That Moment With You January 26, 2012

Mother has cried a lot these past few days.

Hides in her room and tries to fold herself away.

We act like we don’t know about her tears in the night

But underneath the door that we can see the bathroom light.

Brother is sick again but he sits with me too

As we wait for Papa in our kitchen painted blue

Brother had been very ill before I was born, he told me himself

He seems fine now as he reaches for the cookies on the top shelf

“Papa, Papa” I call as the door opens wide

Brother sets down the cookies and comes to my side

For a second Papa grins and we smile too

But soon his mood reflects the color of the kitchen, blue.

It’s been five months and Brother is still not well

He’ll be in the hospital a long time, as far as my relatives can tell.

I’m with them a lot now, cousins, uncles, and aunts.

They are very loud though they think I can’t hear the taunts.

Some days I don’t see Papa, not at breakfast, not even to say good night

But it’s alright, I’m six now, the monsters under my bed don’t give me so much fright.

Brother comes home some days and we laugh like old times

But tonight I’m eating cookies alone while Mother works part time.

Mother these days flies between the hospital, home, and work

Third grade hasn’t taught me that debts and bills could drive you berserk

It’s funny how one person can supposedly be sent back to health

When many others work themselves to death.

I want to tell Mother how well I did on my science test

But she vapidly sorts out her pills and goes upstairs to rest

Eleven now, I can reach the shelf, I start to put the bottles away, one I see is for anti-depression.

Interesting how now she doesn’t give her secret so much repression

Papa gets up from his chair to go to bed too

But wait, I call, tell me again why our kitchen is painted blue.

He sits down again and tells me the ocean was this color when they used to live be the sea

The three of them lived there before I was born but someday, he promises, he’ll bring me to see

Unlike Mother, Brother’s tears never fall, but I know he’s crying

Are you scared, I once asked, at the prospect of dying?

Not so much, he told me, I’ve been here so long I’m tired of grieving

But still somehow I’m frightened of the prospect of leaving.

I’m scared, I exclaimed all of a sudden, of seeing you go

Everyday I visit you here I don’t want to leave with more woe

You remember me, and that I’m here, right? I desperately asked

He gave a weak nod before the nurse ushered me out at last

In June one day I was at my desk, the house was silent except for me

Papa’s car was suddenly in the driveway and I ran downstairs before he got out his key

Come, he told me, I’ll show you how it used to be

We’re going to the beach, we’re going to see the sea.

The water was as blue as in my imagination and the sparkles were bright

The day was so wonderful, but out of the blue I noticed Papa’s hair was turning white

It feels wrong, doesn’t it, I said to him, tears making sight blurry

To be here without Brother and Mother and when there is so much worry

It’s fine, Papa said,  before we forgot I wanted to show you

What it used to be like and why the kitchen is blue

Papa, I asked on the phone the day next, Can you come to the father-daughter brunch?

I’m sorry, I’m busy I’ll miss it only this once, the answer was, You know how work is, such a time crunch.

It’s alright, I can wait another day, month, a year or two.

I’m happy, Papa, that at least I had that moment with you.

A Penny for Your Thoughts December 5, 2011

“What do you believe in? And not just God or atheism.” (from http://heckyeahtumblrchallenges.tumblr.com/post/6086751675/deep-thoughts-30-day-challenge)

——————————————————

“Don’t pick up that dirty penny,” my mother had once admonished me.

My mom wasn’t here now, but I could feel my friend thinking the same thing as I tried to scrape the little copper coin off the sidewalk.

“Look, a lucky penny,” I said cheerfully.

“Good for you,” she said tersely, “But don’t you think that’s a little unsanitary? And besides it’s not like you need that one cent.”

I looked at the grimy coin. “Did you know, pennies haven’t been fully made of copper since 1982?”, I replied. I’m not quite sure she was amused. After all she may have already known that.

I sighed, “Calm down, hand sanitizer has been invented. Anyways I randomly found it, so it’s a lucky penny. Wouldn’t you want a little luck?”

“I don’t really believe in superstitions. No offense,” she added quickly.

I gave another sigh, this time mentally. “Hm, well I guess I don’t really need the penny,” I said, unsure why I was letting her control my own actions. But I suppose I was being unselfish. I dropped the penny back onto the sidewalk, watching to make sure it didn’t roll into a storm drain.

“How nice,” my friend observed, “Now the hobos can get some money.”

“Oh, I wasn’t really doing it for the hobos or the homeless… Well not them specifically.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said. I was suddenly tired of explaining.

“No, tell me,” she inquired. Weighing between my options of being nagged or explaining, I decided it would be less exhausting to just tell her. Unsure thoughts flitted by my mind as well; I wasn’t sure why she cared.

Actually, maybe I did(n’t) know. Third sigh.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed a penny doesn’t really buy anyone anything nowadays. I left a lucky penny for someone else to find. I’m not sure if me purposely doing it taints the luck, but I hope not.”

“Aw how nice,” she replied. “But what makes it so lucky?”

I paused, uncertain of it myself. “I don’t know. That’s just the way this superstition is.”

“If there’s no good reason, then why believe it? You’ll get duped if you believed everything like that.”

“Um I hope I’m not stupid enough to get swindled. But if people can’t put even a little bit of faith into the little things, I’m not sure how much faith they really have in the bigger things.”

She was trying to rationalize her side, “Well they don’t because then they put all of their faith into the important things. They don’t waste it on little things, I guess.” It’s nice how we can argue like this without our friendship really chafing, I thought. At least I think it’s not. “Superstitions don’t even come true all the time,” she pointed out.

“That’s true,” I agreed. “But it’s nice to hope.”

Their Umbrellas November 22, 2011

The sky was blue, the kind of blue color pencil colors are named after.

It didn’t seem like there was any other way the sky could be, not when blue skies were warm and sunny and bright.

But the sky did seem to sing with the birds and laugh with the people strolling by. A girl lay on the grass and occasionally took a picture or two to remember the pretty day.

A few white puffs of fluff floated past, marring the clear blue but it was no big deal. The clouds were small and they would eventually blow past. And they didn’t really make the sky dark, or stop most of the light from shining.

But, little clouds led to not so little clouds and some time later the sky was a rather somber and contemplative gray. The sky looked kind of lumpy. By then the birds were singing quietly. And most people thought it was too cold to be outdoors.

It was not their fault, but birds’ and people’s disappearance made the sky feel rather lonely. Having vacillated between a somber gray and contemplative grey for a while, the clouds finally reflected a despondent gray.

The people, the few outside, hurried to get to their shelters, shelters that gave them what the warmth and cheerfulness the sky now could not. They glanced at the sky in their rush and agreed on each others’ predictions. Il pleuvra. It will rain. Umbrellas went up, and windows and doors shut. The people were protecting themselves from the storm.

And the rain did fall. A light drizzle preceded the heavy rain. During this sprinkling of raindrops, there was the girl walking outside, an umbrella of her own in her hands. She looked up too.

“I don’t like the rain anymore than you do, sky,” she thought, “But sometimes there has to be rain for the gray to go away.”

She continued walking to her destination, her pace slow compared to everyone else on the sidewalk.

After the downpour the place was still wet and the gray was still there. The rain showered inconsistently. There was no more classification of the gray; it was just simply gray. The sky felt forlorn, still. It seemed no one cared about it, beyond the observation that started small talk.

Sometimes the gray loomed in an ominous silver-white fog. The girl was walking outside again during one of those times.

“It is rather pretty,” she thought, “But it’s quite easy to get lost. I can only see things a few feet in front of me, or when I almost crash into them.” A moment of pause before the next thought. “I wonder when it will be sunny again.”

The trees, for all they waited in the rain (because they got water!), were eager to see the sunlight again too.

The sky seemed to wonder with them. Perhaps, people and birds didn’t need the sky to be happy, and did the sky really need them to be sunny? Anyhow those creatures weren’t the sky and the sky had decided it was done raining.

The next day, it fought back against the heavy, impending clouds, and a few slits of sunlight streamed onto earth. The dewy world reflected the little light and glowed.

But the clouds were heavy and impending.

The girl was in a field one late afternoon, as the sky was waiting for evening to settle. Today, she could see the horizon. It was glowing reddish-orange and pale yellow underneath the thick layers of cloud. She turned away, to settle a task that demanded her attention. When her gaze wandered back to the clouds, she noticed a tear in the sky.

It was a very clean rip through the clouds, a straight edge slit of fiery orange in the darker gray. The wound was bright and looking oh so very real.

All wounds must close in on itself, and heal, (unless the person suffering from the wounds dies, then they just bleed until they run out of blood, I suppose, but that is not my point) and with an air of resignation, the clouds fell in. And the tear’s vivid red-orange slowly faded to a muted vintage-y yellow till there was no light at all.

The sky was dark, the kind of dark that has the pretty purplish-blue tint.

The girl didn’t have a thought about it, not really. It, the tear, was very brilliant, and she knew she probably wouldn’t forget it soon. But it was over and she noticed that the sky had started to clear up a little, for all that the sunlight was leaving.

At home, the weather reports happily announced sunshine should come soon. Maybe not immediately, but it would come.

Quand donc pour moi brillera le soleil? Jamais. Il va brille quand il va brille. When will the sun shine for me? Never. It will shine when it will shine.

The girl closed her clear umbrella.

After The Raven October 30, 2011

I thought that once I ceased to be
From the wretched Raven I would be free
But there he was, still croaking “Nevermore!”
Not on a bust but on the shoulder of girl I could not ignore.

And once again, quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Stop it!” I cried, “Be quiet, you. You cannot give me my angel so stop, I implore.”
Suddenly she spoke, “Oh but you see, it is you who is nevermore.”
“Standing before you is your Lenore.”

“Oh I am blessed, that I may finally clasp my fair Lenore.”
“But,” I turned, “The dishonest raven I still abhor.”
She laughed, an empty sound in a dismal place. “You are just another unexceptional memory to me.”
“Only this, and nothing more.”

(based on “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe.)

Come October 16, 2011

There was a knock on the door late at night.

Marie got out of her seat in her room, put on her new jacket, and walked downstairs. But when she opened her door, there was no one.

But there was something.

The shadow of a person, or a human-like creature, stretched past the door into the house. Its silhouette matched the position of her own shadow, seeming to be attached to somebody but when she hesitantly swatted the air where she assumed the monster to be: Fwish. Air. Empty air.

The shadow waved its hand. Hello. Marie was stunned and felt a shiver ready to run down her spine. The shadow paused, as if to wait for her reply and when it received none, it raised its hand again. It flicked its fingers toward itself. Come. And the shadow reflected a person beginning to walk.

She was perplexed.

It knew where everything was in her house. It didn’t hesitate at all as it moved down her hallways and up her stairs. Not knowing what else to do, she followed. It stopped at her coat closet. The shadow mirrored the movement of someone opening the door, though the shadow was stretched so that its hand wasn’t even touching the carpet near the closet door. Thinking it was a signal for Marie to open the door, she reached out, but before she touched the knob, the knob turned and the door swung open.

The shadow moved in and disappeared among the shadows of the unlit closet. She was afraid to follow. The hand extended out and signaled once more. Come. Marie stepped back. “No,” she whispered finally feeling the shivers.

COME. There was no hand now. Instead a wretched claw with long pointed fingers beckoned.

And with a sudden strange force gripping her, Marie walked into the closet.

The door slammed shut.

The single light bulb flickered on to cast a harsh glow on the tiny space.

She blinked a few times to refocus her eyes before she could see what was right in front of her.

She screamed.

Her family was startled and awakened. They searched the entire house and flipped over every last pillow to find where her shriek had come from. Her brother finally reached the closet. He was terrified by what he saw.

Or rather, what he didn’t see.

There was nothing in the closet. No coats. No Marie. Only a single newly bought green jacket with a terrible scratch ripping it from top to bottom.

No one ever saw her again.

Scared October 16, 2011

The stark white luminescent moon was alone in the dark opaque sky. The clouds dominated that night, masking the stars as they marched on. Only the moonlight could break through, casting an eerie white and rust colored glow on the clouds and a silvery light on the people out that night for some candy and a scare.

It was a lovely night for Halloween.

——

“You can’t scare me,” Leesa boasted, swinging her basket of candy as she continued her trick-or-treating journey.

Her friend Alex scoffed. “Yeah right. You’ve never met a vampire.”

“A little garlic bread goes a long way,” Leesa replied, “And besides what’s to fear? You have to agree that mainstream media doesn’t make anyone afraid of those suckers anymore.”

“Ok fine,” Alex retorted. “Mainstream media won’t protect you from a zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh contraire. You’ll never find more ways to protect yourself than from the Internet! Did you know Twinkies are extremely good provisions for a zombie apocalypse? And zombies are always falling apart. I’ll just give them a wham if they attack me before I get to safety.”

“Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Wasn’t he just misunderstood?”

“Werewolves?”

“Ok fine it’s a full moon tonight but psh. Taylor Lautner was hot.”

“Taylor Lautner is a disgrace for all representations of werewolves. What about ghosts?”

“They don’t exist.”

“I give up!” Alex cried, exasperated. “But on a Halloween night like this, you will be scared, no doubt about it.”

They continued trick-or-treating the rest of the evening in peace, not a terrifying creature in sight.

When Leesa arrived home, her parents were still at some party of her dad’s coworker. She was all alone in her house. She showered and changed and leapt into bed. She was about to go to sleep when she knocked her alarm clock off her bedside table and it slid under her bed.

She reached down to grab it when Alex’s warning came true.

She saw it crawling towards her, half shrouded in the shadows under her bed.

She shrieked and tried to get back up but lost her balance and fell off instead.

She came face to face with the terrifying creature.

It crawled out further and further from underneath her bed.

It was scarier than a vampire. A zombie. Frankenstein’s monster. A werewolf. Or a ghost.

It was.

A.

Large

Brown.

SPIDER!

Flowers September 19, 2011

“Oh, I see how it is. You can pick flowers for yourself but I can’t give you any?”

I turned my attention away from the little white flower that I had plucked off the field in between my fingers  to the person next to me. The setting sun was illuminating the field with a lovely golden light, but it was rather hard to look up and see his face. I was relieved to know for certain he was teasing when he sat down; while his words seemed withering, his smile said otherwise.

“Well, it’s not that. It’s just that… You didn’t need to…” I trailed off, my contemplative thoughts scrambling to make a coherent conversation answer.

“I know you don’t like the cheesy romance stuff, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” he asked.

“And saying that just made it even cheesier, ” I replied tersely, turning back to stare at the creek path in front of me instead of at him.

It was uncomfortably silent for a moment. I glanced to my side and noticed he was staring at my fingers twirling the flower.

“Why are some of the petals missing?” he finally said.

“I was pulling them off… You know, the ‘he loves me’, ‘he loves me not’ thing,” I answered, the volume of my voice faltering near the end of my statement. My face heated up, much more than the end of summer sun required.

He was certainly bemused; I heard his soft laughter before he responded: “Well. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? Well no big deal, you know. I’ve only been best friends with a hypocrite.”

My peripheral vision tried to become limited to not notice his face, though I giggled as well. It was only him. He was my best friend. I shouldn’t care about being embarrassed.

But I was still slightly anxious.

“Which one are you on then? He loves you not?” he asked.

“Mm. I don’t remember now, because you interrupted me.” I shot back, and I poked his arm. We were sinking back into a familiar setting. Two friends talking to each other like any other day. “But it doesn’t really matter because if you know how many petals are on the flower, you could know what the outcome is.”

“So how does that work?” He scooted closer and put his fist under his chin, as if being in a thinker pose would help him understand what he probably already knew.

“Well, if it’s an even number of petals it’s… um…” I could feel the heat return, this time from his presence more than from my face. “Oh you know what,” I muttered impatiently. I started plucking off the petals, whispering the pattern to myself as the petals drifted to the grass. “He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…”

He was silently observant.

“He loves me…” I paused before the last petal. I didn’t want to pull it off. I didn’t want to say he loved me not. I started to wish for another petal, but stopped the selfish unreasonable desire from floating off. After all, it was only a silly cheesy romantic thing I wasn’t supposed to care about. It wasn’t like there was a silly cheesy romantic guy that I should be concerned about.

Before I could catch it, a tiny thought slipped away with the flower slipping out of my fingers. Maybe I am just incredibly blind.

He was the one who turned away this time, mute. So I faced him instead.

I saw my best friend who lives down the street with a little fluffy white dog. I saw my friend who once wore an enormous sombrero he had won from a fair for Halloween, a sombrero big enough to shield the two of us from rain later that day. I saw my friend who had a memory that could challenge an elephant’s. I saw a someone who was by my side through silence and laughter, and was never annoyed at me doing the same for him, even though I lacked interpersonal tact. I saw a guy who always heard me, no matter that everyone complained they couldn’t hear my quiet speech. I saw the guy who found me.

I saw him.

I saw his kind, familiar face illuminated by contemplation and golden sunshine, his eyes gazing up at the pale blue sky. I stared at the sky too, wondering what he was thinking about. It wasn’t long before I realized he wasn’t still looking up with me.

“Like I said, it’s the feeling that counts,” he murmured. “It doesn’t matter if the flower disagrees, or if you disagree with the flowers. I still love you.”