The griddle isn't hot enough

Her hands are shaking, but this is nothing.  She has become accustomed to the feeling; she does not notice it.

Youth fades in the eyes.  Hers hold a tainted innocence that's been worn away by what others may consider "growing up too quickly".

Walking along the street, she stares out in front of her, unaware.  In her mind, she is breezing by the shops and cars like a milkweed puff in the wind.  The dog that barks from across the street is nothing but muffled sound.  She is in a muted television.

Autumn air is crisp.  It bites the cheeks pink and raises collars to keep the neck warm.

Those who know nothing of her smile as she walks past, seeing nothing more than a pretty girl in stride down the street.  Those who have courted her see a skeleton, a body, that carries beauty and pain as if it were a trifling matter.  A mess of sorts, they pity her; they want to save her.



A sea rocks the small boat at sea.  Waves splash and tease, caressing and thrashing, licking and bruising.  Uncertainty in life, mixings like pancake batter.

Everyone else drinks lemonade

I can hear the ice against the glass.

Clink, clink.

Small beads of condensation form and roll down their vertical slip-and-slide, an iced tea that has yet to be touched.

A small piece of hair slides across her face as she leans to place her book and glasses down.  She doesn't brush it away, for she is not bothered by its presence.  Meredith is like that:  unfazed by little annoyances, always a pleasant aura around her.  Her hair is the color of a fawn in the sunlight, an innocent light brown.  Her skin is creamy and smooth like silk; it glows like a peach when she blushes.  Lips the shade of skin stained by raspberries, a mouth that breaks into a heartbreaking smile whenever someone tells a funny joke.

I first met Meredith when I was fourteen, young, and impressionable.  She was sixteen, and, oh, how I looked up to her.  She drove an old, beat-up Volkswagen Rabbit and smoked cigarettes at the time, a habit that her mother begged and pleaded for her to stop.  "I just can't seem to do it," she had said to me once.  "I try, but they always seem to end back in my hand.  It's like twisted fate."

"How did you start?"

"Oh, a party, you know..."  She looked off into the distance and took a drag.  "I went to my friend Chase's New Year's Eve party.  Two years ago.  I was stressed out; my parents had been fighting, my grades were slipping.  Chase had started the year before and offered me one.  I figured, heck, he doesn't seem too bad.  I had heard that smoking made you age faster and ruined your vocal chords.  But Chase still looked seventeen - he was seventeen then, three years older than me - and had a sexy voice.  So I took a chance and tried it.  And, dang, it felt great.  Like cinderblocks were lifted off of my shoulders."

I studied her face, watching as she pondered over her memory.  A melancholic smile formed at the side of her mouth and her eyes glistened slightly.

"I'll stop," she said, looking at me.  "I'll stop for you."

She touched my chin lightly, eyes locked with mine.



Sweat is starting to creep onto my forehead.  I brush it away with the back of my hand and shake it onto the grass.

Clink, clink, clink.

Meredith is taking a sip of her iced tea.  The delicate muscles in her neck ripple as she swallows the icy drink.  She finishes off the glass and catches my eye.

"Let's go lay in the hammock."

We rise from our seats in the sun and walk through the grass to the shady area in her backyard.  A big, majestic red maple tree stands there, its trunk thick with age and wisdom.  It's known Meredith her whole life.

I steady the hammock; Meredith climbs in.  I follow, sliding in next to her, our shoulders touching.

The hammock sways, our bodies feel almost weightless in our cocoon.  Meredith lifts her hand to shade her face from some of the sun that breaks through the leaves and licks her face.  She keeps her fingers spread and plays with the light.

I remember the time, early on in our blossoming friendship, when Meredith invited me over to her house and we laid in this very hammock.  We had been reading George Orwell's 1984; she had to read it for assignment at school and I offered to read it with her that day.  I was reading to her about O'Brien when she grabbed my hand suddenly and said, "Wait."  I stopped reading and glanced over at her and, before I knew it, she was leaning over me, the hammock swaying, and a kiss was placed on my lips.  It was ever so brief, so quick, that I hadn't time to process what was going on.  For that split second, I had felt the warmth of her lips, so soft and velvety, pressed against mine.  Time stopped for me, a whirlwind of confusion and a fireworked sky.  And then it was over and she was back to laying next to me, the hammock swaying like a ship in the sea, mimicking the way my mind felt.



We're swaying.  Meredith has her leg off of the side of the hammock, moving it back and forth to give us a light pendulum movement.  It's calming, laying there with her.  She runs her fingers through my hair and speaks of the future.

"I imagine I'll be on the beach, wading in the waves, soaking up the sun.  Maybe I'll even learn to surf. Wouldn't that be cool?"  She doesn't wait for a reply and continues on.  "I mean, I have decent balance.  I just need to learn to conquer the ocean."

She pauses, going off into her daydream.  I turn to look at her, see her face as she's creating dreams in her mind.  Her eyes have that distant look; her face is glowing and smiling.  Her eyes catch mine.

"You can visit, you know.  There will be plenty of room, and I'll make sure there is a spot for you."

I smile and turn my head back to look up at the leaves.  "Yeah," I say, "that'd be cool."



Once, when I was twelve, I asked my mother what love was like.  I so desperately wanted to have it, but I didn't quite understand it.

I sat at the kitchen table, feet going back and forth, back and forth, impatiently waiting a reply.

"Oh, I don't know, honey," she said.  "It differs from person to person.  And there is all sorts of it.  Like how your father and I love you, how I love your father, how I love my friends like Lindy and JoAnn."

I wrinkled my nose, disappointed in that answer.  "But what's it like with you and Daddy?"



The sun has moved and is starting to change the sky's color.  It is still warm out, though I no longer feel sweat forming on my body.  I reach down and put my fingers into Meredith's hand and wrap them around hers.  I can feel hers squeeze mine.  We lean our heads against each other.  I have nothing to say; I am simply enjoying the moment.

Forget who reads, forget who knows

It comes back without haste.

Beauty.

The big secret.

It is like when you first typed those letters those years ago, a script of your life, a passage.

It weighs heavily on your heart as you feel yourself floating upward, giddy.

You've only found yourself wishing like this once before, and, for that, you still sometimes find yourself wishing, daydreaming.

It is as if that night was last night.  The dim lighting, the small room, the purple ink, the slender frame, the delicateness, the suspicion, the truth.  How you wish you could live it again...

And, then, there is last night; the thoughts in the mind, the reading, the pumping, the jumping, the curiosity, the fear, and the happiness.

How many years has it been?

Is it possible to take this to the grave, when part of you tells you to shout it from the rooftops?

The other part is shy, scared, frightened, and partially shamed and embarrassed.

Forget who knows.
Forget who reads.


Take it to the grave.


...or take my hand; please take my hand.

It's been a while.

The pool is dark and brooding like a cloud passing over cerulean stained glass.  Octopi slowly crawl out of the water onto lily pads and dark bunches of slimy green aquatic plant life.  Their eyes are dark, but the small bit of light around the pool reflects brightly in their eyes as they stare into the darkness.  It's chilling, the way their eyes seep into your soul and make you shiver.

A ray of light shines through the water, highlighting dust particles as it creeps through and lands on its subject.  Motionless and calm, she sleeps for the rest of her eternity.

"Sometimes, they dump the bodies..."

I do not expect this from my friend's mouth, but she says the words so matter-of-factly, without so much as batting an eyelash, that I do not question her.  I stare into the water.

Her hair is a soft dirty blonde, short and shoulder-length.  Young.  Maybe she is twenty-seven, twenty-eight.  I cannot see her face, for she lays on her side, back facing us.  She's clad gracefully in a white shirt and gray-blue jeans.  No signs of cuts or bruises are on her body, and I wonder how she died.  I feel nauseous.

I want to look away from the pool, look away from the sight of the lit water and dead body, but the image is burned into my memory.  The way she lays there, motionless, the way the water makes soft rippled shadows on the pool's soft sandy floor...  I cannot look away, and, when I do, it is as if I am still looking.

Panic and fear strike the body; waking is possibly worse than living the dream.  She forever rests on the bottom of the pool, and we will never know her story.

Thumbtack

I really love quiet mornings.  There's something about the serene beauty of it all.

The sun rises and shines.  Every living thing seems to greet each other.  I feel as though the flowers wake up and smile at each other, warm hellos passed through their little smiles.

I don't really have much to write on this topic.  My mind is vivid with pictorials and such, but I'd rather swim in my own imagination and let you let yours wander, too.  Wake up in the morning and see what I'm talking about.  Do not speak with others, but quietly walk around (with your mug of coffee or tea, if you wish) outside and notice things.  It's quite beautiful.  Let yourself sink into the earth and feel.  Just feel.  Imagine.

I hope you have a wonderful morning.