Part 2: A Brother & Sister

Part 1: Here

My first instinct is to squint, because without my glasses I can’t be sure he’s crying. Sensing my gaze, he turns and we awkwardly make eye contact. He quickly glances away; it is a tear.

“Bad day?” I fumble, not knowing what to say. Turning back, he feigns a smile and sniffles “Yeah.”
I wave my hand at the stack, “At least you’re reading cheery books.”
“These were my sisters books,” he says, trailing off and looking away. “She, uh, left them to me.”

I won’t recount all of the conversation’s details, but what became clear was that his younger sister had passed away. He expressed how he had never been a very good brother. How he used to dismember her dolls, just to see her cry. How in elementary school he had mocked her in front of his friends, and in high-school used her looks to be popular with the senior boys.

Five years ago: a brain tumor. By the time it was discovered: inoperable. Six months later: a funeral.

You might suppose that such a conversation is unlikely: that a stranger would not be so open in such a public place. I will not deny that I was uncomfortable, or that other eavesdropping patrons were not also uncomfortable. Some got up and left.

I’m not a swimmer, but when you’re training to be a lifeguard, I’m told, you’re instructed never to get too close to someone who is drowning. The victim, unknowingly, will fight you: grabbing, and clinging until they pull you under. Desperation drives the victim to act irrationally; fear overwhelms them.

In the Next Room

Dinner has just ended. The apple crisp turned out just right, and my worry was for nothing. I turn on the radio, and push myself away from the table, retiring to the living room with my glass. Tonight is the first night this week that I can rest and after a few minutes, my mind starts to lose to my stomach. I empty my glass of eggnog, and my eyes slip shut. The warmth of the fire, and the lingering taste of rum push me over the edge. I resolve to fall asleep.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, in there!” my wife calls from the kitchen. Smirking, I reply “Don’t worry, hun. I’ll put the movie on when you come in here. Almost done?”

“Not yet. A few more pots. Somebody, didn’t use them to cook but managed to dirty them.”

I snicker.

“Did you say something? Hmm–wait till I cook tomorrow!”

I’m about to call out, when the music suddenly gets much louder. Pots clinking, she starts to sing. I know this; she’s feeling goofy.

“Sounds good, baby…” I call out, knowing that she hates that name, and that she knows she’s in the wrong key, has the timing all wrong, and doesn’t know the words. Moon-walking into the room, wearing her apron, she dances over to my chair. I pull her into my lap, and she snuggles into the chair with me. I lean over, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Movie time?” I ask.

With a glint of mischief in her eye, she turns her head, like she is going to give me a serious kiss. I lean in, and in one swift motion, she licks me.

Have a Merry Christmas!

d.r.t.

James ♡ Jana

I don’t support graffiti. ‘Tagging’ isn’t art.

But, occasionally I run across something that is carved into a desk, or scrawled on a wall that makes me stop for a minute and think. It isn’t necessarily that the message is profound, nor is it that it touches a truth. Sometimes it’s just my subjective interpretation, and sometimes it’s my imagination.

My neighborhood has the icon on the left spray-painted at the occasional bus stop, crosswalk, and outside of a few stores. I don’t know who James, or Jana are. I don’t even know if they’re real people, but I like to think they are. I like to think they’re in love–madly in love. Fireworks; looks full of joy; delight in each-other’s laughter. They are into one another, and they love each-other with abandonment.

James, if you care to know, is dark haired, kind of tall, slender, and never really grew into his body. His hair is disheveled, but always in a way that looks just right. He is a slow walker; he hunches over a little, plunging his hands deep into his pants pockets as he walks. James is a hopeless romantic, but tries to pretend he isn’t.

Jana, is striking. She’s tall, slender, and seems to get noticed by just about everyone–which causes her great discomfort. She likes bold colors, and often tries to match her scarf to her shoes. Her eyes have a hint of mischief. She likes kissing.

How, you may be asking, do the icons get on the ground? Well, I like to think that it’s a ritual. James and Jana do it together on their anniversaries. It was Jana’s idea–she’s kind of artistic like that. Late at night, on their one year anniversary they returned to the spot of their first date, and a tradition was born. All the places have meaning, the first: date, kiss, french-kiss, and then the place they first realized they love the other person.

I think that’s the story of James and Jana. It’s one of hope; it’s one of joy.

James and Jana do live happily ever after: their dates don’t falter, they don’t get cold when they go for walks on the beach, they drink mint teas and stay in when it’s raining, they can see the stars from Jana’s balcony. And, perhaps most importantly, it’s a story that they don’t know the ending to–but want to find out together.

d.r.t.

The Snow

The warmth from the running car, masks the chill of the cold. “Goodnight”, I say as I swing my legs onto the driveway, and step into the unplowed snow. “Thump” the door closes, and I’m very quickly left alone. I exhale into the cold, and start walking towards the house.

From here I can see that all the lights are off, except mine. The house is still, and the only sounds are: the wind blowing through the trees, my footsteps, and my breath. The snow squeaks, and crunches, as my feet sink into the cold drifts. The moon’s pale glow, illuminates my path. The barren trees cast long twisted shadows, and the evergreens are an indistinguishable mass of darkness.

I continue to trudge towards the house. The driveway is long. I stop. I look up, staring into the vastness of space. My warm breath spirals upward, dissipating into the night.

There are so many stars. I’m so small.

I start to pray.

d.

Part 1:The Coffee Shop

Sometimes I like to sit in a coffee shop and write. It somehow seems appropriate and I think it has something to do with being in an environment where I’m surrounded by people, but not involved with those people.

Today, however, I am involved. Not by choice though. You see, I seem to have writer’s block. I have before me a list of perfectly good topics–interesting, thrilling, emotional topics. When it comes down to writing, though, I’ve not been able to make any headway. Furthermore, I paid $4 for this ridiculous drink, so leaving before today is productive isn’t an option.

After about an hour of struggling in futility, I found myself drifting around the room. Taking stock of my fellow patrons wasn’t easy. I didn’t want them to know I was sizing them up. I would glance ever so briefly at someone, and then turn away, before they could sense my eyes.

In truth, the shop wasn’t particularly busy, or exciting. To my left is an old man reading the paper. He is dressed neatly in grey trousers, with a matching tweed jacket. I can’t know for certain, but I’d guess that his socks are pulled up to his knees. Further left, is the friendly, but frumpy clerk; and further still is a group of women who seem to be going through a morning ritual. At a table quite close to me, on my right, is another man about my age. He is somewhat tall, with dark features, and a melancholy posture. He is brooding before a table stacked with books.

My second glance at the man on my right is somewhat more liberal; it is less of a glance, and really more of a peer. I’m curious about his books and two titles are visible. Albert Camus’The Outsider and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea. The titles seem predictable, and I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t also have some Kierkegaard dispersed through the pile. He too, appears to be writing–which reminds me of why I came here, and paid for an overpriced drink. I’m just about to turn back to my work, when I notice a singular tear running down his face.

A Man, His Tea, and the Rain.

This evening, it’s been raining. Not a misty kind of rain, but a rain with drops: big, plump, and cold. You wouldn’t want to get caught unprepared in this rain. Dusk is settling, and the temperature is dropping; it feels unseasonably cold. As a consequence, I’m drinking a sugary tea and I’ve wrapped myself in a blanket, and have tucked my feet up under the covers and onto the couch.

My favorite tea until the last year or so has been peppermint. I certainly enjoy a good Earl Grey, or Orange Pekoe, but right now something else has captured my tea loving heart. It’s called coffee.

A little joke there. I am drinking tea. But tonight I don’t find myself drinking my favorite tea. Instead, I’m sipping away at a Moroccan Pomegranate Rooibos. It’s good, but not as good as Bengal Cinnamon Spice, which in turn isn’t as good as Madagascar Vanilla–my favorite.

Anyways, tonight I find myself thinking about a particular place. And, at this place there is a tree, and this old Beach tree dominates the landscape it is in. For reference, it’s the kind of tree that as a child you wouldn’t have been able to wrap your arms around, but would climb. As an adult, you still can’t wrap your arms around it, and feel beckoned to climb it. Part of what is making me think of this particular tree is its location. The tree hangs out over a rocky part of the Pacific ocean. On a warm summer night, I imagine that from this tree the mountains would provide a beautiful frame for the rich reds and purples of a sunset.

But, tonight isn’t a warm summer night. And right now, I have the unshakable image of a man perched in that tree on a night like tonight. From my vantage point, I can’t see his face. His jaw-line is sharp, and his face is stubbly and grizzled. His back is wedged against a branch, and his arms are puling his knees into his chest. He is wearing a thick grey sweater; he looks cold.

Tonight everything is turbulent. The wind is sweeping across the bay, aggravating the water, and pushing black waves high onto the shore. They crash on the rocks and throw up a foamy spray that smells like kelp. The tree, the tree I know about and that is rooted in my experience, is swaying wildly. I cannot know for certain, but it seems as though the man can feel the groaning, and flexing of the thick branch beneath him. The wind and rain seem to gust and strike him with a particular forcefulness.

The man, the man who’s face I can’t see, seems locked in a trance. His head is cocked towards the horizon of the open ocean. He seems fixed on a spot where the waves seem most treacherous, and the wind most unforgiving. In his fixation he doesn’t seem to notice the turbulence, and the chaos. He isn’t above it, or sheltered from it, but is in its midst. It seems that he is peacefully enjoying its beauty.

D.R.T.

Emotions, and Fiction.

[Push play:]

The house is empty, and because it’s so late, it’s also dark. Your eyes adjust slowly.

The moon’s faint glow gives you enough light to work your way to the stairs. Slowly ascending, your hand slides along the banister, and for the first time you notice the tactile feel of the wood. It feels cold.

Sinking into your bed feels good. The warmth of the blankets feels good. But, after a few minutes you realize that you’ve been staring up into the darkness. You’ve been thinking and remembering the past with a nostalgia that might not be all that healthy. Remembering enough of the good times to regret that they’re gone, and missing the people you used to be close to.

You prop yourself up against your pillow, take a deep breath, and sit wondering. Wondering what the point is; wondering where this is all going; wondering why.

And then, you fall asleep in a silence you wonder if you’ll ever shake.

D.R.T.