) I took a literature class. It must have been American literature. I took world literature my first year of high school.
Halloween rolled around, as it always does. The teacher, Jean who also taught my advisory, writing, senior seminar prep and Spanish class decided that we would have a contest to write the scariest Halloween story.
I wrote about a group of children going to play hide and seek in an abandoned factory. One of the girls had brought along her baby sister. For some reason, the Devil was meandering about and decided to have some fun. So he gives the baby sister an apple to eat, and says since she has eaten of the underworld, she has to stay in the underworld. Yes, I took some inspiration from the tale of Persephone.
Anyway, I wrote this story about these kids hiding and Satan finding and killing all of them but one. It didn't matter though, because the police came and the winner of the game was arrested for murder. The little girl just kept eating her apple.
I won but a handful of votes. My prize? Lunch at BK paid for by Jean. She let me have anything I wanted, including a slice of pie. I remember keeping the cup from my meal that day and looking at it thinking; It's like I got paid for writing. It's like I'm a REAL writer!
For one whole afternoon, I felt glamorous and talented.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Blood: A Love Story
It was my fault.
But I didn't mean to do it.
Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.
I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.
Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.
She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.
Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.
The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.
I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.
Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.
It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?
But I didn't mean to do it.
Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.
I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.
Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.
She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.
Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.
The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.
I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.
Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.
It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Mea Culpa
The words that I speak,
Hold less weight than the words I don't speak.
And these words are echoing inside of me,
Bouncing around,
The voices shouted into an empty museum.
I am a mausoleum of your failures.
I am a canvas, splashed with the blood from your soul.
I am battered and broken,
A beloved toy finally thrown away.
I am the the sum of your every regret.
But somehow you don't look away.
You keep coming back to me,
More and more and more.
You have sucked me dry.
Mea culpa, my love.
Mea culpa, my most regrettable love.
When you come back around,
When you're ready for me.
I'll be here, silent and thoughtful.
Will you be ready?
You never could stand my silence.
I wish you could hear the screams inside of me.
The voices all whisper your name.
Hold less weight than the words I don't speak.
And these words are echoing inside of me,
Bouncing around,
The voices shouted into an empty museum.
I am a mausoleum of your failures.
I am a canvas, splashed with the blood from your soul.
I am battered and broken,
A beloved toy finally thrown away.
I am the the sum of your every regret.
But somehow you don't look away.
You keep coming back to me,
More and more and more.
You have sucked me dry.
Mea culpa, my love.
Mea culpa, my most regrettable love.
When you come back around,
When you're ready for me.
I'll be here, silent and thoughtful.
Will you be ready?
You never could stand my silence.
I wish you could hear the screams inside of me.
The voices all whisper your name.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I'm Getting Closer To Letting Go... To Letting Go of You.
Once there was a little girl. She had long hair and wore a purple bathing suit. She followed her big brother around everywhere. Her big brother had a friend, and they never let the little girl play. They pulled on her long hair and made her get Kool-Aid and cookies.
But they never did play with her, even when they promised.
The years passed by, turning pages in a book, the faded chalk likes from hopscotch. The girl was not so little, and her hair was not so long. And no longer did she let anyone walk all over her.
Until she saw the boy, her big brother's friend. He looked across the art room table at her and was taken in by the color of her eyes and the swell of her hips, not to mention her quick tongue and the way love flowed from her, like blood from an open wound.
And they fell in love.
And he left her.
And the years passed by again, and again, like drying river beds, like broken headstones. He saw her in math class applying clear gloss to her lips. He followed her out of the room, watched her bend over to pull on the laces of her high black boots.
"I am so sorry for everything."
These words would be repeated more times that she cared to count over the next year. He took her to his home, laid her in his bed and made love to her, ripping her apart on the inside. She didn't complain, because sometimes love hurts.
He mentioned his own little girl, and the girl plied him with hair ties, advice, movies, anything and everything.
But his own daughter left.
And he left the girl.
But he came back, like a bad penny or a good luck charm. He was always at the back of her mind, like a pebble in her shoe.
So they crawled through time together. She coaxed him through dark depressions. Coaxed him through alcohol binges and screaming matches. She flinched as he raised his hand to her more than once.
But he left again, the allure of the white powder and the places it took him too strong. He left her again, and she vowed that this was the last time...
Too bad his own little girl died.
She won't come and comfort him now. Even his heart break can't convince her that she won't be pulled into his web again. And if she does, she won't come out alive.
But they never did play with her, even when they promised.
The years passed by, turning pages in a book, the faded chalk likes from hopscotch. The girl was not so little, and her hair was not so long. And no longer did she let anyone walk all over her.
Until she saw the boy, her big brother's friend. He looked across the art room table at her and was taken in by the color of her eyes and the swell of her hips, not to mention her quick tongue and the way love flowed from her, like blood from an open wound.
And they fell in love.
And he left her.
And the years passed by again, and again, like drying river beds, like broken headstones. He saw her in math class applying clear gloss to her lips. He followed her out of the room, watched her bend over to pull on the laces of her high black boots.
"I am so sorry for everything."
These words would be repeated more times that she cared to count over the next year. He took her to his home, laid her in his bed and made love to her, ripping her apart on the inside. She didn't complain, because sometimes love hurts.
He mentioned his own little girl, and the girl plied him with hair ties, advice, movies, anything and everything.
But his own daughter left.
And he left the girl.
But he came back, like a bad penny or a good luck charm. He was always at the back of her mind, like a pebble in her shoe.
So they crawled through time together. She coaxed him through dark depressions. Coaxed him through alcohol binges and screaming matches. She flinched as he raised his hand to her more than once.
But he left again, the allure of the white powder and the places it took him too strong. He left her again, and she vowed that this was the last time...
Too bad his own little girl died.
She won't come and comfort him now. Even his heart break can't convince her that she won't be pulled into his web again. And if she does, she won't come out alive.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Eating, Uniklubi, and NaNoWriMo
I finished NaNoWriMo--National Novel Writing Month. This makes five years I've participated in that madness, and four years that I've won. I know that "winning" here is a relative term. I don't win anything other than a picture to put up on my Facebook and the satisfaction that in less than thirty days, I wrote a fifty thousand word novel.
This year, it took me about eleven days. I have this nice little novel, one of four, just sitting on my flash drive. I've sent it, and the accompanying soundtrack, to some friends. One has read it so far and told me how much she loved it. Another friend asked for a hard copy, which I am happy to provide.
There are times when I feel like I've had little support with the whole "writing" thing from my friends. My best friend has all four of my novels and has never read one. Never. My other best friend hasn't even said if she started it, and I had another friend say he wanted to "finish his fan fics first." Well, hell, the novel only runs 73ish pages. It isn't going to take that long to read if you don't have to sound out the words!
And yet, these are the people who come running to me for help. It makes me not want to help them. Why should I bother? If they're not going to give me feedback (other than to say "You're such a gooooood writer!" OKAY!) why should I spend time trying to help them?
It's petty of me, I know that. I should help out of the kindness of my heart, not for the hope of reciprocity. Still, I get kind of irate. It'd be nice to have a little feedback and not just; I liked it. Okay, what specifically did you like? What didn't you like? What worked? What didn't?
I've been listening to Uniklubi a lot tonight. I dreamed of Finland last night. I'm dying to go there, but things are so iffy with work, I don't think I'll ever save up the money. I wish I could even just have a Finnish penpal.
Know what's been pissing me off lately? Eating. Food. I've been in that hungry-kinda-nothing's good stage lately. I also just got over a nasty flu wherein I vomited profusely. The last thing I had to eat before I ate was chocolate covered pretzels. I won't be enjoying that snack anytime soon.
I don't want Ramen, I don't want pizza, I don't want spaghetti. I think I want steak, but no one else does. Ugh.
This year, it took me about eleven days. I have this nice little novel, one of four, just sitting on my flash drive. I've sent it, and the accompanying soundtrack, to some friends. One has read it so far and told me how much she loved it. Another friend asked for a hard copy, which I am happy to provide.
There are times when I feel like I've had little support with the whole "writing" thing from my friends. My best friend has all four of my novels and has never read one. Never. My other best friend hasn't even said if she started it, and I had another friend say he wanted to "finish his fan fics first." Well, hell, the novel only runs 73ish pages. It isn't going to take that long to read if you don't have to sound out the words!
And yet, these are the people who come running to me for help. It makes me not want to help them. Why should I bother? If they're not going to give me feedback (other than to say "You're such a gooooood writer!" OKAY!) why should I spend time trying to help them?
It's petty of me, I know that. I should help out of the kindness of my heart, not for the hope of reciprocity. Still, I get kind of irate. It'd be nice to have a little feedback and not just; I liked it. Okay, what specifically did you like? What didn't you like? What worked? What didn't?
I've been listening to Uniklubi a lot tonight. I dreamed of Finland last night. I'm dying to go there, but things are so iffy with work, I don't think I'll ever save up the money. I wish I could even just have a Finnish penpal.
Know what's been pissing me off lately? Eating. Food. I've been in that hungry-kinda-nothing's good stage lately. I also just got over a nasty flu wherein I vomited profusely. The last thing I had to eat before I ate was chocolate covered pretzels. I won't be enjoying that snack anytime soon.
I don't want Ramen, I don't want pizza, I don't want spaghetti. I think I want steak, but no one else does. Ugh.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Taste of Cement
It would have been so easy to kill her. He had been watching her for the past two weeks, when it started getting dark so early. She was always riding the bus at the same time every day, a book bag at her a feet, a laptop case on the seat next to her. She was wearing the ubiquitous white earbuds, but the machine that fed them was small and cheap.
She never looked up, never spoke, instead keeping here eyes down at the crocheting project in her lap. When he first saw her, climbing on the bus in those ratty jeans and the tattered hoodie, he had known she was for him. He had known that he would slip off the bus after her, follow her down her street. He would reach for her elbow, rip the earbuds from her ears.
He would bend her backwards, a romantic dip that so many women found so enchanting on the dance floor. In this context, most began to scream. But she---she looked like a fighter. She would fight, but she wouldn't scream. He found himself looking forward to having her nails digging into his skin, ripping up the flesh and making his blood, sweet and thick down his cheek.
But when he saw her with that crocheting project only half done, he lost the nerve. Shouldn't she at least finish what she was making?
So the next day, he rode the bus, for the chance to see her again. And she was a few rows farther along. Again, she spoke not a word, was silent except for the breathless thank you to the driver as she hopped off and started on her trek home.
But tonight, she was tying it off, with an intricate knot. The small blanket lay lacy and expensive looking across her lap. She folded it up and shoved it in the book bag. He watched the strands of her hair falling out of the bun at the back of her skull. He watched her flick it impatiently back.
It would be so easy to kill her. What a shame to do away with those clever fingers. He could keep her of course. Could make her one of them. He would have those clever fingers with him forever.
She smelled like sunlight and strawberries. His heart wrenched. She wasn't suited for immortality, and yet she was not suited for death. She was not suited for him. She pressed the buzzer for her stop and rose, gathering her things, checking her pockets, changing the song in her head.
To be in her head, he thought. To hear those songs. To hear her voice.
The bus rolled to a stop, and she began her hurried walk to the door. She passed by him, her eyes flicking upwards.
She smiled.
She never looked up, never spoke, instead keeping here eyes down at the crocheting project in her lap. When he first saw her, climbing on the bus in those ratty jeans and the tattered hoodie, he had known she was for him. He had known that he would slip off the bus after her, follow her down her street. He would reach for her elbow, rip the earbuds from her ears.
He would bend her backwards, a romantic dip that so many women found so enchanting on the dance floor. In this context, most began to scream. But she---she looked like a fighter. She would fight, but she wouldn't scream. He found himself looking forward to having her nails digging into his skin, ripping up the flesh and making his blood, sweet and thick down his cheek.
But when he saw her with that crocheting project only half done, he lost the nerve. Shouldn't she at least finish what she was making?
So the next day, he rode the bus, for the chance to see her again. And she was a few rows farther along. Again, she spoke not a word, was silent except for the breathless thank you to the driver as she hopped off and started on her trek home.
But tonight, she was tying it off, with an intricate knot. The small blanket lay lacy and expensive looking across her lap. She folded it up and shoved it in the book bag. He watched the strands of her hair falling out of the bun at the back of her skull. He watched her flick it impatiently back.
It would be so easy to kill her. What a shame to do away with those clever fingers. He could keep her of course. Could make her one of them. He would have those clever fingers with him forever.
She smelled like sunlight and strawberries. His heart wrenched. She wasn't suited for immortality, and yet she was not suited for death. She was not suited for him. She pressed the buzzer for her stop and rose, gathering her things, checking her pockets, changing the song in her head.
To be in her head, he thought. To hear those songs. To hear her voice.
The bus rolled to a stop, and she began her hurried walk to the door. She passed by him, her eyes flicking upwards.
She smiled.
Friday, November 12, 2010
My Breasts
Last month was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I am slow, and so I have made this post Breast Cancer Awareness Post. Because it is my blog, and I am allowed to do that! Read 'em and weep.
Breasts. I have them. They're a size double D, the average is a C. I'm finally above average at something! I've been growing my breasts for twenty one years now.
When I was young, I barely knew they were there. Because, honestly, they weren't. I didn't get breasts until I was about eleven years old. And then over night, I shot up from a nothing at all to a B.
At first, I was overjoyed! I was finally becoming a woman! The only problem I had was--well, they didn't really stop growing. B--C--D--DD. I'm sure they'll only get bigger.
Sometimes, they're in my way. They make shirts fit funny. God forbid I wear a tank top on a hot day, they'll be all people see. They make it almost impossible to find a decent dress.
But today, I am claiming my breasts. I am owning them. They belong to me, and they do wonderful things for me.
I love my breasts because... they fill out some tops nice. Not t-shirts, or hoodies, but some of the women's blouses.
I love my breasts because... of the pleasure they have given me when I have been rolling and tumbling between the sheets with someone.
I love my breasts because... they make everyone who looks at me aware that I am a Girl. I am not just a girl, I am a Girl. It radiates off me.
I love my breasts because... when I give people hugs, their heads instantly nestle there. I've had several people tell me that it's comforting to put their head on my breasts. It isn't sexual, it's just--something that makes them feel secure. I like giving that to people.
I love my breasts because... sometimes they're a joke. Anything that makes people laugh is awesome!
I love my breasts because... one day, they will feed my children.
I love my breasts because... they remind me of the fact that all the women in my family have them. We are all Women Together, and having breasts is part of that.
It might seem weird that I've written this entry, being that it doesn't actually go with anything else that I've written here. But I wrote it because, well---I do love my breasts. For all that I whine and bitch, I love them and all they've done for me and will do for me.
Breast cancer has touched my family (like most women). And I write this for all the women that it has touched, either because they were ill, or a loved one was ill. Some of them don't have breasts anymore. This doesn't make them less of a woman. It just makes them stronger.
So I have my breasts. And instead of slouching forward, I will pull my shoulders back, so people can see.
I love my breasts.
Breasts. I have them. They're a size double D, the average is a C. I'm finally above average at something! I've been growing my breasts for twenty one years now.
When I was young, I barely knew they were there. Because, honestly, they weren't. I didn't get breasts until I was about eleven years old. And then over night, I shot up from a nothing at all to a B.
At first, I was overjoyed! I was finally becoming a woman! The only problem I had was--well, they didn't really stop growing. B--C--D--DD. I'm sure they'll only get bigger.
Sometimes, they're in my way. They make shirts fit funny. God forbid I wear a tank top on a hot day, they'll be all people see. They make it almost impossible to find a decent dress.
But today, I am claiming my breasts. I am owning them. They belong to me, and they do wonderful things for me.
I love my breasts because... they fill out some tops nice. Not t-shirts, or hoodies, but some of the women's blouses.
I love my breasts because... of the pleasure they have given me when I have been rolling and tumbling between the sheets with someone.
I love my breasts because... they make everyone who looks at me aware that I am a Girl. I am not just a girl, I am a Girl. It radiates off me.
I love my breasts because... when I give people hugs, their heads instantly nestle there. I've had several people tell me that it's comforting to put their head on my breasts. It isn't sexual, it's just--something that makes them feel secure. I like giving that to people.
I love my breasts because... sometimes they're a joke. Anything that makes people laugh is awesome!
I love my breasts because... one day, they will feed my children.
I love my breasts because... they remind me of the fact that all the women in my family have them. We are all Women Together, and having breasts is part of that.
It might seem weird that I've written this entry, being that it doesn't actually go with anything else that I've written here. But I wrote it because, well---I do love my breasts. For all that I whine and bitch, I love them and all they've done for me and will do for me.
Breast cancer has touched my family (like most women). And I write this for all the women that it has touched, either because they were ill, or a loved one was ill. Some of them don't have breasts anymore. This doesn't make them less of a woman. It just makes them stronger.
So I have my breasts. And instead of slouching forward, I will pull my shoulders back, so people can see.
I love my breasts.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Rewind, I Wanna Go It Again
I bought a diamond.
It was what she wanted. She told me that much. I knew that to be true. This was probably the easiest birthday present I've ever bought for her. She was always so difficult to buy for, both because she was impatient and because she was just so—weird. There was no one hobby that I knew I could buy something to contribute to. No cake pans for a baker, no knitting needles for a crafty woman, no stamps for the collector. And even if she did see something she liked, she would go and buy it for herself. She liked a million things and liked nothing all at the same time.
It sometimes felt like she was depriving me of the privilege of seeing her face light up when I bought something PERFECT. Perhaps I felt that way because so often she handed me a small box wrapped messily in newspaper and electrical tape that took me hours to peel off. And it was always something perfect.
Perfection was something she didn't strive for, and yet so easily attained, it made me sick. Yet, nothing really ever seemed perfect to her.
I bought a diamond.
This wasn't one of the glassy ones that they keep at the Wal-Mart in gold bands that are liable to turn your finger green. And yet neither was it one of the huge rocks they sold in blue boxes that said everything by their size and garishness. (Why of course you're in a stable relationship! Why else would he spend thousands of dollars convincing you that marrying him will be worth your time?)
She hated those things. She thought they cheapened they sanctity of gift giving and love and the meaning of a ring.
“Don't you understand? It's a circle, and a circle is eternal in a way nothing else is. There's no beginning and no end. Well, I take it back. Only love has an eternity like that. You don't really start loving someone, you only come to realize that you loved them the whole time. And you never really stop, you only don't let yourself say it out loud anymore, because loving them hurts you so bad it will make you burst on the inside. You lie, because if you don't live in a lie, you'll have to lay down and die. I mean, you get over it, eventually. Well, you don't really get over it. It's like cancer, it goes into remission, but you live with the knowledge that it's always there, inside of you, and it will eventually eat you from the inside out.”
Love was dangerous. She alone made me understand that. When I told her one day that I didn't understand why we bothered to love, she just looked at me the way a mother looks at her child when he asks why flowers die.
“It's the same reason that people snort cocaine. They fall in love because they need to. They are at a place where if they don't fall in love, they are going to fall apart, and falling apart means you'll never be put back together the same way.”
“But doesn't the same thing happen to every addict?”
“I suppose. The writing is different, but the stories all end the same way. I think when you fall in love, the tragic ending is just a little bit sweeter.”
So I bought a diamond.
I bought this diamond at the antique mall that she had spent so many hours haunting, wandering about in. She would touch all the dusty bits of old finery, flip the molded pages of diaries that were long lingering after their authors.
I knew she'd like this one better. It had—character. History. All things that she had wanted so badly in her life.
I carried the ring, ever so slightly tarnished, back to my house, clutched in my palm with my fist in my pocket. I carried it past the threshold I still found myself waiting for her to cross. I sat on the couch that her smell lingered in, sat next to the afghan she had stayed up all night finishing.
I stared up at my mantlepiece that she had found so charming and romantic. She was there, of course, both frozen in the pictures of her youth and the urn I had so carefully picked out for her. Black and faintly Gothic looking, a choice she would have made for herself, I thought.
I hadn't been able to bury her in consecrated ground. They never let suicides do that.
I cross the room and set the ring carefully on the lid. For the first time in three days, I smiled.
I had, after all, found the perfect present.
It was what she wanted. She told me that much. I knew that to be true. This was probably the easiest birthday present I've ever bought for her. She was always so difficult to buy for, both because she was impatient and because she was just so—weird. There was no one hobby that I knew I could buy something to contribute to. No cake pans for a baker, no knitting needles for a crafty woman, no stamps for the collector. And even if she did see something she liked, she would go and buy it for herself. She liked a million things and liked nothing all at the same time.
It sometimes felt like she was depriving me of the privilege of seeing her face light up when I bought something PERFECT. Perhaps I felt that way because so often she handed me a small box wrapped messily in newspaper and electrical tape that took me hours to peel off. And it was always something perfect.
Perfection was something she didn't strive for, and yet so easily attained, it made me sick. Yet, nothing really ever seemed perfect to her.
I bought a diamond.
This wasn't one of the glassy ones that they keep at the Wal-Mart in gold bands that are liable to turn your finger green. And yet neither was it one of the huge rocks they sold in blue boxes that said everything by their size and garishness. (Why of course you're in a stable relationship! Why else would he spend thousands of dollars convincing you that marrying him will be worth your time?)
She hated those things. She thought they cheapened they sanctity of gift giving and love and the meaning of a ring.
“Don't you understand? It's a circle, and a circle is eternal in a way nothing else is. There's no beginning and no end. Well, I take it back. Only love has an eternity like that. You don't really start loving someone, you only come to realize that you loved them the whole time. And you never really stop, you only don't let yourself say it out loud anymore, because loving them hurts you so bad it will make you burst on the inside. You lie, because if you don't live in a lie, you'll have to lay down and die. I mean, you get over it, eventually. Well, you don't really get over it. It's like cancer, it goes into remission, but you live with the knowledge that it's always there, inside of you, and it will eventually eat you from the inside out.”
Love was dangerous. She alone made me understand that. When I told her one day that I didn't understand why we bothered to love, she just looked at me the way a mother looks at her child when he asks why flowers die.
“It's the same reason that people snort cocaine. They fall in love because they need to. They are at a place where if they don't fall in love, they are going to fall apart, and falling apart means you'll never be put back together the same way.”
“But doesn't the same thing happen to every addict?”
“I suppose. The writing is different, but the stories all end the same way. I think when you fall in love, the tragic ending is just a little bit sweeter.”
So I bought a diamond.
I bought this diamond at the antique mall that she had spent so many hours haunting, wandering about in. She would touch all the dusty bits of old finery, flip the molded pages of diaries that were long lingering after their authors.
I knew she'd like this one better. It had—character. History. All things that she had wanted so badly in her life.
I carried the ring, ever so slightly tarnished, back to my house, clutched in my palm with my fist in my pocket. I carried it past the threshold I still found myself waiting for her to cross. I sat on the couch that her smell lingered in, sat next to the afghan she had stayed up all night finishing.
I stared up at my mantlepiece that she had found so charming and romantic. She was there, of course, both frozen in the pictures of her youth and the urn I had so carefully picked out for her. Black and faintly Gothic looking, a choice she would have made for herself, I thought.
I hadn't been able to bury her in consecrated ground. They never let suicides do that.
I cross the room and set the ring carefully on the lid. For the first time in three days, I smiled.
I had, after all, found the perfect present.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Memento Mori
NOTICE: ALL ORIGINAL FICTION IS PROPERTY OF TAIMA! DO NOT STEAL!
Now that you are gone, there is music echoing in my ears, such that I had never heard before. It was so strange, because now that you are not here, I understand that you were music. There was music in your laughter, there was rhythm in your every move. The way you spoke was harmony, and even when your voice was rising in that frightening crescendo, you were a symphony. Did you always hear music? Was there always a song playing in your head? Or am I foolish for thinking such a thing could be true about you?
Now that you are gone, there is music echoing in my ears, such that I had never heard before. It was so strange, because now that you are not here, I understand that you were music. There was music in your laughter, there was rhythm in your every move. The way you spoke was harmony, and even when your voice was rising in that frightening crescendo, you were a symphony. Did you always hear music? Was there always a song playing in your head? Or am I foolish for thinking such a thing could be true about you?
Now that you no longer walk with me, I have found how warm the things you made are. I have gone and wrapped myself in the cottons and wools that I had once sneered at. I lay on the bed where once you laid, and wrap myself in the covers that you found such comfort in. I am reliving the comfort, the warmth, the embrace that you must have felt in the things you made with your on fingers. The day you died I took down your favorite shawl and wrapped it over my own shoulders. How could I have been so blind to not see this before, how could I have been depriving myself of such a delight? How could I have deprived you of the sight of seeing me enjoying this?
Now that you no longer sit at my breakfast table, my taste buds have awoken. I have sat down and smelled the heat of tea with sugar, have tasted it flowing down my throat. I have to say that it tastes like you? For too long, I was searching for that. For too long, my teeth were aching for the familiar flavor of you. How is it that I never made this simple connection before? How is it that I never let myself drink this in before, never before tasted you all day like this?
Now that you don't sit up all night anymore, I have found the wonder of stars. I sit awake, again wrapped in your shawl, and I sit with the window open. I feel the cold air of the night, virgin and new, blowing over me. I number the stars, name them such as the Greeks never would have dared. Here is the Light of Your Eyes. Here is Your Smile. And here... Here is Your Face. I trace these shapes and never could I make anyone else believe they are there. Why did I never come and sit with you like this? Why did we never paint a masterpiece in the sky together?
Now that you are gone, I know what it is to be lonely. I took you for granted. I thought you'd always be waiting for me, curled up on the battered couch, with the moth eaten blanket draped over your body. I thought I'd always find the old tomes in your hands (I have discovered what it means to feel those pages beneath my fingers, to read the words that are so ancient and still so resonating with my soul! How could I never have noticed before?). I thought you'd always wake up next to me, your hair a mess around your face, your eyes blurry and never lighting until they landed on my face. I know now what it means to walk these streets, so full of people and still so empty. I know what it means to turn the key in the lock and smell nothing but my breakfast dishes, in this dark, dusty apartment.
Now that you are gone...
...I suddenly remember that I will die, too.
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