realization

she's really never coming back, is she?

Hi, dahlin!

"Hi, dahlin,"
she said,
leaning forward to see me around the door frame.
I don't know what she was doing before I arrived
- just sitting, maybe -
but she saw me coming
and she was glad to have me
and she didn't mind if I got myself some water.

So, anyway

"So, anyway,"
she said,
her hands folded in her lap,
one leg crossed over the other.
She glanced at her hands, and then out the window,
and we were both quiet
as she used the one foot on the floor to push herself
back and forth
back and forth
in her rocking chair by the door.

tears

The tears feel good. They let all the sadness get out in the open and show other people I really am hurting and not just trying to get out of the chemistry test. They make me think more and remember more and love more.
When there aren't any tears, the sadness gets trapped inside that little hole somewhere near my rib cage. It gets trapped down there and it can't get out. Sometimes the sadness hurts. Sometimes I forget about it. Forgetting makes me feel worse.
The tears feel good. But I don't cry so much anymore.

Does that mean I only loved my grammy enough for two days of tears?

grilled cheese surprise

My grammy made a grilled cheese with onion and pepperoni in it (that's called a grilled cheese surprise).
She cut my sandwich to look like a sailboat (which is harder than it sounds).
I ate mine with barbecue sauce.

the hardest part

I want to put you down on paper
Capture you with words
They way you said,
"I love you, too, dear,"
When I left your house the other week
Or the way you said,
"Come again!"
When we went home after dinner
As if we weren't planning on it.

I want to put you down on paper
Capture you with words
How I loved your cookies
But you're more than just cookies
How you knit me slippers
But you're more than just slippers
You were something else
And I can't write it out right.

I can't write you. Or read you. I can barely even talk about you.
I can't do it.

The words don't come out right.

Dear Grammy,
I love you. I love your cookies. I love your house. You never wear socks.
Love, Emma

Dear Grammy,
I love you. Grampa loves you. Daddy loves you. Mommy loves you. I bet even baby Simon loves you. He knows who you are.
Love, Emma

Dear Grammy,
I love you. You had soft hands. Why did you have to go away?
Love, Emma

Dear Grammy,
I love you. I miss you. Who will tell me where the ornaments should go on the Christmas tree? Who will float around on noodles in the swimming pool? Who will make macaroni and cheese for Carly when she comes home from school? I can’t do it. Not as good as you.
Love, Emma

Dear Grammy,
I love you. Know what? Maybe I can make macaroni and cheese. Maybe I can even make sour cream twists. Or salmon loaf. Maybe I can learn to cook. You would want that. I’ll bake those sugar cookies you wanted for Christmas. And I’ll still run to your house and visit Grampa.
I want to be just like you, you know.
Love, Emma

Dear Grammy,
I love you. Is it good for me to cry?
Love, Emma


Dear Grammy,

Can you hear me?

I love you.

it's pretty chilly in here

Snow is falling, and as I watch the cold, fluffy whiteness consume trees, ground, and world, I can’t think of anything but the cozy warmth that you hear about in Christmas songs. A blazing fire, flickering red, orange, and sometimes blue, slowly but relentlessly devouring the wood pile. Hot chocolate, dispatching tendrils of mist into the air above it, radiating waves of heat through my chilly fingers, leaving a film of chocolate-y particles on the bottom of my mug. An inviting wool blanket swallowing up my entire body, opened just enough for a book to poke through, covering my toes and spilling over the couch. Radiators singing their happy, hissy songs. The oven door left open a crack, spreading cheery warmth through the kitchen. Flannel sheets and layers of covers, screaming to be crawled under and seeming to harness all of the coziness in the entire world in one twin bed.

But I’m sitting here in the office doing homework. Or, rather, not doing homework. It's pretty chilly in here. And thinking about this just makes me feel colder.

perfectionist

i've decided
that i can't please everyone

but i don't really believe it

it's winter in New England - a drabble and a half of 150 words

“This means that five divided by five equals one,” she says to the class, realizing that she is probably more bored than her students. It has been a long week, and it is only Wednesday. There is a lot on her mind. She is tired. She doesn’t want to be here.
“IT’S SNOWING!” one of the children shouts, racing to the window.
“IT IS!?” twenty-five other voices ask.
“Calm down, guys. Sit down, Robbie,” she says, trying to be patient. No one listens to her. Everyone’s attention is outside. Soon the whole class is struggling to squeeze into a place on the window seat. She repeats her command, but the snow is too alluring for the children to obey.
She sighs, an unexpected smile suddenly spreading over her face. It is snowing. And it is beautiful.
She walks to the window to join the children in their simple, innocent awe.

lukewarm december

a lukewarm december is bittersweet
i don't want to bask in the unwanted heat
the days have grown shorter, the nights have grown long
the radio's playing old holiday songs
with highs in the sixties, i'm tired of fall
come season of Christmas! bring snow days for all!