You Are My MuseThe need to write is overpowering. What about, is the question. You are my muse, you always are and always will be. I love that I hate you or hate that I love you. You are the change of seasons, the distribution of stars, the colors in the clouds, the sun in my eyes. You are the chemical imbalance in my brain and that thorn in my side. I'm a passerby. You are a statue in the middle of the playing field. I speed a corner, I pull back the wheel. Silence as you stand still, the earth shaking at my feet. I look up at you. I think bad of you. You look down at me, you laugh along with me. The cold stare. The empty stare. The missing stare. I turn my head, blink my eyes, there you are. Always, always, always.And so I write.
9.11.01It was seven years ago today.I remember it so well. We were young kids, students in a Catholic school. In our bright red sweaters we wondered why our classmates were being picked up, our teachers in and out of classrooms with an strange expression on their usually cheery faces. No, we weren't allowed outside for recess. We wondered why and remained in the classroom, speculating as only little kids can. We listened attentively to the PA to see if our parents had come to pick us up too, just to ask them what was going on. I wasn't expecting to be -- I was one of those kids. The buses came early. Mom was waiting in the shade underneath the tree in front of our house, arms folded and looking apprehensive. I had no idea.I stand in front of the rusted frame that used to stand tall in the middle of the city. Arms folded and almost shivering, it was a chilly morning to fit the day. My sleeves and skirt are rolled. I no longer wear red. The cars and trucks rolled by, only some giving h
College Bound KidsThere's going to be a night when I realize you're not there to run down to. You know when you're going around the house with a purpose, blank out, and walk into a room by force of habit, and forget what you're doing and why you're there? It still smells like ice cream, because I left your visor hanging there. I'll have to use my cellphone, not the house phone intercom, as we usually have. There are standards and expectations I now have to live up to, following these trails you've blazed (and sometimes setting fire to my own). Phone calls are so impersonal, but so have I been. Filling each day with a lazy mix of sleep, food, and reading before it winds down to going back. It wasn't that long ago that we sang our lungs out, in sync but then not really, racing down the highway more than legally allowable. You taught me to imagine, to dream, and to put those ideas into motion one way or the other. This may just be one of the many times I'll follow what you've done, in my own way.If I had