Little Man

He used to like it when I ruffled his hair.

He had a buzzcut often, hair like peach fuzz, and I loved to touch it, staticky against my hand.

He doesn’t like me to touch it now, afraid  I’ll mess it up. He keeps it blowdried in a perfect coif.

His around my waist were like a lifesaver, and I was pulled to shore by his innocence, his happiness, his kid-brother antics.

Always the antics. Always the mischief.

A cellphone thrown out the car window, forty dollars flushed down the toilet.

A laughing little demon.

A wonderful, giggling little devil he was.

He has a deep voice now. His voice was the first thing to grow up.

His shirts match his shorts and he wears a clean one every day, and he smells like Axe cologne.

Girls laugh high and shrill when he is around. He likes that they do. He likes them.

He has always loved girls. He had crushes on my school friends when I was in elementary school, following them around, demanding to be heard, to be loved by them. They thought him charming.

He was an emotional whirlwind, a wild thing. He would cry, scream, kick. I was scared by him.

But I would sit with him sometimes and stroke his sweaty red face and he would be soothed.

I would tell him that I loved him. I did, and I do.

Sometimes he would wake at night, and I go to his room, next to mine, and tell him it would be alright. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. I felt brave for doing it.

I miss how much we touched, he and I. His pudgy baby hands in mine, kisses on his round cheeks.

I still hug him goodbye and I still tell him I love him, but now it is a quick and awkward pat.

 I don’t know what to do with him, this growing boy.

He says it too, that he loves me, confident like a man. He tells me to have a good day. I tell him I will. He strides out into the world, scrubbed and grinning and ready for the ladies.

I love him so.

I will miss him so, when I go.

He will miss me too, my little man, not so little anymore.

 There is something tragic but lovely too about boys becoming men.

Not so little anymore. 

The Common Denominator

I love children

I have loved them since I was one of them myself, loved holding the hands of someone smaller, hauling someone’s baby around.  Loved their soft bodies and starfish hands, their smiles  bright as a camera flash.

I have taken care of many children, numerous new people, small humans  of all shapes and sizes and places.

Sometimes, I mind little ones who live in homes that are large and beautiful, homes with big paintings and expensive furniture.

These children have rooms filled with toys, and they show them to me as if we are in a museum, taking me on a tour of their possessions. They always seem hard to please, these little aristocrats. Life bores them already. They walk away from their dolls, leave them abandoned, limbs splayed on the couch.

Sometimes I take care of young ones who live in cramped apartments,  whose toys are few and worn and well-loved, and who are very poor, but do not seem to mind.  Their smiles are wide and uninhibited, and they never look like they are posing. Their dolls stay in their arms, protected. Held close, so that they cannot escape, cannot be lost.

But all the young souls I have known, no matter if their mother is a maid or a PHD, all the children are the same.

In a few essential ways, they are the same.

They all like long hair, hair they can gather with their fingers and tug at.

They like it when I let them crawl on me, and they nest in my lap like  birds.

They like silly faces, especially when  they are unexpected, when they surprise them.

They like to explore.

They like soft cotton fabric, and they like to lay their heads against it, especially when there is a body beneath it, warm and inviting.

They like sweet things, but not too much, because then it overwhelms them and the world is manic and bright. Just a little, just one cookie, maybe two. They like that.

They like the sound of a voice reading, sharing a story.

They like to play, to create worlds. It takes so little for them to escape, one cardboard box, a rocket, a home, a boat.  They laugh like they have a secret.

It makes me happy, to see that at least when we are small we have a common denominator.

I see kids on the news and in my books that are homeless, or underfed, or hurt, or alone.  Their eyes are big and dark,serious. They have no doll to hold.

I want to help them.

And I know I can, I can, because they are children.

And children, children I know.

I know how to hold them, and sing to them, and talk to them.

So I will go to places that need people to  hold children’s hands and make them feel safe, and I will do that.

Because in some essential ways,

They are all the same. We are all the same. 

Rail Travel

Some people see time as a unit of measurement, simple and inanimate and standard. An hour, a second, a year. Chopped up segments of life.

But  I think time has a personality, an essence, and sometimes, it changes.

And in the last week, as spring slides towards summer in a riot of wildflower color, it has been energetic, forceful.

Sometimes it is quiet and lazy, lounging in the sun,

But his week, it has been loud and riotous,

And the days have slipped from my fingers like silk, impossible to hold on to.

My eyes are wide open but I still feel as though there are things I am not seeing.

I stay up late and wake early

But still the hours collide into one another,bouncing, crashing, bumper-cart moments. 

I am filled with the kind of manic excitement that is one step away from heart-pounding fear,

And I know that nothing will ever be the same.

That each of the routines that govern my life are about to be tossed away like last Sunday’s paper.

I will use an alarm clock instead of my father’s steady voice,

And I will take a shower with flip flops on, my shampoo in a plastic caddy

I will walk to class  across a foggy morning quad instead of driving,

And no longer will my mornings resound with the smooth dark chocolate voices of an NPR news show.

In four months, 120 days,

These things will happen.

And this week I began go realize how fast it all may go,

That time may not sit back for me to say my goodbyes.

That the railroad tracks of my days are pounding with the sound of my future rushing to meet me, 

About to let out a harsh train shriek of arrival.

I will have to trust in God and myself,

And I will  have to begin. 

Choreography

When I was a little girl, I took dance classes,
Because I was going to be a star,
A triple threat,
I was going to dazzle.

So I twirled through that room full of mirrors, my mistakes on a thousand surfaces.
A muscular woman in a leotard, telling me to turn faster, keep my head up, make it sharper.
I was always a few steps behind
I was lifting the left leg when they were on the right,
Stepping forward when all the other girls were on their way back.
My limbs got tangled, and I would fall, over and over again.

I was clumsy and messy,
My hair never stayed in a proper ballet bun, high and tight.
My costumes pinched, all that suffocating sparkle.
When a girl in my class complained,
An older dancer said to her
They aren't supposed to be comfortable. They are supposed to be beautiful.
And isn't that what we were supposed to be? Beautiful, if not comfortable?

I felt like I was neither.
I was just a kid with a terrified grin, trying to remember the steps.

Now I dance in yoga pants and a tank top
My hair in a simple pony tail.

I make my own choreography,
And sometimes,
I fall,
because there is a marvelousness in the unexpected

I don't plan ahead.
I make music with my body
hands pounding, feet thumping.
I don't think out the next step,
don;t make it all fit in eight counts,  or even sixteen.

Now when I turn I make sure it isn't sharp,
because the world is full of watercolor streak softness

I dance a little differently now
But I still dance.
I dance comfortably
And beautifully too.
I unfurl like a flag,
Unfold like a crisp letter.
And I bloom.

Embers Part Two

Embers Part Two 

Tina  and Lyla Ashby were enjoying the pool and each other. Mid-june, when the air itself is full of promise.

It was a beautiful day, bright and optimistic.

Tina was watching her little girl play in their pool, the sun  glinting off her tight curls, splashing , pretending she was a mermaid, and she smiled to herself.  She liked looking at Lyla when she didn’t know she could be seen, getting to look into her world. And she was so heart-breakingly beautiful, her daughter, her features so unusual. Skin the color of copper, hair the exact shade of rich red clay in the earth. Eyes like a tiger’s, a deep gold. When they first brought her home, Tina’s father looked at her and said it looked like  they’d rolled her in cinnamon. He’d called her that ever since, his little cinnamon bun. She loved him unconditionally and fiercely, the way only grandparents can be loved.

Tina sometimes felt that Lyla was more lovely a girl than she and Peter could ever have created on their own, by the force of their collective genetics. She seemed beyond that, more than the sum of her parts. Tina had so often wondered who it was who made her this child and where they came from. Whose DNA coiled like a secret in Lyla’s cells? Who wrote the complex book of instructions that built her daughter, this one-of-a-kind masterpiece? It was like owning a beautiful  painting  with no signature.  It pained her deeply.

But  then, Lyla would say “melk” instead of “milk” just like Pete. Or she would  crawl into Tina’s lap and settle into the soft nook of her shoulder, the one that seemed built for her. And in those moments,  Lyla was theirs entirely. In those moments, Tina just looked at the painting; she didn’t search for a name hidden in the corner. In those moments, she didn’t need to know.

“Momma, can I have some lemonade?”

Lyla, dripping, looked up at her.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She grabbed a towel off of the chaise lounge by the pool and bundled Lyla up in it. She  filled her a plastic cup from the pitcher on the table and when it dribbled  on her chin, she wiped it for her.

She was so distracted by this task that she didn’t even notice the red mark on her daughter’s left hand.  It was so small, after all. But that night, after Pete got home from work, he decided that he would bathe Lyla.  Have some quality time. She could make him cappuccinos out of the bubbles and serve them to him in the blue sippy cup Tina left in the bathroom for her to play with, tell him stories.  They could be together.  Lyla was still young enough that her naked body was an innocent thing, and he wasn;t uncomfortable with it yet. She was barely more than a baby.

She was laughing at the soapy beard he had put on her chin, making faces. He made some back. Added a tower of bubbles to her head as he shampooed it. It was such an average night. So comfortable.

He made a monkey face and wiggled his fingers at her. She imitated him, and that’s when he saw it. In the center of her palm, a burn.  It was so oddly shaped he did a double take—the white, irritated skin that must have been burned formed a perfect triangle.

“Honey, did you touch something hot? Does that hurt?”

Lyla looked at him with a complete lack of recognition.

“What, daddy?”

“That,on your hand.” He pointed.

“Oh! No. That’s my  superhero arrow.”

“Where did it come from? Your superhero arrow?”

He imagined some creep burning his daughter’s soft flesh and he felt angry, so very angry. How could Tina and he not have seen it? How long had it been there?

“It just came. I was at school sitting with Gracie and Ms. Leonard gave us popsicles for a special treat because it was the last day, and I had strawberry and Gracie had green, and it was so fun, but then I Joey pushed me  and I cried.”  That was just the day before, he thought with relief.

“But where did the superhero arrow come from?”

“I said, Daddy. I was sitting with Gracie. It was the best day ever until Joey pushed me. But before that it ws awesome. I was so happy.  I felt super happy so I got a superhero arrow. “

He sighed, perplexed.

“Did it hurt?”

“No. Not like when Joey pushed me. That hurt. We were playing tag and he pushed me because he’s mean.”

“That is mean. What did it feel like when you got it?”

“It was like when you sit by the fireplace, super warm and good. Daddy, I’m cold. Can you dry me off now please?”

He nodded, picked her up in her hooded ducky towel. Drained the tub and rubbed the towel down Lyla’s arms and in her hair, all without saying a word.

 Probably, she had touched the stove and didn’t remember, or didn’t know that’s where the mark came from. That seemed far-fetched, but Lyla had no other explanation. He tried to forget it, and Tina told him not to worry about it, it would probably go away in a day or two.  But when he tucked Lyla in and turned off the light, her hand lay open on the coverlet, and he could have sworn the triangle glowed. 

Embers

A sneak peek at a short story in the works! 

Enjoy! 

Embers

The fireman who found her was young, inexperienced, a little bit afraid. His uniform was slightly too large, and he always followed the rules.  He was determined and earnest. He was the kind of young man that mothers say is a sweet boy and fathers say is a good kid.

In short, he was unprepared for what faced him.

It was an old house, rotting, ugly, dark. Falling in on itself. They were going to tear it down. The fire was a blessing, in a way.

A big yard, filled with tall weedy grasses, dry and wild. A tinderbox.

They didn’t even bother to wonder what started it—a kid’s dropped cigarette, a spark from someone’s barbecue a few houses down. What did it matter?

No one lived there anyway.

Abandoned for years, that’s what everyone said. Hadn’t seen anyone come in or out for as long as they could remember.

So it was meant to be easy—they weren’t trying to save anyone, weren’t trying to protect anything. Just spray it down, keep it from spreading down the street. Contain it.

Contain the beast, the licking orange flames. That’s all. Not vanquish, not defeat. Only contain.

They sent a few guys in once it wasn’t raging to see if there was anything still needing to be dealt with—no missed spots, no chance of a reignited fire.

And that’s when he saw her.

A child. Naked and tiny and screaming.  He could barely hear her over the flames, the sound of the house dying. But he saw her, and he ran towards her as fast as he could.

There was no blanket near her, no clothes, no bottle, nothing.

No clues to where she came from, or why she was here, in a house that no one cared about anymore.

Naked and tiny and screaming.  Eyes screwed shut with the effort of it.

A newborn, no more than a few hours old. So small and red and very very alive.  He picked her up, as gently as if she were a fragile ornament that he might break.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes were an amber color he had never seen before, and they were beautiful. He looked back. His heart skipped a beat. He suddenly felt painfully warm, and he reflexively shook his fire-retardant coat, certain he was burning.

He remembered himself then, remembered that they were in a building that was about to collapse. He wrapped the baby in his jacket, ran outside, performed his job. And their miracle, their magic amber moment, it was over.

 The young fireman never saw her again after that day, but he remembered those eyes, the look she gave him the day she began. 

Wild Girls

It is good to be wild girls

Wild girls swimming in the rain,

Naked legs, wet and white
We watch the heavens open, and we laugh, and we scream, and we enjoy it

We are so small, one note in a strange and perfect symphony

The world is raw and fresh, and we are too

The cold slap of water against our skin

Passionate like kisses

It isn't gentle, it isn't soft

It is loud and chaotic and alive

It is alive,

On this rainy Sunday afternoon,

The water is alive.

It is singing,

And we came to hear it.

It seeps into us, these young humans,

Made strong by their boldness

These worshipers at its altar

Beautiful, exhilarated, joyous

Yes,

It is good to be wild girls.