Tire Swing

December 26th, 2023

You sit beside the river sapling and imagine a story written in the tread of a new set of tires; words forming in the grooves, like oak letterpress blocks. With every revolution, the plot is spelled out upon the dirt and sand and gravel; a tale that speaks of places you have been, and those that built who you have become. And when the tread is aged and worn, you perch upon its tire; strung from an old, gnarly oak branch along the cold river’s edge. As you swing, back and forth, gripping the faded rubber, your mind befriends the shallow impressions that lie beneath your hands. And when you close your eyes, you begin to remember a story…

Glass House

November 14th 2023

I watch as a lone, feminine figure moves about within the walls of a Glass House; her short brown hair falling just at her shoulders, wavy with the humidity of the late-summer morning. I observe as she moves from one room to another, and then another. Her strides are swift as she searches desperately within the transparent space, coming up empty-handed in every room. What I recognize as fear begins to fill her eyes, welling up and spilling over. She falls to her knees.

And then, she screams.

At first they are silent, inaudible to the passerby, and only recognizable by the anguish on her face behind the glass. Over and over and over, she screams.

Suddenly, with one compelling exhale, the wall before her shatters into sharp fragments that surround her bare feet and ankles. As she lifts her head, she realizes what the power of her breath has done and stands to her feet. She wipes her tears. The three adjacent walls soon fall.

The screaming is soon detectable, filling the air around the house, and before long, the Glass House in its entirety lays shattered on the ground. The woman walks barefoot, without as much as a wince in pain, and disappears into the tree line.

As I approach the house, I notice a pattern in the rubble; a discernible arrangement of glass formed from the remnants of the house, each room displaying a different word:

Self-doubt Hatred Anxiety Alcohol Depression Regret

And I begin to wonder if, in the woman’s desperation, she realized that the weight of her life was determined by the things she allowed to take up space in her mind. And so, she rid herself of the things that did not deserve a room.

Because closing the door isn’t always enough.

Sometimes it takes tearing the walls down completely.

Rose Petals

October 8th 2023

A petal falls slowly, breaking away from the dried rose that rests in an empty bottle, once filled with liquor from the honey plains. The Psalms peek out from below an old field book, the cover torn and aged, and your fingers strum a tune as I hum beside you. Though unnamed, the rhythm is still known, the melody still played, and the words are still found. I wonder if this moment was already written on the strings of your guitar, long before we sat in this space, together in graceful unity.

As We Sleep

September 24th 2023

My eyelids flicker as I wake to a tickle upon my skin; a honey bee resting for a moment on the bridge of my nose. I scrunch and the bee gracefully takes flight, disappearing into the wildflowers. I turn my head and see that my book lays face-down beside me, open to the last page I read, and my glasses perch on its cover. My body is partially shaded, the sun still warm upon my face, and I realize that I have been asleep for quite some time.

I dreamt of you as I slept; remembering when you came to this place, tucking a sprig of baby’s breath behind my ear. I remember feeling the palm of your hand slipping into mine, your fingers lacing between my fingers. I remember your bare feet resting against the curves of mine as you lay beside me in the grass. The blooming faces of coneflowers and daisies and purple loosestrife towered over us.

As I stand to my feet, gathering my things, I take a step back. My heart rises in my chest as I look upon the imprint of two bodies, one more defined than the other, in the earth where I lay. I look upward, searching for you along the tree line and on the trails, but am only reminded of my loneliness.

And I begin to wonder if I was even dreaming at all.

The Unhoused Resident

August 28th 2023

I spotted his dark, worn suitcase before his figure came into view, and I half assumed I would find him asleep. As I approached on the sidewalk, I realized that he sat still, hunching over, with his left hand gripping two plastic bags filled with his additional belongings. His body, tired and frail, sat beside The Big Bag ice cooler, which hummed quietly. I scuffed my shoe and he lifted his head slightly.

He spoke in a low voice, murmuring in my direction when he recognized me. I noticed that the loose curls laying upon his head were tangled and dry and streaked with grey. His left eye, which was once as deep of a golden brown as the right, was a similar, cloudy hue. And his smile was as kind as always.

…

As I drove to work, I wondered if he had found housing. I wondered if he stayed clean long enough to be in a rehab program. I wondered if an employer gave him a chance for a while. I wondered if his blindness led him to a darkness that he was unable to return from. I wondered if the needles haunted him, filling his veins with poison. I wondered why, after all this time, he returned to this place. But, as I recalled the way his hunger and thirst were quenched, I understood.

I wasn’t hungry anyways.

A Cup of ‘Shine

August 5th 2023

I walked along the dark, rocky path until I came upon a group of men, seated around a fire, singing and laughing and sipping from old hammered copper cups. The orange-ish glow of the fire, paired with their drink, sat warm upon their faces.

The first of the men, sporting a scruffy, overgrown beard, strummed an old banjo to the tune of Cripple Creek. The second man, with a kind, aged face, proudly sang along.

I got a girl and she loves me
She’s as sweet as sweet can be
She’s got eyes of baby blue
Makes my gun shoot straight and true.

The third man tapped his foot to the beat, poking at the fire with a branch, and harmonizing with glee. As the tune came to an end, the fourth man erupted in laughter, and the group whistled and hollered. They poured another cup, and then another, and when I finally approached, the second man stood to his feet, spilling only a few drops from his cup. He crossed his feet, bowed and raised his arms up at his sides. The men hooted with surprise. When he righted himself again, he exclaimed:

“Allow me to introduce to you - The Moonshine Sippin’ Banjo Men!”

April

July 18th 2023

The sun had begun to rise earlier, and with its presence came the songs of restless birds - sparrows and cardinals - calling to one another in the brisk morning air. Oftentimes, I found myself resting in the soft light, closing my eyes and surrendering to the melodies around me.

One morning, I awoke to the sound of heavy machinery pulling into the front lawn of my home. The commotion forced me from my bed and to the second-story window where I knelt and looked down upon a group of men clamoring about; hauling trowels and buckets and pushing wheelbarrows piled high with red bricks. Two large trucks parked with their rear axles on the lawn, gouging into the thawed earth and I wondered what would come of the tulip bulbs that laid beneath the surface. Shortly later, a third truck arrived. I strained to listen, but even the voice of the mourning dove was overtaken.

I grabbed a long t-shirt and hurried down the stairs. When unlocking the deadbolt and reaching for the door handle, my pinky toe caught on a piece of paper, which had been slipped under the front door at some point in the night. I grabbed it from the floor. It read:

“Thank you for your patience as we make necessary changes to your property.”

Without question, I turned the lock and returned to the solitude of my room.

By the tenth day, I was no longer awoken by the sun in the morning, and the view from my window was replaced with layers upon layers of red and brown bricks, forming a wall around the four corners of my home. I worried for the birds, their home, and their young. I peered upwards, meeting the tired and weary eyes of a young dove. She did not sing.

I laid in bed, soon embracing the darkness.

One morning I woke to a stillness; one I had not experienced in quite some time. The sound of bricklayers, hollering to one another, was replaced with a deafening silence. I sat up and pinched my forearm, forcing myself out of a dream, should I be in one, and found that I was not. I knelt at the window and peered outside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the abyss, but they refused. I returned to my bed, covering my face with the comforter, and fell asleep. 

Some days later, a soft tapping sound, unlike that of human cause, entered my mind. I drifted in and out of a dazed state, and soon rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was drawn to the window once again and I searched desperately in the darkness, hoping to discover the source of the sound. Tap tap tap. I sat for a while, squinting, attempting to focus.

Suddenly, a brick fell, revealing a gap halfway up the wall. Sunlight poured through it, lighting the space around me in a soft glow. Tap tap tap. Another brick fell. And another. And soon, another.

Through the gap, the silhouette of a small bird appeared, and it leapt from the edge of the brick that it sat upon, gliding downward and approaching where I knelt in the window. She landed beside me and I recognized her eyes as she sat on the sill, staring curiously up at me. She shook her head, nestling her grey and blue feathers back into place.

Before long, the walls that had been built, creating a darkness so unforgettably profound, were deconstructed, and the bricks that formed them laid strewn about in shattered piles on the ground below me. Leaning out of the window, the sunlight landed on my skin, warming my body. Young sparrow fledglings chirped and danced clumsily, their shadows landing upon my face and shoulders. 

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a dove, cooing softly into the morning air. I peered outside. It was finally May, and the tulips were in full bloom.

Lost and Found

June 23rd 2023

Quiet morning sunlight arose and poured its way through the windows, warming the room and highlighting the rich hardwoods. Shadows of the tree branches, blanketed by young spring leaves, danced about on the empty cream colored walls. Griffin lay quietly in the corner of the room, his tail flicking periodically, brushing up bits of hair clippings and collecting them in his tail. His grey coat was speckled with white hairs; a sign of time gone by.

He was a stray, before you, and though he often bolted under chairs when clients arrived, his eyes spoke of thankfulness and love.

I entered the room and as I stepped in the place where your feet once stood, the floor creaked quietly, welcoming me. Griffin’s ears perked up at the sound, but he lay still. I reached for the back of the salon chair and rested my hands on it, peering up into the mirror.

We sat for quite some time, waiting until the sun rose above us and out of sight. Eventually, the feline stood to his feet, reached forward, stretching, and sauntered toward the front door. I met him there and opened it as he slipped through the opening, trotted out into the yard, and disappeared behind a row of rose bushes.

Iris

May 28th 2023

I walk behind a woman in a grey wool sweater; colored like the sky when it feels pressured to rain. She walks methodically and calculated, as if she has already walked this road alone. A small strand of yarn waves with the movement of her steps; the only proof of a snag in her past, perhaps on the corner of a table, or a door frame that she brushed against in the dark.

I match her steps and reach toward the flyaway, grasping gently at it, as it sways back and forth. She doesn’t seem to notice as I pull slightly, and her gate remains unchanged, as does mine. We walk this way for a short time, my feet landing on the sidewalk in the shadows of her own.

In a matter of minutes, my pace slows slightly in an attempt to catch my breath. I hold tight to the strand, refusing to let go. The sweater unravels with ease at first, and then begins to tug as the distance between us grows. At times, it catches and pulls the circulation from my fingertips. We pass storefronts, worn from age, and a park where young children gallop in circles around their mother. I find myself winded and breathless and I slow to a stop on the corner of an unnamed street, crouching to my knees. After a moment, I lose sight of her, and the tension breaks.

Frantically, hand over hand, I pull the entire length of her unraveled sweater toward the place where I sit, and watch as it catches on stones in the street and runs along the curb lines. Quiet tears streaming down my face, I hold the remnants of what once was in the palms of my hands; draping over and between my fingers, and twirling into a pile on the pavement, unrecognizable.

Clarion Calling

April 22nd 2023

The sound of my footsteps cuts through the moisture-laden atmosphere. The Storm has finally passed, and the forest floor lays blanketed with leaves and small branches, snapping beneath the weight of my body as I run. My soaking hair lays flat and sticks to my cheeks and neck and my eyes burn, having been stung by rain and tears.

Breathless, I slow to a walk and find myself approaching a clearing in the trees. I rub my eyes and continue forward, until light breaks through the branches of the oaks, leading me to a small, frigid tarn. A young crow startles and catches my attention, as he rises from his resting place and flies out of sight. A glint of sunlight flashes from where the fledgling sat; a screw in an old dock, which lays enveloped by green overgrowth.

I step onto the landing, and as it sways beneath my feet, ripples break the glasslike surface. A school of minnows dart out from underneath the rotting, wooden planks and I sit for a moment, catching my breath. I close my eyes.

Suddenly, a wave of sound rushes through the trees and across the water; a Clarion Calling, I recognize, from a place I used to call home. But when I open my eyes, I am surrounded by nothing but a breeze, tracing my collarbone to my shoulder and running down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck.

A perturbing caw to my left pulls me from my desperate thoughts and I look up, gazing into the soft blue eyes of the crow. His raspy call evinces uneasiness.

I brush dried mud from my shins and calves and I look at him once more, as he leers at me, seemingly in warning and forethought. I stand to my feet.

And I run.

Lucky for Me

March 15th 2023

It was late March, and the warmth of spring had begun to nurture the garden beds, new growth blossoming with every soft rain. The ground was alive, imprinted with the steps of creatures that scurried along, building homes and eating their fill after a cold winter. A small rabbit sat quietly along the edge of the garden, munching on fresh, delicate sprouts that pushed upward from the damp earth. The creature’s jaw moved back and forth quickly with each bite, and it paused for a moment when my right shoe scuffed the gravel beneath me, catching its attention. Its nose stopped twitching, and for a moment it sat frozen, camouflaged by winter’s residual grey and browns. I carefully ambled away, leaving it be.

The oaks were budding, and their presence softened. It seemed as though with every hour that passed, new leaves burst forth, encasing the branches in bright, fragile foliage.

I found myself oddly delighted by the sight of the first stubborn weeds that needed pulling. I was quick to remove the crabgrass sprouts, envisioning their unfavorable potential, and carefully tugged on thistles until they broke free. The clovers were resilient and loyal, creeping along between rocks and plants, year after year. I had always invested time into removing them and attempting to ensure that they did not return the following year. My efforts typically were a waste, and by June or July, I let them roam free.

Carefully, I pulled a small handful of clovers from the soil, along with their stringy, stolon roots that sprawled out in every direction, and I laid them into a bucket. I grabbed the silver handle, and after examining the rest of the grounds, meandered back toward the house, where I planted the clover in a small wooden box that clung to the kitchen window.

…

This morning, as I filled my tea pot at the sink and the sun began to rise, I observed an eastern tiger swallowtail, drying its wings in the soft morning light. It danced around the garden, landing briefly on different plants, and eventually finding its way to the window box, where it rested on a a fresh cluster of white petals. The clover has begun to bloom.

I watched as the butterfly positioned itself on the plant, its proboscis uncoiling and reaching down into the cluster, siphoning. It was purely remarkable and though momentary, it seemed I was lucky enough to witness a lifetime on the other side of the glass.

Candy Hearts

March 1st 2023

A young child and his mother stood in front of me, waiting to check out, while an elderly woman slowly dug through her purse, searching for her wallet. I glanced around me and stood, leaning onto one hip, and sighed. 

My eyes landed on the colorful display behind the counter, and then dropped to a rack of candy hearts with a sign that read “80% off Valentines Day Clearance”. I grabbed a bag and stepped forward, as the woman hobbled out of the store. The cashier rang up the mother, and the child peered out from behind her, our eyes meeting briefly. 

“Can I get a pack of the 3mg citrus?” I asked the cashier when my turn came and flashed my ID. He tossed them into the bag, along with the candy hearts, shampoo and allergy medication I had grabbed. 

“21.58”, he said, staring at the floor. I quickly paid, gathered my things, and walked out the door, into a soft sprinkle of rain. The truck hummed for a moment before turning over, and I tucked a Zyn into my front lip. 

…

Rain fluttered against the windows in my living room, and I pulled the curtains shut. I lit a candle, and poured a dram of whiskey, swallowing it, and promptly pouring another.

I found the dust-covered glass in your things, long after the others had come and claimed what they wanted, and pocketed it. I bought it for you, as a gift, in a time of celebration. I wondered if you remembered these things, when it came to the end.

I peeled open the bag of candy hearts, and they spilled out onto the table. For a while, I sat quietly, listening to the rain and eating the candies, while the whiskey warmed my cheeks. And I thought of you.

For You & I: Part 2

February 2rd 2023

One evening, as the sun slowly sank in the sky, I hugged my knees to my chest and closed my eyes. The glowing rays brought warmth to my skin, and eventually, to my bones. I rocked slowly to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. Palama pono kou kino. For a moment, his voice and the small waves breaking on the shoreline were the only noises that occupied my mind.

The shriek of a small child broke through the quiet air and I opened my eyes to a group of four young children running through the sand and into the water. One of them, a young girl who appeared to be five or six, lunged forward and disappeared beneath the waves. She came back up seconds later, erupting in laughter as she broke the surface. Her shirt clung to her arms and torso, and she brushed her black hair out of her face, where it hugged her eyebrows and lips and nose. The glowing atmosphere reflected in her eyes when she noticed where I sat and, after looking for a moment, her gaze quickly turned back to her friends. They danced for a while, waiting and watching as the sun reached for the earth. Subtle clouds spread across the sky and light poured through them in reds and yellows and purples.

Soon, it dipped below the waves, and we were met with a soft, gentle glow. The girl broke away from the others and meandered along the shore, stopping periodically to crouch down and pick up a stone, examine it in her small hands, and toss it back into the lake. She pocketed one or two.

A woman’s presence was felt on the beach, not far from where I sat. She held a young child tight to her chest and her long grey dress floated in the breeze that came off of the water. The waves began to lay flat, and merely lapped the sand. She spoke quietly to the three children, and soon they emerged from the water and retreated, stepping cautiously through the dune grass and disappearing from sight.

“Maddie!" the woman called, “time to go in, baby.” The girl’s small head turned and she stood to her feet. Her silhouette sauntered toward the sound of her mother’s voice, and soon only her footprints were left in the sand. A darkness came over me, and the warmth that once embraced me was met with a chill.

For You & I: Part 1

February 1st 2023

Some evenings, late in the summer, I would walk along the shoreline as the brilliance of the sun filled the sky. Seagulls would often swoop low and gracefully, landing near me and dancing carefully. Sand pipers scampered past me when a wave would flatten and climb up the shore, and then return to discover what was left behind. They picked at the corpses of minnows and crawfish that lined the beach.

I remember liking the way my heels sunk slightly into the hard sand, just after a wave retreated. The weight of my body would expel moisture from the earth that surrounded my feet and, as I walked, the color of the sand would lighten for a moment. Within seconds, water would rush upwards, erasing the memory of my steps.

Occasionally, I would sit in the sand along the edge of the beach, where dune grass began to poke upward from the ground and stuck between my toes. Small critters scurried around me, working tirelessly, and oftentimes a spider would find solace in the shade my legs provided. I never feared them then.

The Auction

November 16th 2022

I sat in a worn armchair, colored by the deep red of a maple in autumn. It reeked of stale coffee and cigarettes, blanketed by a fine layer of dust. My arm draped across a hole in the stitching, which frayed and unwound, revealing a dirtied white foam beneath. The foundation was built from four hand-turned legs, one of which wore less scratches than the others, for it had been reconfigured after breaking under the weight of The Family Photo on the eve of his last Christmas. The lathe still sits in the corner of my grandfather’s basement, untouched. I patted the arm twice and peered up at the seller, who crossed his arms warily.

“I’ll take it”, I said as the corners of my mouth curled up into a smile.