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.

Scaredy Cat No More

One of my favorite questions to ask someone new has nothing to do with where that individual grew up and absolutely nothing resembling the flogged to death "favorite color and why" scenario. I love to ask someone I hardly know what they are most afraid of.
That question sums up a person's values for me. Vanity fears the passage of time, Wealth fears inconvenience, and so on.
I rarely answer this question fully or thoughtfully for myself, well....for fear of the answer. Oh, the irony.
I suppose my fear of failure is up there, along with my fears of loneliness, disappointment, and big hairy spiders. However, it seems that I am most horribly afraid of being afraid. I so painfully dread the thought that fear might keep me from happiness that I often find myself avoiding certain situations so as not to avoid them later. I pride myself on constantly evaluating my progress as an individual, but this complicated (somewhat ridiculous) realm of my personality has somehow slipped through the cracks of my sophisticated self-evaluation process.
I guess if I was to be perfectly, courageously honest with myself, then I would be forced to admit that fear, in a very real and irritating way, rules my life. This cannot continue.
I do not raise my hand in class for fear of giving the wrong answer. I don't buy those leather cowboy boots I have been coveting for a year because I am afraid they might look silly. I do not tell people what I actually, desperately want from life for fear they will roll their eyes at my pipe dreams.
Sadly, the answer to my quandary cannot be as simple as raising my hand in class in order to conveniently answer the question "What do you actually, desperately want from life" while wearing cowboy boots.
My attitude dictates my actions, and even though I may change my actions for a few days, the root of my fear will still lurk behind me like that closet monster I never got a good enough look at when I was five years old.

I do not have all the answers, (which is apparent to you at this point, I am sure) but I think I know what the first step is. I have a habit of keeping a tiny stone in my left pocket with the word "Sympathy" engraved on it, and make a point to rub it when I find myself impatient with others. I'm not sure if I think I am squeezing "sympathy juice" from this thing or what, but it serves as an excellent reminder. The next time I am impatient with my own actions, I will reach into my left pocket. I really need to cut myself some slack.
Who cares if I look stupid!? Uhh..I do. But not for long.

Besides, as that one guy said that one time, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself". And possibly big hairy spiders.

School Has Begun

There are nights that I sit on my porch, pretending the cell phone tower in the distance is the Eiffel Tower. The rooftops below me wrestle with a European fog, and not a Cincinnati soot. Mingled are ten thousand bright eyes that wink in hopes of recognition. They reflect in mine that there is a possibility of redemption, but I will have to look for it. And may not find it until the sun goes down.
The dripping rain is the bass, tumbling through the crooked door of a jazz club, becoming the fleeting heartbeat of the hour. Soloists mingle; sirens and screams, making appearances but gone before the curtain rises.
I sit and dream, brought down the earth only by a sudden bark or screech. Shivering, I go inside where reality strikes its fatal blow. Chapter Seven. By sunrise.
Not yet, Autumn. Chapter seven says not yet.