Where I'm From

I am from the written word,

From Hemmingway and Dickinson.

I am from the window in the kitchen—

A reflection of family dinners and a painting of children on swing sets,

(It felt more like a mirror than a window).

I am from the grass blades,

The lilac bush

Whose fragrant purple blossoms fall

and re-grow in spring.

I’m from the tuck-ins before dreams and the need to feel loved.

From Dawson and Saner.

I’m from the early risers

and the late arrivals.

From call me when you get there and

You can always come home.

I’m from the old oak pews of the church

With deep trenches

worn with verses from long ago.

I’m from the glitz of the Motor City and the shores of the Cayman Islands,

Peanut butter and jelly [without the peanut butter] and a hot dog [with only the bun,]

From the day Dad got

on one knee to ask Mom to

the day Jeff did the same for me.

On my dresser there is a journal:

pages of sunrays between clouds,

of the breeze after the rain.

I am these words—

a collection of verse—

snapshots of what has been and what will be.

June to June

The bright lights of Vegas are the
Loneliest places on earth.
Crowded streets,
Sweat,
People brushing and shoving
Their washed-up nylon dreams into
The comfort of another.
A coin in a slot.
Risking and
Wishing for luck.
For change.
To become someone new in
The color of neon.

Give me instead the
Quiet smell of coffee
And your cologne on
That morning before the rain.
A warm place to call my own.

Ride of Passage

Learning to ride a bike.
A rite of passage.
Ready or not, here I come.
Metal bars between my legs,
The feel of the slick vinyl on the banana seat.
But Jimmy’s bike is different than mine.
Mine is glittering red, two wheels now instead of four.
Tinseled handle bars blowing in the breeze—reflecting nature speeding by and
A delicate, white wicker basket for my flowers.
Jimmy’s bike is bigger.
His has a longer, straight bar
Made of steel,
Thick, treaded wheels,
Deep blue paint.
Because he’s stronger and will
Grow up more than me.
Because I am a girl.
That’s why mine sparkles in the sun and I have a basket for my flowers.
He will ride fast, and I will try to keep up.
We both learn to ride bikes.
But mine is different because I am a girl and
Jimmy is a boy.

Baby Shower

I'm a big girl today.
Today, I took a shower all by myself--because Mommy asked me.
She asked me and thinks I can do it.
I turned the frosted silver knob--not too hot she would say.
Be careful.
I am.

I'm a big girl today.
I made sure I washed every inch--twice.
I use soap and my scrub brush.
I let the water rinse me clean.
My skin is red and tingly.
I feel older.
I am.

I'm a big girl today.
When I turn the water off the cold air
Hits my skin.
I find my towel and my pajamas
Mommy laid out for me. I
Start to dry off the way Daddy showed me.
But I can do it now. Because I am big.
I hear Mommy on the phone.
She's sad.
I am too.

I'm a big girl today.
I hang up my towel and sit on my bed.
This is where I prayed to God for
A little brother. I prayed
so hard. Every night.
I am

Going to be a big sister again.
But Mommy's crying.
She said she has to go to the doctors with Daddy and
Grandma is coming over and I have to be a big girl and
Go to bed.
I do.

I'm a big sister once. But not twice.
Not anymore.
Mommy's baby is gone.
I feel older.
I am.

Ode to a Gluten-Free Romance

To Stephen, who couldn’t eat bread:

You were my first idea of love. A five year old little man of mystery. Freckles, a gap toothed grin: your cologne was the syrup from your breakfast that morning or the summer dirt from the t-ball field. You were Superman, GI Joe, maybe even Ken. We catapulted off couch cushions, climbed the rocky steep of the jungle gym, and skied down its slopes.
We rode a bright, ornate merry-go-round during those years. Orange and metallic-- it became a living kaleidoscope when our fathers would push us. We saw the world spinning around us, a collage of purple, green, blue and sunlight. We held on tight and laughed.
Your family moved away. And you went too. I remember thinking you would kiss me good-bye. In my mind, I would run out the front door of my house in my yellow sundress and watch your car ride away to your new far-away home. But Stephen, you never came back, and I forgot about you. And that’s ok, because in my mind, when we were spinning on the merry-go-round I knew what I wanted.
But for me, that merry-go-round stopped for a long time. It rusted from its idleness— the orange paint peeling and flaking off unto the dry ground. I stood at my front door many times though, in my yellow sundress, and said goodbye to a few others who took me further and further away from that fast-paced ride of my past.
But maybe I will one day return to that merry-go-round. And maybe someone will hop on with me and we will see the world in a collage of colors. And we will laugh and get dizzy. Maybe he won’t eat bread either.

Sticky Situations

There was always hope on Saturday mornings and it came in the form of a fluffy pancake. Dad would wake up and grind the coffee beans--each pulse releasing a delicate yet bold aroma in the still air. Mom would soon follow in her soft, oversized pink robe. Her wet hair freshly combed out of her face and her skin dewy and slick from her Oil of Olay.
There was no tension on Saturday mornings. The TV boasted Bugs Bunny and company and the dog was subdued by the couch. You were on the floor, prone, in your footed pajamas playing with an imagination that can only exist in a child's mind. You were an Indian princess, a silver wolf, the president. You were seven and in love. In love in the way that there were no schedules, no possibility for hurt. This was how it always was.
The call to breakfast awakens you into another fantasy. Warm, Bisquick pancakes fresh off the griddle. The butter sizzles and melts, the syrup coats the delicate dough with a sugary perfection. Your little sister uses her fork. The family is proud. Orange juice--sweet, sour and then the pulp: your biggest concern. Bacon, fried and crisp--crunches and breaks apart. Forks scraping, feet kicking, cups clanging. This is life on Saturday mornings.
What you don't see isn't important then. The mail from Friday in a pile by the microwave. The bills, the coupons to save ten cents off of a pound of ground beef. A blinking red on the message machine. Call the doctor's office. It's important. But it's not. Not on Saturday mornings. When the world is still for a little while. You are in your pajamas and your fingers are sticky.

The Meeting: An Introduction

I went to see you today. It's been a long time, hasn't it? It was just like how it used to be--it was easy. It was sort of like the time that Grandma bought you that little battery-operated dog for your fifth birthday. You know, the one that would shake, then flip backwards three times, and bark? Remember how you laughed? It was a child's laugh--pure, deep, spiritual. I haven't heard that in awhile.
I went to see you today--and you were there. Waiting. It's like you were expecting me. Can I tell you something? Can I tell you that I almost cried when I saw you? I felt whole again. Like the time when Mom and Dad sat between us at church. You took each of their hands and studied them. You loved dad's rough, dark hands--how large his knuckles were compared to mom's. Her hands were flawless--smooth, soft, petite. Her nails a brilliant pink. Together, they felt like a warm blanket. That was your religion. Wasn't it?
Now that I met with you today, I feel like I need to apologize. But, first can I say that it wasn't until our meeting that I realized I lost you? I mean, I really had no idea how far away I had gone, and how long I had stayed, and that I missed you and all that you are. I was wrong. But I just didn't know at the time that I didn't know what I thought I did.
I left you because I thought I knew what it meant to grow up. I'm sorry for the quick decisions, the betrayals, the neglect. I'm sorry for wanting things to be different and for putting Him and Her and It before you.
Let's go back to the places I remember but at one time forgot. Maybe if we visit these places together, I won't ever lose you again.