Some New Poetic Speakers

Lately, the speakers in my writing (in my poetry, especially) have been feisty. Feisty and pissed off and not afraid to let everyone know it. In a recent poem, I have the speaker mailing back a blanket to an ex-lover, after a cat has given birth to six kittens on it. In another, Enya goes out the window to be replaced by Green Day shaking the neighbors’ walls. (For the record, I actually like Enya. Part of my childhood and new age-y aunt influences.) I don’t know where they’re coming from, these angsty, taking-no-shit, (and I think) very frustrated females. Because they’re distinctively female in my mind. (I’m still waiting for a good male speaker to show up, he’s there, just very deep and very quiet for now.)

Maybe one cause can be attributed to a quote I saw on Tumblr recently, taken from Scott Lynch’s Republic of Thieves that went thusly:

A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command, the world mutters darkly about her moods.

I dabble in feminist readings/articles–I’d like to get more into it, the way some of my friends are. They know stuff. I know a little bit. I’m taking a Women’s Literature course this semester which has been phenomenal. Our white Western male perspective frustrates me, as much as I  know there are so many people working to bring new perspectives, new voices into the mainstream. It feels like swimming upstream–changing centuries of history. Sometimes it’s  hard to identify it in yourself–I caught myself wondering if I should post one of the more vengeful poems on Tumblr. Well hey, I said. The speakers in your poems aren’t you. If people read them as you, well, tough. And why be apologetic for having an angry female speaker? Buck up, buttercup. I posted them.

Another cause might be one of my female professors talking about how some of her male colleagues don’t understand why walking alone to the parking lot after her late class makes her nervous.

“Women really worry about that kind of stuff?” one asked.

Deep, deep sigh.

Here’s a third for possible female speaker frustration: in the last two months, various family/family friends (including my mother) have asked if I’m in a relationship, if I’ve “found” anyone yet, and expressed anywhere from mild surprise to profound shock at hearing that I am not, nor am I looking that hard. (My mom hastily countered her response with, “Well good. Don’t settle,” but there’s still a little bit of asdjf;kajs;sjdsa panic there too behind her eyes.)

And lastly, In the latest InStyle magazine, Jennifer Lawrence was interviewed and the journalist made the mistake of asking if “Have you given any thought to having kids?” The following scene ensues:

Her eyes go dull. “I love kids and I hope I have kids someday, but not now,” she recites.
“So you’d like to fall in love and have some babies? Any immediate plans?”

She glares at me. I’m reminded of her character in Winter’s Bone the scene where she’s showing her two younger siblings how to skin a squirrel and pull out the guts. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. (InStyle, December 2013)

I gave a giant eyeroll at the interviewer’s question. Like, really? REALLY? Lawrence’s response cheered me up though–I think I’m going to start using that tactic. I don’t want to talk about it. I have other, more important things to do than answer nosy questions about my relationship status, thank you. I also dislike that this question had to come up. It was unfortunately inevitable and I was waiting for it, and sure enough. Ta-da.

So yeah, I guess it makes sense that the female speakers in my poems are a little on edge. Kind of fed-up with the gooey romance stuff and the six rows in Walmart dedicated to make-up and other beauty products, and that so much of society is oblivious to the pressures put on women, 21st century notwithstanding. I’m lucky–I have some incredible male friends, my father identifies as a feminist, and I go to a pretty liberal school. But I repeat: I’m lucky.

At any rate: be on the look-out for some feisty speakers in the next few weeks. They’re here and they are loud.

Clotheslining Love Across My Room

So I’m thinking about revamping some poems into a collection, like a comprehensive thing, something whose pages you could flip. Part of it can probably be attributed to being in poetry workshop and having my pieces literally ground into nice little image fragments and thrown back at me. The other part can be attributed to this increasing feeling that I need to stop playing around at writing and actually write. One of my professors works a full time day job and is also teaching three classes on the side–Creative Writing and INTD-105 (freshman writing seminar), both of which require an immense amount of reading/editing/critical thinking. Being a TA for one of the INTD-105 sections has shown me how much effort goes into the process–and I’m not teaching the class, by any means, nor am I grading. But holy shit. This professor is also currently working on her novel–she says she gets about 4 hours a weekend to write, which translates into about 2 pages of actual writing–plus you know, singlehandedly caring for her horses and other animals, upkeep of her 3-acre property. If she can write, dammit, so can I. If I want to be doing this for the rest of my life, I’ve got to start now, and I’ve got to have some kind of focus. Perhaps another part of it is that I feel this tremendous pressure to graduate having accomplished something concrete with my undergrad degree. Which is unreasonable, of course, but I’m unreasonable about expectations in the first place.

At any rate, being in poetry workshop has made me see verse in a different way. Things like “love” and “happy” and “sadness” and “anger” get pitched out the window.

“Get rid of the abstractions.”

“Cut wordiness.”

“Get rid of your gerunds.”

One friend calls it “slashing-and-burning”–to get to healthy stuff, you’ve got to cut away all the dead parts. I went back to some poems I’d written last semester, this summer, this fall. To be honest, I was rather horrified. I spent a good half hour last night slashing and burning; perhaps saving a line, an image, but tossing a lot of the poem overboard. I had stanzas filled with vague images.

It’s also interesting now, to look at these poems critically. Poems I wrote in the middle of some desperate, soul-searching, obsessive frame of mind. Poems that felt like a surgical procedure gone wrong, like I’d gotten a defect heart to transplant my own, poems that bled everywhere. They were a lot of raw emotion, a lot of words just thrown around in stanza form, and it’s time to clean it up. To start making the poems less about me and more about an experience. To distance myself from the speaker and let the speaker take on his/her own persona. I can write from a calmer place now, mold the ideas into images that speak without telling. I think a lot of poetry is about the way images make you feel–and I know there’s so much more than that. But for me, when I read a poem, if an image makes me stop and I can’t quite put my finger on why I think it’s so beautiful, or stirring, or sad, or whatever else, I like that poem. For example, I bought Laurie Saurborn Young’s new collection, Carnivoria, off these first three lines:

                                   “When I say roses, I mean how
to change a light bulb with my teeth. How to peer

through a million wires until I see your fading skin.”

The freshness and striking imagery made me want to read more. I bought the book. And that is what I mean, I guess, when I say that a lot of times we feel things we can’t quite express. I wanted to write about how selling the house I spent my teenage years in felt sad but not sad–like I should have cried, but I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything, just a calm acceptance that this was happening. Or how I sometimes think that our stories with another person aren’t always over, even when we think they are, and how love takes so many different kinds of shapes. And how when I say “I love you”, it doesn’t always mean “forever”, but it never means that I don’t believe in what I’m saying.

So I’m going through the twenty or so poems that I wrote–one of my friends jokingly referred to an acquaintance as “my muse”, and she may have been right. But I think in the end, these poems are more of a journey–an arc, if you will, about trying to keep someone close, even if you’re strangling each other in the end.

**

Also, happy October, dear readers. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting as much. Excuses, excuses, but here they are.

Poems For My Father

I.

You used to sing a song
about a tree “with roots growing down to the water,
and leaves growing up to the sunshine.”
That was my honeysuckle childhood
song when your fingers lullabied on guitar strings,
when I learned about faith, trying
to hit the right notes and trusting
your voice would catch me.

You were my tree, planting
roots in sturdy soil,
lifting me to your shoulders so I learned to see,
and kiss the sun with chubby cheeks.
You are my caffeinated adolescence,
stirring raisins into my oatmeal, sweet
bursts of good morning love with a side of forehead kisses
and coffee. I studied the art of learning
from you. I discovered a cosmos of “Why’s”,
and made a game out of finding something you didn’t know.

You are my song, keys
tapping on a different kind of instrument.
Words about you come hard,
like trying to describe a child’s smile the first time,
or the way the ocean salt water soothes
the rawest places in my heart.
How do you describe a song  whose intricacies
only you can hear?
You are my lullaby, my mixed tape, my wedding march,
you are my soundtrack into adulthood,
playing behind one a,m. conversations,
tinkling in the chime of beer bottles clinked together,
the hum of the truck as you drive me to work.

Tree songs for you,
love notes scattered throughout the branches,
whispering softly in a late summer breeze. I am home
with you, the hummingbird who has flown across seas
to find her place again.

Love Is…

Love is your father bringing you coffee in bed, because he knows you had one hell of a night at work and all you want to do is lie in bed and feel every cell in your body start to ache a little less. Love is your mother painting your toenails the night before you leave for college, while you lean your head on your hand, and she tells you comforting stories about when she was your age. Love is waiting for your best friend with movies and gin & tonics when she gets back from saying goodbye to her long distance boyfriend, heart-tired and with eyes that have wept oceans on the way home. Love is waking up early to make pancakes, coffee, and eggs for tired parents who spent their night making the yard look beautiful after serving others all day. Love is kissing your mother on the forehead as she sits on the couch, pretending to read, but thinking about the patient she lost today, because you can see that sadness in the crease between her eyes. Love is a drive in the dark around the lake, with a too tired girl who has become grown-up too fast, because she needed to talk and it’s safer in the dark. Love is homemade chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven. Love is in letters you send to people you  miss, to remind them that yes, there is someone thinking of you always, and here’s a reminder that even though we don’t always talk, or even if we do, I need you in my life. Love is cooking for others, because food is the great bond, an expression of joy and personality and the essence of hospitality. Love is 2 am hospital visits with a housemate, even though you don’t have to, even though you have an 8:30 am class, but because you know you’ll never fall back asleep again anyway, and people have always come before class. Love is a midnight walk during finals week, in the freezing cold, because you can’t take it anymore, you have to cry on someone’s shoulder and let someone else carry your weight for an hour. Love is biting your tongue sometimes, because even if we know–or think we know–what’s best for someone else, sometimes they have to discover it for themselves. Love is the dog who struggles to his feet every morning to be close to his humans, even though his back legs are weak and he can’t move very fast. Love is the cat who curls up next to your face in the middle of a wracking coughing fit, purring your fever away, one protective paw on your chest. Love is trying to believe that things will be alright, that some things are meant to be, and also that others are not, and accepting that too. Love is waking up in the morning next to someone and feeling like the luckiest person alive. Love is a kind word, a held door, a friendly smile, an outstretched hand.

Love is what makes our faces glow, our hearts melt, and our hands shake. It makes our hearts skip, our eyes light up, our mouths stretch. It is unassuming, all-encompassing, and it is what makes our world alive.

**
Just feeling rather thankful for the people in my life today. I love you all. 

Coffee Chats & Growing Older

“ARE YOU HOME?”

My friend Connor and I are only half an hour apart at college, but we see each other infrequently, at best. College has a way of sucking people into their own spheres, and if you are not the proud possessor of a car (as I am not), it’s rather difficult to get unstuck. We promised to try and see more of each other this semester–I’ve got MGMT coming for our spring concert and he’s got Macklemore & Lewis at his, so we might swapsies and take an excuse to visit while we can.

“YES I’M HOME CAN WE SEE EACH OTHER PLEASE.”

Connor and I have been friends since eighth grade, I had a raging crush on him then, we ended up fighting for a year, and then realized all the stupid middle school angst wasn’t worth it, and became friends again. We enjoy among other things a love of baking, Imogen Heap/Feist/Sara Bareilles/Ingrid Michaelson, cats, artsy fartsy stuff, writing, and music. Also coffee. Lots of coffee.

He picked me up (we had both only rolled out of bed about 20 minutes before) and we headed to our town’s tiny local diner. There is barely room for four tables and the counter and there’s no getting a seat during the summer, unless you wake up at 6 am. It’s charmingly cozy; one rubs elbows with your omelette-munching neighbors at the counter, and the odds are pretty good that you’ll see all the regulars hunched over their mahogany-colored coffee cups first thing in the morning. The waitresses are all familiar faces and they whip wonderfully greasy plates of bacon, eggs, and homefries out of the kitchen, only to return emptied plates a bit later. We were lucky; we squeezed into the last two counter seats, waving at a friend’s sister across the table, and apologizing as we bumped into a lady from church on our way to the seats. Small town life.

“Do you want coffee?” the waitress asked.

“Oh, yes,” we both said emphatically, and I buried my nose in a cup as soon as it got to me. Don’t talk to me before some form of caffeine has been pumped into my system. I’m afraid Connor got a half-hearted hello when he first picked me up, mostly for that reason.

Catching up amid cinnamon-roll pancakes and a bacon omelette was wonderful. The Diner stayed at full capacity and we eventually, reluctantly gave up our seats, still yakking as we walked out into the snowy March air. (I RAGED when I came home and saw snow. Cursed a blue-streak when I saw the frozen over lake and a snowstorm pelting the windowshield. It is MARCH, come ON Cooperstown. What are you doing, stop this nonsense.) Our conversation somehow deviate towards things like relationships (me, none, but that’s not unusual; him, just having gotten out of one without many regrets), future plans, and promises to eventually move in together, when we’re both poor and desperate. If my future hangs on getting into an MFA Creative Writing program and making a living that way, well, he better do damn well at his Computer Science degree so he can support me in my haiku-selling poverty. And also bake me delicious things.

We ambled down to our local coffeeshop, Stagecoach, and sat basking in the new addition they’ve just put on. Afternoon sun just absolutely pours in from the two French doors. There’s lovely vintage posters of coffee everywhere, a gorgeous silver hunky coffee grinder in the corner, and extra tables and booths which is wonderful for the summer. I am blessed with wonderful, compassionate, intelligent friends. I miss sitting down with my high school friends and talking about everything under the sun, and hearing their opinion and advice. We map out futures, creative ideas, laugh about old jokes, tell stories from our new lives.

Eventually I tugged him home to read poetry I intend on submitting to contests and also to take shameless advantage of his piano playing skills.

“Have you touched a piano lately?”

He was our high school chorus pianist and I was always envious of the way he could sit down and sight read. It clearly hasn’t mattered much that he hasn’t touched a piano in awhile. You couldn’t tell. Well, perhaps he could. I couldn’t.

I sat next to him and sang, which I haven’t done in awhile. A good jam session is good for the soul. It felt like high school again. We both played a few songs, I sang a little more, and my dad came in to chat for a bit. Computer terminology whizzed right over my head, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves; they both got that excited gleam in their eye. I shrugged helplessly and let them go, just enjoying the way they both lit up about the topic. (I love to see something people are passionate about; the way they get excited or get a tender look in their eyes.)

We eventually had to say goodbye; he to consign himself to a day of writing code and me consigning myself to a day of editing a series of submissions for my internship. (I will flip tables if I have to re-cite one more APA style paper into MLA, I swear.)

Grown-up life getting in the way of a day of just lazing about. We’re not children anymore. But I am so comforted in the midst of all this change, knowing I have friends like this, who are willing to take the next step forward into adulthood.

Books of Poetry

I rarely buy books of poetry.

It’s not that I don’t love reading it. I do, but I also feel like poetry is one of those things best read in small pieces, and a whole book seems somehow overwhelming. I own two books of poetry: one by Rumi and one of Sylvia Plath’s. Those have been the exceptions to my rule, up until now.

One of the best things about being in college is that things are constantly being offered to you. Things like poetry readings. I was offered extra credit to attend the poetry reading being given by poet Allison Titus, but I wanted to go anyway. I don’t do enough cultural things in college, I really don’t. Besides, a professor I highly respect spoke glowingly of Titus and that was enough to make me want to go.

I now own three books of poetry.

To say that Titus spoke to my soul is cliche. But to say that her words left me breathless and aching to hear more is more or less accurate. I wanted to cry, listening to her read her work. I happen to have a very raw, emotional reaction to good poetry, the kind that hollows you out inside and settles in the space its created.

Lines like:

The way you look in that dress called twilight. It is nothing you can say come back here to. (Sum of Every Ship, page 64)

Or:

The parts

of me that are on fire can’t

put the parts of you that are on fire out.

(Sum of Every Ship, page 7)

Or:

Had I one unhaunted season.

Had I a mule to falter the path at your ankles.

I would carry both to your doorstep and beg your pardon, Forgive

your grief its almanac size.

(Sum of Every Ship, page 60)

I could go on and on. Images rose up on the seas of her words. Titus is serene in her presence, but funny; the spark of liveliness and life bubbling up just under the skin. It’s barely tangible, the way you can see veins beneath the skin.

I told her after the reading that I write poetry, sometimes, infrequently. I’m an amateur, I said. I do it for fun.

She wrote in my book:

To Amy–
in poetic solidarity! and with best wishes.

yours,

allison

I spent the rest of the evening poring over her thin volume. Just, savoring. Reading and re-reading.

I will leave you with my favorite stanza or so of hers and the exhortation to go find her book and buy it, because it’s worth every penny. Here is a link, to make it all the easier. You can also find more about the author here.

**

Think of the nights that

have broken without a word,

have left a starless sky

in your throat.

Fever

The most important decisions get made in that magical crescent between sleep and consciousness. Unless you really make an effort to impress them into your memory before you fog out into blackness and then dreamland, you never quite remember them in the morning. And I, fading in and out between the realms of sleep and awake all day, had quite a few important realizations.

I would like to say I am able to do everything. I am able to do quite a lot, which some people who know me well may regard as an understatement. Unfortunately, this weekend has proved to show that I am, in fact, quite human, and not capable of doing everything. It made its point by having a a cold sent straight from hell into my system on Wednesday, and it’s flattened me to my bed since Friday. (I’m not even kidding–it’s like a Flu Wannabe; all the usual sniffles and coughs are there, plus a tremendous lack of energy and a fever that won’t take no for an answer, despite taking Tylenol faithfully, something my kidneys I’m sure are grateful for.)  There is nothing like a good cold to remind you of your mortality.

So at any rate, this weekend Nature rang and left her calling card, a pointed warning for me to slow down. I got a human reminder too, in the form of a scathing, but well-deserved email, telling me to slow down. I forget, sometimes. I want to be everything to everyone at all times, but I forget that I can’t do the job as well, if I’m being asked to do twenty jobs. I also forget it’s bad for me, to keep saying “yes”, not just for me, but for everyone involved. It’s also good for my pride, to remember that I am not superwoman, and although I pride myself of being the queen of having it all together, I only stretch so far, and I shouldn’t ask myself to stretch that far. And usually, when I start to suffer from a swollen ego or show any signs of starting to get prideful, someone or something usually kicks it in the teeth and it goes right away. Something about Fate or Nature or my mother likes to keep me humble. It’s good for me, in the long run, although the lesson almost always stings when it’s being administered.

Fever dreams are odd too–full of bright flashes of color and noise, and then long, drawn-out episodes that seem to be repeating the same story over and over. You come back to the same themes and people and the same place, but it’s the same, yet not quite. They’re like stories your subconscious has been puzzling over for weeks, but couldn’t be bothered to inform your conscious about, but here you are now, with a 102.6 degree fever, past all dream barriers. You won’t remember the dreams when you wake up shivering, but you’ll have the funniest feeling about what you dreamed, and it’ll be an itch that’ll stay with you all day, until you go back to fever dreams later. And the fever itself, to feel your skin very warm and simultaneously feel like someone dressed you in wet clothes and stuck you out in the middle of a February snowstorm. You can’t stop shivering. You can’t get warm, and then all of a sudden, the seven or so blankets you’ve piled on are suffocating, and they’re all on the floor, until the next round of February snowstorm hits.

I read a lovely snippet from poet Andrea Gibson’s Tumblr on Friday, and I smiled, because it was so fitting.

It read:

say every fever

is a love note

to remind you

there are

better things

to be

than cool.

You can find the original here.

So yes, perhaps. There are better things to be than cool, and that I mean in all terms of the word. Perhaps this fever has reminded me there are more important things for me to do than worry about how others see me or how I measure up. I have always sailed my own ship, and I fully intend to be captain of a fleet one day.

Why I Write 2013

I write because it clears the cluttered rooms in my head. I write to be honest with myself. I write because I love to fill up a blank page. I write to improve my penmanship. I write to warn people I am not perfect, to avoid setting a standard I cannot meet. I write because I have always believed words will change the world and I want to be a part of that change. I write because I’m self-obsessed and I like to pretend my life is interesting. I write to tell stories for people who will never tell their own. I write because people tell me I’m good at it and I need that validation. I write to find my voice in the clamor and chaos of everyone else. I write because it’s one thing I can’t trip over. I write to admire. I write because of the way the late afternoon sun turns everything golden and the way the trees look covered in snow. I write because I read. I write to give back. I write for posterity. I write to invite others into my corner of the world. I write to become a better person. I write because I can’t imagine not writing. I write to fill a hole. I write to get to the bottom of the hole. I write to let my snarky, cantankerous eighty-year old self with her six cats out. I write to be braver. I write to make people laugh. I write so I can feel the hearts beating of those around me. I write so people can hear my heart beating. I write to understand what this life is all about. I write to find patience with others. I write to find patience with myself. I write to be a child again. I write to erase and rewrite and delete and edit. I write because it is a part of me, as much as my hands or feet or eyes. I write to be humbled. I write because I am arrogant. I write because it feels like praying on paper.

Why I Write 2011
Why I Write 2011 (part 2)
Why I Write 2009

Hold on, to me as we go.

Hold on, to me as we go.

I have held so many people this year. In times of loss and suffering, we extend a hand. We stretch out our arms. We touch each other. Flesh meets flesh. Fingers wrap around other fingers, a hand, an arm, a shoulder, and we are comforted.

As we roll down this unfamiliar road.

At my age, at our age, we don’t know where we’re going. We’re damn lucky if we do. So we hold onto each other. We take a lot of unfamiliar roads. Sometimes others can’t follow us down those roads and we take them alone. Sometimes we travel together and figure everything out as we go. Sometimes there’s no light where we walk and an unexpected person hands you a candle to light your way.

And although this wave is stringing us along

For some reason, death has been very present lately. My aunt passed in the beginning of December. The Newtown shooting occurred. Two dear friends are battling suicidal thoughts–death hovers in the wings, waiting, always waiting. I see the shootings and the war overseas on the news every night. And today, it all came crashing down, as I looked into a friend’s eyes, so ravaged with the pain of losing his brother on New Year’s Eve. And in this new year, such a bright light has already been extinguished. I am so blessed and lucky. I gather my family and friends in my arms and thank God every day now. But I turn my music, Home by Phillip Phillips begins, and the tears begin to stream. There has been so much loss, so much death, so much heartbreak lately. And it seems, that no matter what kind of a person you are, no matter how much you give and love and try, some nights are especially dark. And they stay that way for awhile. I cast my tiny spark into that darkness wherever I can, but there are nights when I can do nothing but double over and weep for all the pain in the world. For the pain I feel, for this world that is so good at killing and tearing people down, for the unfairness that bad things happen to good people.

Just know you’re not alone.

Never alone. That is why we extend our hands, stretch out our arms, why I held my friend today, tight and tighter, like my arms could take his pain away. I smiled through my tears–just know you’re not alone. What a degree of comfort there, to have someone to turn to. To have someone reach out and hold your hand. I am there. I will always be there. If someone needs me, I will be there. That is my promise to the world, to myself.

Cause I’m gonna make this place your home.

I have often said if I can bring a little more love into this world, raise a good family, give back the goodness I have found, I will have led a good life. I want to create a space of tolerance and love and compassion wherever I go, and I’ll know my little square of the earth is alright. One more square of the earth that isn’t bloody and dark and ugly. The world needs more love. Love is that tiny spark you cast into the darkness; a thousand sparks might catch on fire and burst into flame, igniting this world.

Settle down, it’ll all be clear.

A deep breath. A good cry. A night of unbroken sleep. Time away. Conversation with someone dear. Let the dust settle. Close your eyes. Write. This too shall pass.

Don’t pay no mind to the demons

We all have them. Those inner voices that tell you a multitude of things. Some of us have a larger fight than others. It’s taken me twenty years to close the door in their face, but sometimes they open the window. But I’ve learned to rise in the morning and raise my chin and toss my hair in defiance in the mirror. A coat of red lipstick and a spray of perfume and I’m armored against the demons that tell me I’m going nowhere, that I’m not pretty, or the host of other hateful whispers.  I laugh louder, give more, and plant my feet more stubbornly because of them.

They fill you with fear.

I will not be afraid in the face of this darkness. Kindness goes far. Love reaches wide. I will not let this fear cripple me. I will hold and love and give until the day I die.

The trouble it might drag you down

But that’s why we’re here. To pull you back up again. To re-learn again and again the resilience of the human spirit. To say “No” to the demons. To say “Yes” to holding hands and love notes and singing spontaneously and hugs.

If you get lost, you can always be found.

I always think of Sarah Kay’s poem “If I Should Have a Daughter” and her opening lines:

“Instead of mom, she’s going to call me “Point B”
Because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.”

It’s not so hard to find someone. It starts by extending your hand and saying “Hello”. Let yourself be found.

Just know you’re not alone.

Never alone.

Let someone know you’re there for them. You never know who may secretly need it.

**Lyrics from Phillip Phillips “Home”; found here.

Aged 16 or 17, big smile.

I turned around
and there you were.
A tall, dark figure
in your peacoat
and hat,
protected against the cold,
but not against the chill.
I shivered.
“Hi,” I said,
climbing off the counter.
“Hi,” you said,
moving towards me,
brown eyes dazed,
bravery turning up your mouth,
fresh brewed grief
darkening the new lines
on your face.
“I heard,” I said,
and held out my arms,
because that was the only thing
I could give.
I would have given all of myself,
if I knew how.
“I don’t understand.
I don’t know why.
I don’t understand,”
you whispered,
the whisper caught somewhere
between my hair and my shoulder,
hanging there,
haunted words,
a defeated admission from someone
who has been turning over “Why”
in his hands for hours and hours
and has failed to find an answer.
I patted your back and held you close,
as if by holding you tight,
tighter,
I could leach this ashy pain
from your heart,
from yours,
to mine
because the unfathomable anguish
in your eyes dropped my heart
into my stomach,
acid eroding,
burning.
You squared your shoulders,
trying to be a man,
tears sitting gently on the edges
of your eyes,
waiting to stand and roll
down your face,
and I wondered
how many times you’d blinked them away today.
“Do you have a guestbook?”
youasked,
and I wished I had a thousand
to give to you,
to end your searching
on this cold, snowswept January day,
so you could go home
to your family
and stop being brave.

For the last time,
the big brother takes care
of his little brother,
a guestbook
for baby brother’s funeral,
baby brother,
aged sixteen
or seventeen,
big smile.
Found by his father,
his life ended with the old year.
I hugged you again,
aching with you
heartbeat for heartbeat–
it was the only thing I could give,
I would have given all of myself,
if I knew how.
You smiled again,
brave, shattered smile,
dark, puppy dog eyes filled
with a nameless new kind of hurt,
voice low and holding steady–
just barely, for now.
Your shoulders squared again,
and you were gone,
head bowed against the wind
and the emptiness
of the world without
your little brother,
aged sixteen
or seventeen,
big smile.

**
RIP Colin. You will be so missed.