#128

in a little less than fifteen years he had won almost every award the literary world had to offer. they sat, gathering dust into corners, fervently, like an old woman tidying up for company.
over time, he had learned to give expected answers about inspiration and the writing process. "neruda," he would say. "neruda wrote every day regardless of how he felt. writing through those uninspired days gave him both courage to persist, and a plethora of material to delve into." cue the applause.
not that he didn't revel in those words. it's just the he felt they were false. how unbearable! to cringe over false words in the world of fiction!
he couldn't explain how the stories came. he would sound mad, perfectly mad if they knew the truth. what sort of disorder was it that made him scribble words, paragraphs, entire chapters in his sleep? in the morning, a slightly messy, precisely worded story lay waiting for him on the notepad beside the bed where he slept alone.
too long now. too long he loved and hated this gift. his distrust of self gave way to insomnia; he longs now for a normal life, a normal rest.
and now he prepares for his greatest work of fiction. he must tell the world why there are no more words.

#127

everything is a fad to me because i don't know how else to live. it comes along quickly, the rampagingfastbeatingscreaming of my high school music scene, preceeded by the stonewashing, tightrolling, hair frizzing eighties. and all of us in the middle of everything, clamoring, grasping/gasping oh, don'tmakeitstop.
i turned a corner yesterday and ran into an old friend. she was pretty-polished and business-suit-important and i stood in front of her tall and lean, i quit veganism only a week ago, and today i am finding something new to hold, to feel it for a time and know that something lived.

fortysix

The chords remind me of high school, but the melody is unfamiliar. The tempo, even faster than your quickened heartbeat before I walk out the door. It slams, the glass makes a cymbal crash, and a roll of footsteps off the porch. And while well orchestrated, the melody is unfamiliar.

#126

i'm at the top of a bulding. The cars look so so small below. Diminutive like me. The wind is so strong up here, muscling through each tall bulding, pushing my back, whipping my hair to my face. it bothers me now, writing a note to no one. it's a goodbye (of sorts), more because of "should's" than any legitimate reason.
"if i had a superpower, it would be mental resiliency."
i face the wind, clutching the paper in my hand. my palm opens.
it is flying.

#125

i wrote you a letter today. i miss you more lately, for a variety of reasons, none of which are probably legitimate.
this is what we do now, isn't it? rip the bandaid off quickly and the pain is sharp. it should subside soon, take a deep breath. till we look down and realize the wound was never fully healed, just out of sight.
maybe you'll open it alone; maybe you have a girlfriend now who picks up your mail and will question who i am.
maybe, more than anything, i want to know what you'll say.

#124 (my perception of a fortyfive followup)

i traveled the world on nothing but medical supplies and charm. all those people, those people. and i could not help them.
bangladesh.
a tiny girl with a ballooned stomach and crooked toes who begged for me to fix her, when all i had left was a prayer and a few candies.
ireland.
the chronically ill mother with hollow eyes and the most haunting voice. she stood, her rail of a body so precarious against the wind coming off the moor. i heard the next year, an atlantic storm swept through and took the last of her strength with it.
johannesburg
nearly twenty percent of the population lives in refuse and are afflicted with all the consequences thereof. Not even 16, a boy lay with head in his mother's lap, listening to Kwaito as he took his last breath.

i had no camera. i bought card after damn postcard; afraid that my mind would start slipping, i would lose these moments somewhere along the way. if only i could.

maybe if i sell these memories, they will no longer exist.

#123

on thursdays i'll follow hurried businessmen across streets, hailing a cab when they do, telling the taxidriver, "follow that one! go!" then into elevators, fake plastic secretary glasses, head down. they step off and so do i, whispering something just loud enough like "condor has reached 4th floor, target unaware."
maybe i'm creating a society of paranoia.
but it makes my life more exciting, and maybe they won't take their families for granted anymore.

fortyfive

He sent his family a postcard every other week.

Bangladesh.

"Wish you were here!"

Ireland.

"Having a great time, met lots of interesting locals!"

Johannesburg.

"Can't wait to tell you all my stories!"

He had never left Louisiana. There was a website that would ship you postcards. He wondered if the guy who ran that site had ever been to any of these places.

#122

"if you want a happy marriage, don't marry a pretty girl." that was what they all told you, right? in jest, right?

it was their way of warning you how bad we are for each other.

maybe i'm a trainwreck.
i just don't want you to look away.

#121

you went out with your friends today. you kept texting me what you were doing saying "just found a sweet tshirt for $3!!!" and sending pictures, hair tucked behind your ears, your smile tucked in between your pretty friend and the one whose name i can't remember how to spell.
while you were out with your friends today i gave almost all of our furniture away, warmed out leftovers and made sandwiches for all those homeless men on broad street.
today i answered yes to all your requests.
today i packed all our belongings in our car, turned off the water and electric, gave back the apartment key.
you're the one who always talked about leaving.
you said you'd leave and never come back.
every song you write is about the open road and sunsets.

what, are you all talk now?

#120

My grandparents never kissed each other. They never held hands, never hugged. But every morning, without fail, my grandmother, her hair pulled into a loose, silvery white bun, would make 4 pieces of buttered toast between the two of them, a cup of weak tea for herself, a cup of black, thick coffee for him.
She lived in the house he built even after he was gone, after all the kids had moved away, after her knees shook too much to climb the simple oak staircase. The flowers at his grave came up bountifully each year, fertilized by old coffee grounds made precisely for that purpose. My baby niece received a knitted sweater from her grandma and grandpa, and I hope to one day know what it was they held, if not each other.

#119

No one expects their relationships to change for the worse. But when I told my friends how you make my heart skip beats, I didn’t know it was foreshadowing.