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Young Love
They lay together
Silent, Still
Not talking, just absorbing
Each other’s presence
And she knew.
She could smell his cologne
Woody and Strong
Manly
She liked it
And didn’t at the same time.
Liked it simply for its pleasantness
Disliked it for reminding her
He was growing up
Growing away from her.
His hand grazed her leg
With purpose, she knew
But when she turned
To look at him
He snatched it away
Apologetically.
She continued gazing at
His friendly, familiar face
The brown eyes with dark long lashes
She loved to touch gently
When he kissed her.
His hand returned to her thigh
As she began studying
His pink mouth
Lips always ready for a scowl
Pointed, almost, sharp
With everyone else
But not her
With her they laughed,
Teased, and smiled
They were soft and
She liked no sensation better
In the world
Than his lips pressed firmly
To her neck.
Now his hand casually drifted up
And came to rest
In that crook where leg meets hip
She didn’t dare move
And scare him off
She loved his hand on her
Anywhere on her.
When she didn’t push him away
He titled his head towards hers
Examined her face like
She had his
“Whaddya think? Will we
Make it forever?”
She laughed
A painful, heartbreaking laugh
And his mouth lit up
In that smile he reserved for her
“Don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
But she knew he wasn’t
Knew this was their goodbye
Their bittersweet ending.
They’d kiss and hug at graduation
Maybe even make love
To celebrate.
They’d write letters,
Send emails, and place long distance
Phone calls
For the first few months of school
And then they’d gently
Fade Out
Drift further apart.
This moment was the last real one
She’d hold on to him
As long as he’d let her
But she knew.
The Third Wheel
It drags along
Unneeded
Unnecessary
Behind its brothers
Wanting to give assistance
But unable to
It squeaks
And rattles
Yet is neglected
When its brothers
Receive repairs
It tries to
Pull some weight
But is never successful
“Come along,”
Its brothers cry,
“We don’t need your help
So just enjoy the ride.”
But it doesn’t
Enjoy the ride
It’s miserable
Feels left out
Unappreciated
Alone
A Blank Page
*
A blank page
Full of possibilities
Like my life
What will I do
With it?
Will it go to waste
Like my life?
Or will I
Create something beautiful
Something meaningful.
The pen hits
The white canvas
Smearing ink
Forming letters
Words
Sentences
Will it become
Anything worthwhile?
How often have
I done this
Very thing
Sat quietly
Contemplating
Whether I’m enough
If what I write
Is enough,
Good enough.
How often have you?
The words
Are repetitive
Filling the page
No longer blank;
A full page
Loses possibility
Is that why
I’m afraid?
Afraid to ruin it
With mediocre ramblings.
I don’t want
To lose
The possibilities.
What am I
But full of options
Full of ideas
Full of promise.
What is the page
When I can
No longer
Add ink?
What happens to
Its possibilities
If I rip it up,
Toss it in the trash,
Burn it?
Do I die with it?
What has happened
To my possibilities,
Where did they go?
I don’t remember
Ripping them up
Throwing them away
Burning them.
Yet, I can’t
Find them.
I’m afraid
They’re gone
And no amount
Of blank pages
Can bring them back.
My Father
My father is a quiet man. A strange man, I suppose. He finds pleasure in few things: beer, fishing, watching sports on tv. I often feel sorry for him because I don’t think he has any friends and I’m not sure if he’s very happy with his life. But I also love him, very much. The way only a daughter can love her father.
We’ve always had a different connection than he has with my other siblings. The joke is that I’m his favorite child, but I think over the years the joke has grown less and less funny as my siblings regard him less and less. Which also makes me sad.
Right before or right after I was born, my father was laid off from his job, so my mother became the sole breadwinner of our small family for a short time. She went to work while he took care of my older sister and I. Of the four of us, I was the only one who he primarily cared for during infancy. Our family thinks this is where our special bond comes from.
I have no memory of this time of our lives, obviously, but there’s a story Mom loves to tell. My older sister was between two and three, I was under one, and Dad was making cookies in our small Buffalo apartment. Just the thought of Dad making cookies is pretty funny- he’s really not the domestic type at all. But anyways. He was making cookies, but left the apartment for a few minutes to retrieve a load from the laundry room across the hall. When he returned, he found the door shut and locked. My sister had locked him out.
I don’t know if he panicked thinking of his young daughters all alone in the apartment with the oven on, but I’m inclined to say he didn’t. He probably kept his head- he isn’t one to panic normally. I don’t know who he called, or how (this was before cell phones) but eventually he got back into the apartment, where he found my sister and I shut in a closet, my sister playing school with me as if I were her very own baby doll. I imagine he was relieved we were there, safe, but that isn’t part of the story, so I can’t know for sure. It would ruin it to ask.
There aren’t a lot of memories of my dad from my childhood. He worked, Mom raised us. Mom did the girl scout troops, the PTA, the class trips and awards ceremonies. But I remember every Christmas morning- my siblings convincing me to wake Mommy and Daddy up so we could open presents because Daddy wouldn’t get mad at Me. And fishing- on Lake Erie in a boat with my dad, my cousin Erin, and my Uncle Jim; and on the banks of a lake at a park near our home in North Carolina. I raced my brother back to the parking lot one time, tripped and skinned my knees so badly I still have the scars. My dad put me in his newly remodeled Chevy pickup truck and drove to the nearest gas station, holding napkins against my knee. He cleaned the wound with cool water from a pump outside the station’s store, gently, like my mother would have if she had been there. And I remember hiding his cigarettes because I hated his smoking.
My friend, Myron, used to ask me if my father worked for the CIA, because he was never around, never involved like my mother.
I remember a t-shirt I had in kindergarten, “Daddy’s Girl,” it said. Black fabric with white block letters. I wore it to an outing, some sort of party at my teacher’s house where we played Duck, Duck, Goose. My mother was there. I don’t think Dad was.
I remember finding a similar shirt when I was older, middle or high school age. It was also black, but with purple, glittery, cursive lettering also reading “Daddy’s Girl.” I imagine he has no idea I ever possessed any such articles.
I don’t know if this is coming out right. I never doubted his importance in our family circle. I never resented him for not being “more involved.” He took care of us the way he knew how- by working and bringing home a paycheck.
My biggest memory- the best- the one I’ll cherish for the rest of my life, the one I’ll remember one day when he’s gone, is the day I graduated college. My parents, sisters, and grandmother drove to Wilmington, attended the awards ceremonies, and took me out to lunch before helping me pack up my college life and apartment so I could leave. That night, back in our house in Burlington, standing in his kitchen, talking about God-only-knows what- probably not even really talking, maybe me just looking in the fridge- he said, “I’m proud of you.” Then, he motioned me over and hugged me.
It’s the only hug I can remember receiving from him, even though there are pictures from when I was little. I imagine that, unless I get married some day, it will be the only hug I ever get. But it let me know how much he loves me, and being the only one somehow makes it mean so much more.
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