Summer 2012

In the summer of 2012, I spoke the hardest words my voice had ever dared to shake out. Those words were goodbye. I had expected to say them. They are after all, what you say at the close of a visit. But, this was more than just a visit. It was more than friends saying so long. It was more than I’ll see you next time. It was more than a weekend of summer. It was us. We had collided into each other and as the hope of promise sparkled in the distance, summer gently told us to that it was time to say goodbye.

Your hands held mine. Your fingers lightly gripping, like how you hold sand as you watch it fall between your fingertips and I guess that’s what we were doing, watching each other slip from our fingertips. For a second my memory escaped back to how those very fingertips felt. Soft, against the small of my back.  A quick flash and then it was gone and I was back to standing in front of you.

Here we were, saying goodbye, trying to at least. We stood face to face in your garage, your eyes met mine and I looked away. I couldn’t look at you, I couldn’t do what I knew had to be done. I glanced back down at your fingers and remembered how each one looked as you traced the palm of my hand. All five of your finger tips in the palm of hand, branching out to trace each of my finger tips, up they traveled until the tips of your fingers pressed against mine. It was a habit you had formed over the past couple nights while we laid together, talking or not talking, sometimes, just breathing.

If I could just remember how to breathe right now.

I looked back up at you and all too quickly reality had surrounded me again. I was leaving Santa Monica today on my last day of summer vacation, headed back to Phoenix, back to teaching. Back to everything that wasn’t you. My two best friends quietly waited in the car, our entire weekend packed away in the trunk of my silver Lancer. But here, you and I stood. You slowly tracing over my fingers as you held on for an inevitable goodbye and me trying to figure out how I had gotten into this position. I wasn’t ready for you. I hadn’t been prepared. I didn’t know I would have to stand here and look you in the eye and turn my back on the best two nights I had ever known.

I looked up to you for guidance. Your brown eyes met mine and they were only filled with questions.

How do we do this?

But I didn’t have answers for you. I didn’t know how to put a close on us. How do you bring closure to someone who in a matter of days ignited something in you that you weren’t even aware of?

My lips parted to form words, to give you something to go off of, but I had nothing. I wasn’t ready, I needed more time and there wasn’t any. I wasn’t ready for goodbye.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to how you slowly brushed my hair away right before you kissed me.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to kissing you at all. The way your fingers tangled in my hair. To the way two of them would  press down against the side of my neck, while your thumb outlined my jaw, as you pulled me into you.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to how you sometimes smiled right before your lips met mine. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to your smile. Or your laugh. Or us laughing together. Or how we made each other laugh. Hard. Constantly. To the point of having to cover our faces with pillows as to not wake anyone up. Because it was three in the morning and we hadn’t slept. We were too busy laughing. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to making you laugh so hard you kissed me, as if telling me thank you. I wasn’t ready to let go of you saying thank you.  

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my back against your chest, your arm draped around my hip, your face in the curve of my neck. How do you say goodbye to something that fits together so perfectly?  How could I say goodbye to the feeling of safety that consumed me as I laid there next to you? Like nothing could possibly harm me in any way, shape, or form, ever, so long as I stayed there with you.

How could I say goodbye to the look in those gorgeous eyes that stared back at me right now? Forcing me to come back to reality. To the present.

This was happening. It had to. Summer was not going to wait on me to figure out how to tell you goodbye. It was ending and so were we.  I took a step forward and hugged you for one last time and breathed in a feeling of closeness I had never felt with anyone before. Then, I hoped that as I pulled away our lips would find each other one last time.

But they didn’t.

“Goodbye,” I said and I’m not sure if you responded to me. I could not have heard anything you said because at that moment everything I thought I knew came crashing down around me. I thought I knew you- you were a friend, that’s it. That I sometimes saw. Now and then. I thought I knew where I belonged- in Phoenix, teaching. I thought I knew who the closet people to me were- my best friends, who were waiting for me to take them back to Arizona, right now.

Get in the car, I told myself.

I turned around and sat in the driver’s seat suddenly, knowing nothing about myself and everything about you and how you made me feel. You were so much more than a friend, I wasn’t sure when it happened, but it happened, I cared about you. I only wanted to be anywhere that you were- Arizona, California, anywhere; it didn’t matter where as long as you were there, and the closeness I felt to you outweighed anything I had ever felt before with anyone.

What was this? But, before I could answer my heart, you had walked away and I was starting the car and backing out of your garage and summer wasn’t waiting and neither was anyone else. Not on me. Not on you. Not on us.

 I sighed, loudly, because it was my only way to release this feeling I couldn’t shake: this feeling of losing complete control. You had me, in the palm of your hand and I scolded myself for it, but worse, I scolded myself for saying goodbye to the only person who had ever made my heart escape logic and my eyes smile.

“Shannon.”

“I don’t even know what’s going on.” I said flatly, avoiding Maria’s gaze. I wasn’t ready for anyone to know how you made me feel. I wasn’t even ready for how you made me feel.

“Did you kiss him goodbye?”

My head leaned against the head of my seat, “No.” I said, defeated. You had finally won. You had me. I wanted you to kiss me goodbye and you didn’t. You had kept the control and I had lost it completely.

“So what are you doing?” Maria squealed at me, “You know that’s all you’re going to be thinking about. Go!”

“What? I can’t…”

“GO!” Tara yelled from the backseat. “And hurry up.” She added as I put the car in park and flung my door open.

My feet hit the sidewalk and I ran to you, praying you hadn’t gone inside, praying the gate wasn’t locked. Praying there would be nothing that separated me from you. 

I turned the corner trying to remember if I had brought my cell phone with me in case I had to call you –my face pressed against white, metal, bars and I panicked. Had I missed my chance? Had I missed—And there you were. Just on the other side. You opened the gate and I fell into you, mimicking what my heart had done days ago.

“What are you doin’?” I could hear the smile in your voice.

And I kissed you. My hand reached around the back of your head and I pulled you to me. I closed my eyes in relief as your hands reached around my waist as though they had been waiting for me. My head spun and I didn’t know which direction I was facing or where I was going to end up, but I didn’t care, because I was with you and if I was with you, I was safe. I needed you to know that I was giving in. I had let go of control. You could have it or not have it I didn’t care anymore. Summer may have been ending, but this wasn’t over for me. Everything I had known had escaped me, but I did know, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, not to you. Not yet. 

Memoir Chapter 1- Rough Draft

I was raised to believe I should never give up on anything. It was a long hard lesson to understand the difference between letting go and giving up, but I was raised to never quit, never surrender,  and to always pick myself up and keep going, no matter how hard I was knocked down. 

But, you can’t possibly stand up tall all of the time, so when I wanted to quit, when I couldn’t pick myself back up, when I felt knocked out, not knocked down…I called Dad and he always picked up, because he knew how he raised me was easier said than done. He knew that.

Dad was the best person to go to for advice. He listened, he understood, he was genuine. His advice could be brutal, but it always was accompanied by a quip, a quote, or an allusion to some song, movie, play, poem, a piece of history. I didn’t always come out of our conversations knowing what I was going to do, but I always learned something.  Sometimes about myself, sometimes about Julius Caesar, nonetheless, I needed those conversations, like I needed to stop crying over this guy who had done me wrong, which is exactly what my dad was trying to tell me when he said, “You know Ray Charles, right?”

I was in my early twenties, sitting in my apartment complex, alone. Crying over a boy…a man, technically, a boy, fundamentally. It wasn’t my first heartbreak, nor was it the first time I had cried over a boy. There had been plenty before him and I was sure there were more to come. There had to be because looking back, I had been crying over boys my whole life. There was Robin, a master tether ball player who moved away in the sixth grade. There was Clay, a green-eyed Mormon who had never taken notice of my four year crush on him, there were all five of The Backstreet Boys when I read the article in Teen Bop about the band breaking up. I had cried many a tear over boys, but this time, the tears were accompanied by the feeling of defeat. That’s what made this time different. The hopeless romantic in me was taking her last breaths of air, the young girl in me had begun to curse fairy-tales, and the young woman in me had given up.

“Listen to the song and cheer up. It’ll be OK and in a few months, I’m sure none of this will matter.” I knew I needed to just get over it, but it wasn’t as simple as just getting over someone, it wasn’t just the ending of a friendship or relationship. It was the concept of relationships and love in general. This had been the last break in a long string of disappointments, chained together with the rusty links of lies and let downs. I sniffled, wiped my nose, said goodnight to my dad and hung up the phone.

I didn’t know where I was going to go from here, but I sure knew a lot more about the biography of Ray Charles.

That was the night I gave up. My dad’s advice was to move on, forget; listen to Ray Charles. I did. I did listen to the song, multiple times, while teardrops fell down my face and I tried to figure out what my father’s message was to me, what Ray Charles’ message was to me. But, I had already chosen to stop trying to understand. I wasn’t heartbroken, I was defeated. The young woman in me had put her foot down, the little girl in me was pouting, and the hopeless romantic in me, well, she was missing in action. I was sure true love was a made up concept. A way to deny reality. A label. A crutch I believed I would either have to settle and call it love or never really find love at all.

I hit repeat on the YouTube video of Ray Charles and pulled my flowered quilt to my chin. I rolled my eyes at how this frilly linen had cost me ninety dollars and then rolled my eyes again at how stupid I was to still be listening to this song. I was tired of crying, it was time to stop and figure life out. Figure love out. My neck slowly tipped backwards and my head lightly hit my headboard and my eyes opened to the bumpy, white drywall above me. I took a deep breath and hit play again.

This was partly my fault. I knew that. These tears and pain were half, maybe even more than half my fault. Which was why I was so mad. I should have known better. Hadn’t I learned my lesson yet? I tried to trace back over my decisions, figure my way through the maze of how I ended up exactly where I sat now. My brain filed through ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, ex-friends. There had to be someone, something to blame. A pin-point to where I could point and say “That. That’s where I messed up.” But, there wasn’t or there were too many and in the end, no matter how many times I hit replay, no matter how many times I closed and reopened my eyes, no matter how many times I told myself, “that’s enough,”  I was still  twenty-two, crying, alone in my bedroom. I had given up on trying to find an answer and simultaneously had given up on love. I slammed my laptop shut.

“Fuck you Ray Charles.” 

Poetry Contest Submissions

I need to work on my writing more and as a part of that, this year, I started my memoir over again. Yep, totally re-writing it. Same ideas, different direction. I might post the first page or so of that on here, we'll see. 

I also decided to enter some writing contests, something I used to do all the time as a kid, but steered clear from as an adult. But, today, I entered a poetry contest. So, since some magazine is going to be judging my poetry, I figured I might as well let the blogging world judge it too. 

What You Hear 

Fingers brush through my hair

Sliding up and over.

Again and Again.

But not repetitive.

Like my favorite song

I never tire of the words.

Instead they embed themselves into me

Weaving in and out of my soul

Ribbons tying perfect knots

Sliding up

I breathe in,

And over,

I breathe out

A needed motion

To remind me

That I can breathe.

An unfamiliar room

In an unfamiliar house

In an unfamiliar city

I recognize only you.

And the fingers that slide

Up and over.

As tears run down my face

To join the words that spill

Out of my mouth

And onto the mattress,

A floodgate broken open.

And only the sound of your

Sighing

Silences the gush and the crash,

Calms

The panic and the urgency

That wraps tightly around my lungs

And squeezes with the intention to

Drown me in my own heartbreak.

But your fingers

Slide up and over,

Untangling strands of

Blonde and brunette

The way your presence

Has untangled years of

Secrets, cross-stitched into

My heart

That only beats from the power

Of the very scars it tries to hide,

A cadence only you can hear. 

Darkness

I remember darkness.

Until my eyelids snapped open and my father’s voice awoke me soft and worried,

“Wake up. I need you to get up.”

Startled, annoyed…naïve,

I peeled my legs from the mattress, as though I was removing bandages

From a wound not yet healed.

I remember I stopped.

Ten steps from my bedroom door, lay my mother on our floor.

Like snow, her white night gown spilled out around her.

She, a child, too tired to make snow angels anymore.
Bitter, I fastened my mouth, wiped their sour residue away and stood rigid.

Instead of thrashing her arms, giggling and squirming

As children would at their excitement for Christmas, for presents…for angels-

She lays there at peace with the quaint, questionable, quietness of the white.

I remember two fingers.

Trembling, I pressed them against her throat.

Still warm to the touch. I swallowed.

Swallowed down my fear. Swallowed down my heartbreak.

But I could not swallow down, no matter how hard I tried, the words:

“Dad, you need to call 9-1-1.”

I clenched my teeth together, behind these bars, these words could not escape.

I remember desperation.

The words crawled up my throat.

Pleading, I pressed two fingers down again.

They clawed at my tongue. My eyes met my father. I swallowed.

They pried open my lips and spilled out, dribbling onto the floor, onto the white.

“Dad you need to call 9-1-1.”

My sister would need something to lean on.

I remember when the paramedics and police showed up.

Blinking machines like soulless robots flashed in my eyes to a beat I could never forget.

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.

I remember my sister reached out for my hand. Two fingers.

I remember my dad looked at me for validation of the paramedic’s confirmation. Desperation.

I remember walking them to the door, my sister back to her room. I stopped five steps from my door.

But most of all, I remember sinking to the floor, my head between my knees, eyes slowly closing,

No teardrops. Just darkness. 

What is Not You

What is not you:

This pillow.

The one propped against my back.

Desperation to imitate your presence.

The one covered in a soft pink case.

A shade lighter than the color your cheeks turn

When I catch you

Staring.

At the colors in my eyes.

Or thinking.

How I am perfect.

For you.

You notice me.

Noticing you.

Corners turn upwards.

Doggy ears being unmarked.

A place I will always remember.

Ready to begin again.

Eyes dart down

And back up again.

They’ll always return here.

Like mine to the pages.

Rose colored speckles

Reach out across your cheeks.

Hardly noticeable.

Like the beach’s crystals across the

Palm of my hand.

Colors so slightly different from one another

You have to look

To see.
They Appear.

You Smile.

They disappear, just as quickly.

Just a flash.

Like every memory I have of you.

Hundreds of flashes.

Bright, white, light.

On.

Flash.

Off, just as quickly.

Fabricated together

The way symbols on a page form

The beauty of music.

But you would never know.

Unless you can see.

Unless you can read the images.

And I can.

But they are pulled too fast

Across the screen of my mind.

I can hear the music.

But the symbols move too fast.

I cannot form their figures.

I cannot read what they say.

Flash.

Slow down.

Flash.

My heart whispers to my mind

Slow down.

What is not you:

These memories.

They are trails I follow

In hopes to be led back to you.

But no trail takes me to you

Each one ends at its start.

This time at staggered books across the shelf.

My eyes sting as they try to focus on the words

That spell titles across spines I have

Gazed at a hundred times.

Spines that remind me now that

I can barely stand without you.

Lifeless. Limp.

And I do not know if the stinging behind my eyes

Is a plea for sleep or a plea for you.

My eyes move down the shelf

Until they meet the floor.
Slowly moving.

As though they are analyzing their very

Next destination.

What will it cost me to look down?

There, the book you let me borrow.

My fingers trace across the cover

Fingers slide over the gloss

In the same way they slide down your cheek.

Or through your hair.

Or across your forearm

Slowly and hardly awake.

And I wonder if somehow the pages

May smell like you.

But I dare not answer my own

Silly questions.

It’ll hurt too much to be

Disappointed.

What is not you:

Haunted.

What I am:

Crying into a pillow.

Remembering every second
I have been allowed to keep.

Cursing and rejoicing

In memories that haunt me.
Flashes of us that lead me no

Closer to anywhere you are.

But instead keep me just barely breathing

Until the next time I can see you again.

Flash.

Breathe in.

Eyes close.

The tears disappear

Into corners.

Momentarily forgotten.

These pages are not creased over. 

Flash.

Reminder to let go, breathe out.

Eyes open.

Just a flash.

Tears appear, just as quickly.

What is not you:
Here.

Right Back At It

I decided I wanted to blog again. I have four new blogs, all new, all for different purposes. I deleted my old ones, so if you used to be subscribed to those then I guess you'll have to inconveniently, re-subscribe.

This blog is going to contain all my creative writing. So if you're interested in watching me butcher the English language- this is the blog for you!

The rest of my blogs are still under construction, but Lighthouse Doves, is going to be just regular writing, journaling maybe, pictures, updates on my life. So if you don't get enough of me on Facebook- that's the blog for you!

Put It In My Mouth- is going to be a recipe blog...so if you like food...you should probably subscribe to that one.

Lastly, I have the blog called Teaching For The Cure- this will all be writing having to do with education, stories from my experience, articles, my thoughts and opinions, so if you're into teaching and education subscribe to that one.

So that's the update. More writing. I need to get back into blogging, I miss it. I need to practice writing more. I need it. Enjoy.