Coffee Dreams

And they're all singing songs that mean nothing to me
And a man leaps about in my head.
His blazer's b'dazzled with braided gold rope
And his hair tosses 'bout gingerly.
For the music he hears, loud as bumble bee tears
I mean bees, I mean beers,
I mean BEARS!
And now big bouncing balls, roll into the hall
That was painted by hand in the year
That the godfather, grandfather, great father, (god)
Birthed culture and all things supreme,
But the gold paint and carved wood look suddenly dull
With bears rolling big bouncy balls
And shouting out
"Cheers! To long happy years"
As they drink from their frothy brown mugs.

Things I Love That Are Not Mine

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

January 27, The Birth of A Friend(ship)

18 is divisible by 3. It is also divisible by 6, and 9 and 2, and if you take 2 away from the sum of 9 and 6 you get 13. 13 is the number of years that I’ve known a girl named Heather. Heather was a tiny blonde with bangs cut at a perfect 90 degree angle to her ears. She wore dresses. I wore jeans that had to have the grass stains washed out of them repeatedly. Heather packed her lunch; I bought. We were definitely opposites. Even the way we approached playtime was different. Heather wanted to create elaborate romances between her Barbie and my Ken doll. I wanted to make them fly around the house.

We met in Mrs. Ditzlers’s afternoon kindergarten. On one of the first days of school, Heather needed someone to play with and my mom, standing nearby as “Room Helper” volunteered me. I’m told, though I can’t remember, that after being introduced we took hands and walked away to find something to play with. That must have been a glorious moment for Heather in our friendship. I’m not a big fan of physical contact. I have plenty of theories about why that is, but they’re only theories. Heather, on the other hand, loves to hug, to hang, to cuddle, to rub, stroke, pinch, grab, hold, talk about a hands on learner. I let her invade my personal space for a couple of years before drawing the line. How many friends do you know of that make rules about hugs?

When I think about my friendship with Heather, one of the first things I remember is sleeping over at her house. I loved sleepovers at the Shertzers. The night would start with chocolate. We’d make sundaes or mint chocolate milkshakes, or, on special occasions, we’d have Pelman’s triple chocolate cake washed down with tall glasses of milk. I remember that I liked the glasses at her house. They were actually glass, and they were tall like the glasses my parents drank out of. At my house, the kids drank out of plastic cups that had attachable sippy lids, and we kept them in a drawer by the fridge, not a cupboard next to the sink.

After snack, I’d borrow one of Heather’s bathing suits and we’d go sit in the hot tub until we turned to prunes. There was a specific procedure for getting in the hot tub. We’d get towels from the bathroom and go down to the basement, leave our towels at the door to the patio, run out into the cold, take the cover off the hot tub, and then wipe off our feet before entering the warm water. Once we were in, we’d talk about boys and gossip about the other girls in our grade, talk about God, and disagree about God. We’d admire our legs and confide that this year we really were going to buy bikinis.

There was always a special sleepover at the end of the school year where we would write in each other’s yearbooks recounting our embarrassing moments, remembering our inside jokes, and finally confessing our appreciation for each other. I stopped buying yearbooks when I entered the high school, when the price jumped a good fifty bucks. So for the four years that we’ve missed, I think it’s time again to recount embarrassing moments, remember inside jokes, and confess appreciation.

Heather, do you remember the picture that I put on the back of that poster I made you for your 17^th birthday? If there weren’t a photo of it, it really wouldn’t have been an embarrassing moment, rather normal for us actually, but that wasn’t the case. Remember sophomore year in the fall, screaming and crying and half laughing outside the bathrooms near the cafeteria? That should have been embarrassing, but we were so worked up we were completely oblivious to anyone that may have seen or heard us. Remember the night there was a tornado warning and we had to run to the basement only half way out of our dress up clothes? I was embarrassed, sitting on a chair in your basement in my underwear; you should have been embarrassed too, but not for the same reason, because of the fit you were making about the possible tornado. Remember prom, and how our dates were chucking mints at each other and catching them in their mouths and Mr. Pritcherd had to come over and tell them to knock it off? Why weren’t you embarrassed? Remember in AP art when I wore a dress with shorts underneath and I mooned you and Teddy? You were actually embarrassed that time.

Inside jokes, well… you know what has to come first, “You just gotta do it till it won’t do it no more.” Then there’s our classic, strawberry banana or strawberry kiwi. Big butts that keep us warm in the winter. Full moons, and bicycles, although, that could be an embarrassing moment. It seems like there should be a lot more. There probably are, but I’m kind of anxious to move on to the next part of this yearbook entry.

Heather, you’ve known me through all of my different phases, the Aeropostale phase, the tomboy phase, the athlete phase, the religious phase, the depressed and doesn’t want to have fun phase, the short hair phase, the jell pen phase, the Barbies and pumpkin muffins stage. You knew who I was and when I was trying to be someone I wasn’t and as fickle as I was, and still am, you stuck around. You called me out when I needed it and didn’t want it, when I needed it and wanted it, when I didn’t need it and didn’t want it. You took me shopping when I felt bad about my clothes. You taught me how to make chocolate peanut butter eggs, how to escape a flood, and change a tire. You may have made fun of my cooking, but you still ate it. You are a good friend Heather Shertzer, and I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent together for anything. You have been such a big part of my life, from childhood all the way to adulthood now.

The other thing about the numbers from the beginning is that if you add 18 to half it’s value, you get 27, and that’s today’s date, the birth date of Heather Noel Shertzer, loud laugher, chocolate lover, fashion goo-roo, natural blonde, and friend. Happy birthday Heath, and welcome to adulthood. 

Marching and Metatarsals

Mr. Landis is the quiz bowl coach. He knows everything. Today he read off a question that happened to be a biology question, not exactly a rarity in quiz bowl, but this question was. It was a once in a lifetime biology quiz bowl practice question, a question I understood. I didn't get to respond though because Gage buzzed before I could believe that I actually knew the answer. I can't remember what the question was anymore. I actually don't remember what the answer was either. What I do remember is that one of the possible responses was "metatarsals".

Now, let's assume you aren't a quiz bowler and you aren't a science nerd either (congratulations, you have successfully evaded one of the most prominent high school cults alive today). Maybe you are so far removed from biological rhetoric that "metatarsals" is an entirely new word to you, or maybe you just had your anatomy and physiology final, and you still can't remember what metatarsals are. (If that's the case, I hope you failed.) It doesn't really matter why you don't know it; you just don't. And that's okay because I do, and I'll be defining it for you shortly. Metatarsals are the bones in one’s foot that connect to the phalanges, phalanges, another word from my biology vocabulary, meaning toes in this instance. Metatarsals are only found in the foot, but today, science was wrong because I found metatarsals in a quiz bowl question. 

How long it had been since metatarsals had crossed my mind, too long for such a delicious word to be gone. I vowed to never let it escape me again. There was something march-y about it, very rhythmic. After quiz bowl was over and I started my small sojourn to the other end of the building for gym, I found myself thinking "met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals" to the rhythm of my step. 

It was 7 AM and I already had a word to march to for the day; that taken care of, the "Being Flustered and Disoriented While Trying to Settle into Daily Routine" portion of my morning was largely eliminated from my day. I stalked through the fluorescent lights and stagnant smells of high school with purpose, first mouthing the words and then finally singing, "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals." There's probably medication for that kind of behavior, but as strange as it may be to sing a word as I walk, keeping a beat and therefore keeping order in the midst of the disgusting disorder that is high school, I'm a happy kid. I don't go to counseling. I don't need to. I've found my cure and today it was metatarsals.

Since marching can only truly be accomplished by creatures with feet and metatarsals are located in the foot, feet were at the front of my mind. I've always liked my feet. I'm a Good Foot pure-blood. Both of my parents have nice feet, none of that extra-long middle toe business. Our toes descend perfectly in height from the big toe down to the pinky. 

I have other qualifications for good feet besides the height of each toe, like size. It's important that the feet in question not be too big, but it is equally important that they not be too small. Good feet also have to have smooth skin that's never dry, but never clammy. Good feet have toes that turn olive-brown in the summer while they're running through the backyard. Good feet slip quietly in and out of shoes without disturbing nearby noses. Good feet stay on their side of the bed at night. Good feet look good with purple toenail polish and toe rings, and good feet never wear sandals in the winter, unless those sandals are accompanied by socks.

I started thinking of all the feet I'd ever seen, splotchy red and white feet, long and skinny flipper feet, circle toes like tree frogs' feet, red and hot and sweaty feet, pasty wan and freezing feet, stuff gets lost between my toes feet,  let's curl up and cuddle feet, hotels that stink in Spain feet. They were disgusting, all of them. "Take them away!" I ordered from the throne where I sat as the Queen of Good Feet, but as they filed out the door, those feet managed to kick over my throne, sending me soaring through the air. My own feet broke the fall, and I was balanced again in no time. "See! That's what we're here for," they chided in huffy breaths, "Now get to class." 

Ah yes, that's what I was doing. I looked up from my clogs in enough time to see the student I had just bumped into, the one whose feet had toppled my throne, looking back at me from over his shoulder. Metatarsals marched me onward to gym class were I sat down and listened, yet again, for the omission of the quiz bowl team's latest victory on the morning announcements. I might have been upset walking back to the locker room that for all the early mornings with Mr. Landis, we weren't even considered a sports team, but it's hard to be angry and sing "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals," at the same time.  

Life is Like Trees

Life is like

Trees cuz it burns to the

Ground if the smallest of sparks and

Dry weather compound and ignite to make flames

That can eat life alive and send columns of smoke upwards

Into the sky. And though flames tear ‘em down, and the

Sight isn’t pretty, trees to ash on the ground, a new

Life is ready, to grow from the soil that

Harbors the seeds

Flames may

Be destructive

But there

Will always

Be trees

The Death of Mice at the Hands of Men

I caught the mouse

Whose tiny claws

Scratched daily

My apartment walls

Strapped to the wood

By bar so tight

His fragile body,

Dead to fight

How harmless now

That mouse did seem

Soft fur and tiny paws

I wondered why

I’d ever sought

To kill the mouse

At all

How I Got Caught

Sprint across the carpet. Careful through the kitchen. Up and down the hallways. Stairs: Bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-BUH! Perfect landing. Running again. Closer, closer. Reach out a hand…Thud. We fall to the ground. Laughing. No, crying. “Mom!” Then, bowed head. Whispered apologies. Booboos and kisses. All better. If only words could mend the way kisses used to. Now it’s not hearing, “Mom!” that means I’ve been caught; it’s conjunctions like “so…” and the sentence, “I wanted to talk…” always left open, like an invitation to yell “STOP!” It’s the point where things change, though I hoped they would not.