Still Can't Believe I Am Here

The Return

"We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?"-Ray Bradbury

I read the words again, wide eyed and slightly open mouthed. Something real. I had read Fahrenheit 451 at least a dozen times, but that sentence had never resonated with me as it did in that moment. It was the sentence that I had searched for, the sentence I had wanted to form with my own inadequate phrasing but had somehow been unable to. It was The Sentence. The sentence on which I would build my next year.
I closed the book and set my reading glasses on the night table, settling into the quiet. Once in a great while, there are those brief whispers of silence that hold tangible significance. Mostly, it seems to me, because true answers are discovered in stillness. The months leading up to this stillness had changed the path of my life in both drastically painful and stunningly beautiful ways. It was during this period that I found no solace in the only solace I had ever found: writing. I could not write for months, which left me to search for an ink-stained compass to guide me from the Land of Writer's Block.
In those months, I moved from my walk-in closet of an apartment to a spacious two bedroom. I painted my walls the color of earth, with bright blues and greens splashed onto an otherwise grave particle board. I fell in love with my kitchen, a cheery yellow, and at most moments wished I could whistle so as to express my joy in a positive and clique' manor.
With this joy, as it happens more often than not, came a sudden and tragic pain. My relationship had ended with a tackle- at- the- five- yard- line kind of hurt, the kind that leaves you with scars and a mild concussion. The color scheme of my apartment instantly seemed less impressive than it had, and all whistling ambition faded from the corners of my smile.
It was not until weeks later, while anxiously waiting to pass through American Airlines customs that I briefly entertained the idea of teaching myself the seemingly useless skill again. I was going to live in Wales. I had closed up my partially painted two bedroom, packed two suitcases, and had gotten on a plane. I had been given an opportunity to study and live in the UK for three months, and with little hesitation, I jumped at the chance.
My world had expanded, shattered, and was now a mosaic of expanding parts. Now, two weeks settled, I was reading in my Welsh bed, living on my Welsh street, and having, what I suppose are by proxy alone, my Welsh revelations. Something real.
I had always considered myself a person who was bothered by injustice in the world around me, but lately that injustice had mostly been what was conveniently unjust toward me. In fact, the realities I had chosen to surround myself with were mostly those of petty doubt. I pulled my knees to my chest, taking in for the first time that I was actually in a foreign country, with infinite possibilities before me. This was the year. Not the year to learn to paint, or the year to jog more. This was the year. I would see the calendar turn over while standing on a cold cobbled street somewhere in Europe, half the globe from my globe-impersonating apartment. This was the year to care about something real. This was the year to be truly bothered by something to point of action. I had inadvertently made my largest and most far-fetched dream a reality in a matter of weeks. This year, I could do anything. I could change anything. I could fearlessly and passionately fight for what I believe in most, and even if I lost the fight, I could bleed for something real.
I dug through my backpack, finally finding my weathered spiral journal. Pen met paper, pointing me north after a long and wandering hiatus. Everything would be different from that point on, and I would write all of it down with a faint, fading whistle.

Of Forts and Grown-ups

"Goodnight, Autumn", she sleepily smiled as she nestled into her over-sized comforter.

"Goodnight, Mandy", I returned, staring at the draped sheet six inches from my nose. My ribs still rang from the unavoidable bouts of giggling that had taken over throughout the night, leaving me both breathless and satisfied. I assumed that from any outer vantage point two mature, collegiate, twenty-somethings sleeping underneath a dirty, striped bed -sheet-and-text-book- fort looked at least a tad pathetic. For us, however, this fort was almost vital. We needed one night of juvenile bliss. We craved one night of extraordinary giggling in order to cope with the cold hard fact that these two mature, collegiate, twenty-somethings were two mature, collegiate, twenty-somethings.

We, so similar in our struggles yet so different in our approaches, were sleeping underneath our own painful attempt to recreate the innocence of a simple sleep-over. We didn't say what we knew to be true. We refused to admit that each moment passing could never be recaptured because one of us was soon to be on her own.

"I guess this is it", I muttered to myself. She had always been there, whether it was sitting on the edge of my bed at 3 am or curled next to me watching a particularly terrifying episode of Lost. There were few people in my life I had felt not only the ability, but the compulsion to open myself to. She was indeed one of those elite few.

I knew that she was an "elite" for many people. She held within herself a passive openness and active compassion that allowed the broken to feel hopeful enough to speak. The sense was overwhelming enough that I often pictured her holding orphans on one of those "of course this wasn't posed" missions poster.

I missed her. Laying on a dirty mattress an arms length away from her, I missed her. I sighed, realizing just how rough our separation might be. Part of me wanted to beg her to stay, to plead with her not to leave me behind. I wanted her unconventionally unconditional love to stay centralized on the hill. Mandy love on tap, if you will. Yet, I knew I had done nothing to deserve it from its beginning, and nothing could bring it to its end, even if hemispheres divided us.

The world needed what I had received, and in such larger doses. "Lord, wherever she ends up, please never change her. Even when you change everything about her, never change her.", I turned on my side as sunlight began to stream through the window above us. Maybe I would see her on one of those posters someday. And heck, I bet it wouldn't even be posed.

Might As Well Put Me On A Milk Carton...

I paused, looking over the faces of the Missing Children display that plastered the walls of the Clifton Central Post Office. I told myself I was purposefully memorizing the details of each their faces, but could hardly concentrate beyond the wall of haunting smiles. These children, wherever they were, or ceased to be, were captured on this aqua painted brick with smiles stretching across their faces as if their disposition were anything near that expression. They were mostly school photos apart from a few "artist renderings". My chest tightened as I dared picture the daily life of a child who had actually never been photographed. Not one father had ever stood awkwardly behind a camera shouting "Smile, Honey!". Not one mother had ever frantically attempted to catch a snap-shot of her baby yet again turning his bowl of spaghetti over on his head. Then again, I doubted any of these children would want the majority of their lives captured on film...
In this age of instantaneous information it seemed unlikely that so many children could be invisible for so many years, but somehow these particular smiling photos had slipped through the cracks. I often wondered how easily I might slip into the realm of forgotten identity. Would anyone actually notice if I simply...disappeared?
I paid the postage on my package and hurried from the lobby to the bus stop. Yet, my thoughts kept creeping back to the wall of forgotten faces, gathering dust next to the yoga advertisements and weight loss testimonials. There were times, especially when the path I had chosen seemed too difficult to master, that I ran the scenario through my mind. One duffel bag. One bus ticket. No one would ever know...
I looked down, watching as my hands rhythmically prepared dinner. It was as if even my body wouldn't notice if I were on the next bus to who-knows-where. Responsibilities gradually faded back into the forefront of my consciousness as I turned on the oven. I realized I hadn't yet checked my messages. I balanced the phone on my shoulder as I attempted to maneuver both the pan and spatula. "Hello this is Rick the maintenance guy..."
I held my breath, hoping the bathroom drain wasn't leaking through to the ceiling below me again. "I noticed your mailbox was getting a little full, and just wanted to make sure you are doing alright". Stunned, I played the message again. Apart from the fact that I had been too
unaware to check my mail, I was struck that anyone would notice. I often took for granted those people that I saw daily. The maintenance man in my building, the cashier at the pharmacy, the fruit stand man at the market...
If someone I hardly knew would take the time to check up on me, then how much larger would that concern be from my friends and family? No matter how deep I felt myself fall, I knew I would be missed. Pinches of guilt hit my gut as I poured the pan over the strainer. I had actually envied those school photos. I had wanted to get away so badly that I hadn't considered how it would effect anyone else.
I sat down to eat dinner, finally resting not only my legs but my mind. Even if no one else noticed, at least one person already did. I was drifting away, and it took the little pulls to reel me back in. As for the wall of aqua brick, at least one person noticed, and wherever they may be, she hoped those faces would actually smile today, if only for a brief and unprecedented second.

A Weekend At Home

As she pushed the couch against the wall, she tugged gently on my arm. "C'mon Autumn", she urged, "Let's dance". I rose from the couch with an elongated sigh, grinning from ear to ear, "Well, if I have to".

We joined hands, giggling uncontrollably over who would lead. I patiently walked her through the steps, humming along with Blue Skies as it echoed through the living room. The music looped as Frank Sinatra narrated our faulty and hesitant movements. Mom read the paper on the couch, occasionally glancing up at us to comment on our obviously professional skill. We perfected our twirls and counts, putting on a final performance for a zealously applauding audience of one.

I walked over to the couch, moving the paper from her lap. "You know you want to", I laughed. I had forgotten the almost thirteen inch difference between our heads, as I attempted to dip her back toward the floor. It was then that Mother let out that whole-hearted he-haw laughed that I hadn't heard since childhood.

I hadn't danced with my sister in almost a decade, ever since we became sisters instead of friends. It hadn't danced with my mother since the difference in our heights was reversed. The age and miles between us had created a gap that at times seemed vast enough to swallow the essence of our relationship. The music carried on until we all could no longer stand. When it faded to silence, stillness returned to the house.

I wondered if all houses occasionally broke out into fervent dancing. My eyes swelled as I scanned the room. Mom had returned to the paper, and Rachael to the television, as if we hadn't just emitted light onto the normally bleak backdrop of silent fields.

We had had a moment of pure joy. We had, if only fleetingly, been slumber party girlfriends. We were joined by more than blood, but a common bond of femininity. I couldn't believe that we were moving into an era in which we could all be sisters solely because we were women and not because lineage had predetermined it.

It may have only been a dance party of three, but I couldn't help but feel that under the cloud of Frank Sinatra in that dusty country living room more had moved than just three pairs of feet.

I Can't Help But Love You

There are times that I cling to you and know that you are more than a mere fleshed head rest.

The curves around your eyes and cheeks, the ones that pull together when you are worried and dance when you laugh, trace a map that I inevitably lose myself in.

The corners of your mouth, the ones that pull taught, are repetitive and unchanging. They reflex whether you fight back a smile or hold inward tears, and can't help but scribe words that speak a truth only I can read.

The mirrored glances that linger longer than you let on; I can see them clearly in the glassiness of your eyes.

The folds of your palms match those of my own, an origami of identical individuality.

Of course, physicality alone does not sum of the total of my affection for you. Oh, this affection.
I could never begin to carefully place words together in order to explain how I feel, for fear I would never be able to rest with an adequate compilation.

I could never begin to explain the way my face involuntarily brightens when I see you.

My fingers involuntarily drum on surfaces when they are lonely for you.

My heart involuntarily seizes and relaxes at the same time when I see that you are calling.

In short, I cannot resist you.
My face. My hair. My hands. My mouth. My heart. My soul cannot resist you.

We are as irresistible and inevitable as progress. We are as principal and paramount as air.

Adagio For Strings

And there I sat, cross legged and weeping on my kitchen floor with a partially clean pot in my left hand. All at once I was vulnerable and weak, so insignificant in the vastness of beauty itself. It was as if Beauty had somehow manipulated the air, forcing my lungs to rise and fall at the whim of a foreign substance. They constricted, knowing that this fleeting moment was not meant to be experienced within the bounds of earthly time.
My hands shook along with my seemingly broken spine, my mortality shattered in an instant. I had left the confines of my skin in that moment, recognizing the fragile state of all the swirled around me. The pot eventually fell from my hand as the music climaxed, the string symphony mourning aloud unabashedly. This was it. This was what it felt like to be completely, exhaustively free.
I dried my face with a dish rag as the music ceased, still with both amazement and fear.
May art always move me to unbidden weeping. May God continue to fascinate me with my own, pitiful, humanity.