#144

the leg bone was connected to the hip bone. then your fist bone connected with my face bone. my shoulder bone disconnected from my arm bone.
now i hear the words of my mom.
"he won't stop."

#143

some days i feel more alive than others. today, i am breathing in and out methodically, thinking about the motion, reveling in how my headache is subsiding, my shoulders relaxing. our muscles are grouped into voluntary and involuntary groups. writing this down, i am thinking about the motion, it is learned, i am making my fingers bend and press and move and i am their master. my heart, well, it is beating of its own accord, independent of my wishes- and thankfully so, or i'd have been dead many times over.
but today, feeling my lungs expand and contract, i think about my heart, its valves opening and closing so faithfully. oh my heart, i'll start calling you old faithful. till the day i die, of course.

#142

throwing an empty pack into the trash can, she pulled out a new box of marlboros; absentmindedly hit the box against the palm of her hand. this was not a new action. how much time has to lapse before muscle memory comes into play? 3 hours? that's when she peeled the clear plastic from the last box. mingling fresh outdoor air with her own fiery white smoke, she pressed her phone to her ears. what she really craved was contact. not superficial conversations on the weather, but conversations about life, about physical contact, with someone willing to pull her from her house, take her somewhere new instead of the same Chinese buffet.
pacing back and forth, a black lab watched her from behind a rusted chain-link fence, his canine eyes oblivious to her burning red hair falling in the saddest green eyes.

#141

he's asking her what she thinks they should do. she pretends to contemplate, as if the options were equally attractive, as if the choice were between two kinds of ice cream, not decadent chocolate versus a kick to the nape of her neck.
"whatever you think is best, darling." she knows his mind is made up.
asking her opinion is merely epidictic. they both know it.
it's evident in her loss of independence. her loss of thought. her loss of strength. her failure to care.

#140

he was out with his basketball, like he was every day, stereotypical orange with rubbery black stripes, bouncing between pasty, knobby knees, bouncing off the backboard, bouncing up and being snatched back down by scrawny, scratchy boy-arms.
even from 50 feet away, you could hear the constant commentary in high pitched whispers, jubilant echoes after the swishing net, a running critique and mentions of an imaginary (and apparently, unwitting) defensive team.
the clock's running out! reverberated through the apartment complex. 3! his bony fingers clutched the ball. 2! he cleverly evaded defense, yet again. 1! he lost balance as he shot.
the ball barely scraped the bottom of the net, falling short, and rolling safely in the grass beyond the court.
he sat for a moment, perhaps contemplating the last few agonizing moments.
suddenly, he threw his arms in the air victoriously. Nothin' but net!

#139

I love you, I say. This makes you happy, I know. Today I want to love you and make you laugh. I cannot guarantee that tomorrow I will feel the same. Maybe I will want a separate room tomorrow. I may not even come home.
You ask me how I feel. I am brutally honest. Today, that is good.
Unfortunately, my reality changes every day. I am ephemeral.

#138

burned but not broken, she ran a gloved finger over it, removing ash and smoke. the whole house was burned to foundation and not much remained other than thick odor and charred leftovers of all the things a suburban home should hold.
but this... this was something extraordinary. this was the only thing she wanted.
cleaning it proved harder than she expected. each edge of the five pointed star needed her full attention. finally, gold shone through. no trace of earth or ash remained.

she walked into the nursing home and found her mother. she sat in front of the window, where she always was.

pressing the congressional medal honor into her mother's wrinkled hand, both women knew this was all that would remain.

#137

Kate looked through her purse, scrambling. Of all the days! she thought. I still have to get to the preschool and get to work on time! The previous night's rain still hung faintly in the air, the ground still wet under the backyard trees. It did not help her mood. "Marissa!"
A tiny head of dark brown curls bounded down the stairwell. "Mommy, I can't find Mr. Boots! He loves me! I miss him!"
I wish a missing stuffed dog was my biggest concern. Kate sighed. "I'll help you find Mr. Boots. I can't find my makeup bag, sweetie. Do you know where that is?"
Marissa paused for a moment, appeared to be making up her mind. She pointed to the wastebasket in the laundry room.
"In... in here?" Kate pulled a pink and brown bag from the trash can. Unzipping it quickly, feeling the blood rush to her face, she found everything inside. "Marissa! This is MOMMY'S BAG!"
Marissa stood in the middle of the floor, her lip quivering.
Kate took a breath. "Marissa, why did you throw my bag away?"
"I don't want to you to have it mommy. It makes you sad."
"It makes me sad?"
"You're pretty mommy."
Kate thought to all the times she sat in front of her makeup mirror, layering foundation, power, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow... and sighing. She thought of how often she absentmindedly turned to Marissa and made comments. "Wait till you're a teenager honey, you'll find out then." Murmuring about her blotchy cheeks and perceived thinning eyebrows. She looked at her daughter. Perfect.
"You're pretty too Marissa." Kate hugged her, stood, and threw the bag back in the trash. "Let's go find Mr. Boots."

#136

her bare foot pressed the brake to the floor, there was no screeching- everything was loud. it was loud. eyes wide, half-wet, long blonde hair whipped across her face, no scream. the guardrail came too quickly...
black.
she felt the seatbelt on her neck. felt blood. tasted blood. heard the radio playing. loud.
saw black.
flashing white and red and vague outlines of men and vague outlines of... loud, loud, loud.
and black.
she was awake. was she awake? there was nothing. were her eyes open? she concentrated, trying to open her eyes; she could not feel them.
there were voices again. it was not noise this time. there were letters forming words forming sentences forming prayers.
concentrating on the voices. thickly, dimly, she knew she would not wake up. but she heard them, heard them through the swirling prayers and blood and black, and voices. she heard them.
felt them.
and...
black.

#135

i'm always wondering how i get myself into these situations, why i'm to nice, no... too timid to fight my way out, why i keep expecting a different outcome. perhaps i am definitively crazy.
he buys the popcorn and this gesture immediately puts him in the top 50% of all dates i've ever been on. unfortunately, this is neither a braggable nor stunning victory.
he asks about the scar on my forearm. it is a skinny but jagged scar, starting at my elbow and spiraling halfway down my arm. before i get five words out, he's lifting up his shirt and giving an explanation of his own scar, telling me what a badass motorcycle accident it was, turning left and right so i can see its majesty from every angle.
the movie has explosions and women, and i volunteer to get a refill, checking every exit and praying for a fire drill.

#134

the doorknob isn't shiny and doesn't turn easily, but finally it clicks, letting the door open, slowly, and all that enters the house is a bit of gray light and the tips of my fingers. it is a still day.
it feels a little like walking on the moon, entering the foyer, and i'm afraid my footprints will be etched into the floor forever. it is strange, no one has been here in years, but they say that dust is mostly hair and skin particles, and i realize there are parts of me everywhere, on the subway i rode yesterday, on orange i picked up but didn't buy.
for a moment i feel panic. my tongue is dry. i put a mint in my mouth and it's a little unsettling- everything today has been so empty, so dull, and the sudden shock of spearmint feels like falling into an ice bath.
suddenly i want to tear this house down. it's alarming, how passionate i feel about somewhere i've never been. but he was here and now i am here, staring at my own face in a broken hallway mirror and wondering why i'm here.