Remembering the Future

Dedicated to my Beloved Grandmother, Marie Ann Tingley, 1935-2013

“She loved.” The past tense is cruelly abrupt. There is no apparent beauty in the transition from the smooth, continuous sounds of the present to the hard stops of the past. “She loves” loses it infinite, unfettered s and replaces it with an uncaring, blunt d. You can’t hold the sound of a d. Try it. It’s impossible.

~

There is a little house tucked away in a grove of pines, far away from the road. Knicks-knacks decorate the wood-walled living room, and there is always hard candy in the colorful porcelain box on the coffee table. We don’t go there very often, but when we do, there are usually lots of sweets and cable TV and relatives I’ve never met. We always go there on Christmas Eve, where we open presents around a fake pine tree with jewel toned glass balls. The living room is toasty, and I feel happy and full. The roaring vent at the foot of the plushy carpeted stairs is my favorite; I like to stand on it and feel it puff up my forest green dress like a hot air balloon. I don’t know her yet, not really.

~

The past tense is unacceptable. Mom and I walk by her car, and “her tires need air” slows into a little cry at the realization that we have to alter a lifelong grammar. “She is a wonderful- was a wonderful woman.” “She is- was so gentle.”

~

Grammie lives with us now, and I am nineteen. There is a little thrift store down the road, and it is our tradition to go out on weekends when I’m home, “messin’ around” as she calls it. We love to paw through piles of musty garments, determined to find a hidden treasure. When I’m not there, she likes to fill up her bags at Marshalls in thought of me. One time she brought me home a dress that had been marked down to 89 cents. We both know that that is a great victory. Most of my jewelry comes from her. Whenever I get a compliment on my black and white pearl necklace or on my chunky jeweled pendant, I proudly respond that my Grammie Tingley gave it to me. She has an eye for pretty things.

She complains about getting unwanted attention when we go out on the town. “Do you have guys starin’ at you all the time?” I smile and shake my head. “Well, I’ve got guys starin’ at me all the time! Golly! It’s the red hair…” She feigns annoyance, but I can see past it to the mischief in her light green eyes. When she is at home, in the little in-law apartment connected to our guest room, she plays with her big Persian cat, Caesar. “He’s just an old love bug,” she loves to repeat as she strokes her faithful pet of fifteen years. And when he jumps on the table or lets out the occasional snarl, the loving look remains on her face. “You little donkey!” she says as she wags her finger. In the summer, she sits with us on the deck and tells the story of how her mother had to hide the grapefruits from her father when she was a little girl. He loved grapefruits, and he always ate them up right away. It drove her mother crazy.

~

“Marie, who was a devoted wife, mother, grandmother and friend, will be remembered for her love of gardening, her sparkling green eyes, her flowing red hair and her gentle friendliness. She had a knack for making friends wherever she went. She loved with a generosity that is rare, lavishing gifts, time and kindness on her family and friends without a thought of receiving anything in return. Marie brought beauty and life wherever she went, and her quiet love will never be forgotten by the many people whose lives she touched.”

 The obituary seems obsessed with persuading me that the present reality doesn’t line up with the present tense. The thing is, I wrote part of the obituary, but my own words still haven’t convinced me that my grandmother needs to be shoved into an ending that she is not yet ready for herself.

~

It is the February of my senior year, and Grammie has just gotten home from three months of cancer treatment. She still puts on vintage jewelry and a coat of red lipstick every morning, even though she is too weak to hang up the dozen dresses she bought in Florida. We talk about graduation, about how nice of a day we hope it will be, about how her arm hurts.

“This stuff, yuck!” She motions towards the potassium powder drink she is reluctantly sipping. “Your mother says I have to drink this stuff to get better, but yuck!” She makes a face. I laugh softly, and I believe her with all my heart.

She lets me go through her closet and I find a flowy, golden dress that is perfect for Gordon Globes. “Doesn’t it just look beautiful on her,” she says to Mom, then reminds us that her arm hurts. Grammie sits on her bed with me as I splay her antique jewelry on the coverlet, and I can’t choose between pearls and a golden pendant. “Why don’t you just wear both?” She suggests. I look in the mirror and see that she’s right.  

Her arm hurts, and we’ve worn her out, and we pack up the jewelry. I hug her goodnight and I am shocked by her sudden frailness. Early Monday morning I go over to her place and give her a quick goodbye. “I love you Grammie. I’ll see you later.” She smiles softly, and I am sure that later will be soon.

~

The past tense is harsh in its reality, but hope tells me that it is malleable, somehow temporary. Hope urges me to press an ear to the wall and eagerly eavesdrop, waiting for the moment when а new language will flood the senses with an understanding that outshouts the tyranny of time. For now, the phantom pains of losing her strike at the most unexpected moments, in the most unexpected ways, but the understanding that I don’t truly understand gives me a gentle peace. So I will believe that “she loved” can turn to “she loves,” and then finally, to a heavenly form that I can’t yet articulate, but will someday roll off my lips with ease. 

For Whom the Bell Doesn't Toll

This piece was recently published in the spring 2013 issue of the Vox Populi, a publication of Gordon College.

     A brassy peal emanates from the corner of campus, spreading its eerie power in a shockwave throughout Gordon’s domain. For just a second, the campus stops. Chemistry majors look up from their lab work, soccer players on the quad turn their heads, studiers in Jenks lose their place in Our Father Abraham.  Some sigh, some crack a cynical joke, and some shrug their shoulders. Despite our individual reactions, for just a moment, we are united. Gordon is rich with legend, and few Scots haven’t claimed the tales of the car at the bottom of Gull pond or of Teddy Roosevelt’s horse buried under the quad as part of their heritage. The mysterious lore surrounding Gordon’s history certainly plays a role in shaping our identity as students here, but nothing seems to compare to the metal monument that lounges proudly in its gazebo throne, observing passersby under its sway. The cultural icon that has the power to bring us together for better or for worse is that wonderful, terrible old bell*.

      We see its power in conversations, humming at a constant din throughout the four years, first starting off wistfully, hopefully, then morphing gradually into a senior cynicism or a lifeless joke. The bell makes regular cameos at Gordon Globes, providing a source of comic catharsis for those who find themselves bemoaning the infamous Gordon ratio or the rabid desperation of Gordon girls. The bell is occasionally rung by the reckless non-respecter of its sacred power, but the rest of us know that only under one circumstance may you ring it and leave unscathed.

      The bell’s renown reflects the fact that Christian colleges, and Christian culture in general, is infamous for framing marriage as the cardinal goal of life. Our generation is known for pushing back against the pressure to marry young, but still, the cultural constructs of American Christianity loom over Gordon culture, encouraging unhealthy interaction between the sexes. Many people I have talked to are familiar with the awkward apprehensiveness of male-female interactions at Gordon. The vicious cycle goes like this: Christian girls have a reputation for singling guys out as possible husband material; thus, guys fear that too much friendliness on their part could be mistaken as a marriage proposal. Assuming that Gordon men hold this view of them, many women also mete out their friendliness and smiles in controlled doses for fear that they will project a message of desperation. I have seen and experienced the frustrating awkwardness of this cycle again and again, and I have also seen a striking contrast in my two times studying abroad, where I was able to seamlessly befriend members of the opposite sex without fearing that they would think my attentions were a desperate plea for a ring.

      Not only is the emphasis on marrying young damaging to relationships now, but it sets us up for disappointment when we actually marry. With the best of intentions, Christian culture spreads the propaganda that marriage is the answer to our problems and the beginning of our lives. As such, marriage is one of the prime idols of single Christians everywhere, an antidote to loneliness and a license for guilt-free sex. And like all idols, it doesn’t deliver what it promises.  The National Center for Health Statistics reports that 60% of couples who marry between the ages of 20 and 25 decide to divorce, 10% more than the national average. This is not to say that there should be a ban on young marriage, but it does illustrate that at least 60% of young people tying the knot discover that marriage is not the cure-all that they had envisioned.

      But to be fair, perhaps the lore of the bell is casting a shadow of untruth on the nature of Gordon students. Although perceptions about the opposite sex’s intentions do seem to inhibit cross-gender friendships, the quest for a ring does not define the majority of the students I know. I do not see girls paralyzed by fear that they won’t find “the one” at Gordon. I do not see lazy young men, too indifferent to commit. No, I see men and women pursuing their God-given callings with direction and confidence. I see students investing in lives in the city of Lynn, I see RAs committed to loving their floors, I see blossoming mentorships between faculty and students. In short, I see people invested in deep relationships whether or not they lead to the altar.  

      I admit that when I first heard the legend of the bell, I hoped that one day I would join the ranks of ringers. But now that four years have gone by without anything resembling that type of relationship, I can say with confidence that I have no regrets. Statistics say that for most of us, marriage will eventually come. But regardless of that fact, there is no use in spending four years chasing a fantasy when the opportunity for deep relationships is at its peak. So love the legend of the bell. Laugh, roll your eyes and pass on its magic to the classes to come. Just don’t let it take a toll on your perspective.

*The bell on Gordon College's campus is only to be rung by couples who have just gotten engaged. Lore has it that if you ring it under any other circumstances, you will have 7 years of bad luck, or worse, 7 more years of singleness...

Ecclesiastes

Meaning
taunts as it blurs
in the eyes
of us farsighted ones
and runs lithely away with the smirk
of a little boy who just pinched
a sensitive sister.

We chase it
with the paralysis that freezes us in dreams
moving nowhere in our flailing, floating
falling chaos
until we are no longer pursuers,
but the pursued.

Time grabs with grimy hands,
roughly etching wrinkles,
sucking color and strength,
curses ours to claim.
Our name is shame
so we must sign a pseudonym.

The sun cycle of chase and die
never gifts us variation,
only a bland groan,
the yawn of a man
waking up to find himself alone;
despite desires gorged and glutted,
every day it means
less.

2012

To Ivan

The patrons of the pub
are content in raucous laughter,
naïve to the sickness of consciousness.

But your eyes are late night red, veins prominent
when you relay the news story
of the bruised boy in the E.R. whose father
pummeled him
with raging fists
because he broke a window

by accident.

If this is the Almighty model,
then you return to Him your ticket.
If two plus two is always four, then you are right:
He is, but is not who He should be.

When Job lay sweaty,
naked with boils, encircled
by bloody pottery,
if your math could explain
God, then He should be cursed.

Logically, the hell dwellers
are there because they had no chance
to understand their choice,
casually discarded by that Being
like worthless wrappers.

Rational equals truth (Euclidian)
of course
your logic has no obsidian
tendencies of that ancient snake,
black and glossy postulation:
Did God really say? Your premise remains.

Brother, you think in paradigms
penned in permanent ink;
slithering questions
(the way that you think)
whisper the lie of knowledge
of the Mystery and His ways;

Brother, you think in skeletons,
outlines of life, sterile, dry,
hinting at breath but falling short.
Your mind has cannibalized
your heart.

2012

Martyr

Roman sand
already spiced with death
burns your calloused heels
as you enter the shrieking arena;
bloodthirsty spectators drool at your fate.

Go swathe yourself in blood.
You cannot stop it. Be afraid
of the lion's teeth cascading
on limbs, breaking bones.
tearing flesh.

As your blood drains
into the sand,
spirals of life absorbed by the abyss
of dry heat and white noise,
remember the red medicine
that brought you here
victorious.

2011

Cold Hope

10:55. I usually take my smoke break right about now. I’ll stand right here, practically gulping down my last cigarette before they lock up the dorms for the night. I always make it back right before eleven, then run to my room and jump under the covers while Anya makes us cheap black tea. Tea sounds wonderful right now. I pull my thin purple coat closer as the wind hisses. Tonight, it blows with a bite I haven’t felt since last February. It’s only October, but Russian winters start early. And tonight, I won’t be going back inside.

“Your three weeks are up,” she says. The head nurse’s clothes are the color of mildew, and burgundy lipstick highlights her stern mouth. She shifts her imposing mass onto one foot as she stares me down. I know what she’s waiting for, but I don’t have it. I wish I did, but I don’t. No, I spent my last 30 rubles on the letter I sent home to Mama.

“This is a dormitory for ill students, and you have had sufficient time to recover.”

I know what she really means: if I can’t pay up, then get out. None of the students who live here are sick anyway. They get in because their parents can pay. My American friend Katie would call it a bribe, but for us, it’s just a part of everyday life. A way to survive. There is practically no housing for university students in Nizhniy. The only way I got into the sick dorm was because my parents are doctors. They signed a note saying I had severe respiratory problems. I cough as I take my last puff of cigarette. Well, perhaps it’s not too far from the truth. I throw the cigarette on the ground and extinguish the embers with the heel of my boot. I need to start walking if I’m going to keep warm. I take one last look at the dingy dormitory and set off into the city.

“Please, I can get a doctor’s note; I need more time.” I know that my words are worth nothing to her; words don’t line pockets. But still, I feel myself begging mechanically, as if I can somehow prevent the inevitable.

“Your three weeks are up, Yelena. You are required to pack up your belongings and leave by 11:00 tonight.”

“But I have nowhere to go,” I manage.

“And how is that my problem? Go stay with one of your friends.”

 I turn away from her scowling visage and head to pack my bag, defeated.  My throat tightens, my eyes start to burn, and for a moment, I almost give into my emotions. I reach for my cellphone and dial Mama’s number. I want to push send, but I snap the phone closed and shove it back in my bag. It’s tempting, but I can’t do it, I won’t do it. I’m seventeen and I need to start taking responsibility for my own problems. All it would do is worry her, and she and Papa are too far away to do anything. I am on my own.

I’ve walked for two hours now. Trolleybuses, taxis and every other form of public transportation are nowhere to be found, and for the most part, the city sleeps. The occasional car buzzes by and the street lights cast an eerie glow on the barren sidewalks. Three drunk men sprawl out like kings on a bench, chortling like hyenas. The stone Kremlin is lit, and its ominous beauty speaks of centuries of history. It is so different here than at home. Back home, we live in the country, and I wake up to the smell of wild grass and lilac seeping through the window. My little sister Nastya sleeps beside me, a peaceful glow on her face. By the time I arise, Mama is in the kitchen making hot kasha. Papa is already at the university working on his book. I come to the kitchen and bring my old guitar. It used to be Papa’s when he was my age. A gust of wind shocks me into reality. I clutch the old guitar to my side; my fingers look like raw meat, red and numb. Oh, Papa. What would you think if you saw me right now?  I picture the night before I left home to come to Nizhniy Novgorod.

 Papa is sitting at the kitchen table, watching an old movie and smoking his cigar. Mama sits next to him, and Nastya is on her lap. We are drinking tea, made Papa’s special way. No one makes tea like Papa. Nastya sips milk and grabs a piece of kielbasa from the spread of snacks. Mama and Papa can’t afford kielbasa, but they scrimped up enough for my last night at home. Papa hands me an orange and smiles. “Work hard at university, Yelena, and you will become a good doctor.”

“Yes Papa,” I smile and hold his gaze.

I’ve walked for four hours now. I want home, but home is an impossible wish, and if it weren’t for the memories that burn so brightly, I would doubt its existence. I don’t know why I keep walking, what I’m looking for. That isn’t true. I do know, but I fear to admit such a crazy hope. Maybe, just maybe, someone will find me, take compassion on me, and invite me in. Maybe I’m not really alone in this big city. I know it won’t happen, how many beggars have I turned away? I am invisible as I wander, yet I wander because I hope. I hum a song Papa used to play on the guitar, “It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier…”  I feel Papa’s strong voice giving me strength and weakening me at the same time.  I collapse on the sidewalk and give in. I don’t sob; I don’t bawl, but silent streams of water cover my face. I put my head between my knees and hug my bony legs, rocking back and forth, back and forth. “It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier.”

Someone touches my shoulder. I look up to see a young man. Young, but certainly older than me. He is sturdily built, dark-haired and confident. He smiles, comes close to me. “What are you doing out this late at night?” His breath hints at vodka. I don’t answer. I should walk away, but I can’t. My body feels paralyzed, and all at once I am frightened and hopeful, apprehensive and trusting. “You’re probably wondering the same thing about me,” he says, this time softening his words with a smile. “I’m Oleg. I graduated from the University last spring.” I still don’t answer, but my knees release their locked position. He reaches a hand out. I gingerly grab it, and he helps me to my feet. “Come on, I know you don’t know me, but you need a place to stay for the night.”

Papa’s face is at once before me. His eyes say what I feel in my gut,

 “Yelena, don't!” But Papa, I’m so cold!

“It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier…”

I wipe him from my mind like condensation from a window. The bone-numbing cold outshouts his tender voices. No Papa, this is my only chance.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I walk in silence with Oleg down the broken sidewalk. I’ve never been in this part of the city before. Broken glass sullies the walkway, and two skinny stray dogs huddle in a doorway, shivering. He doesn’t ask for my hand, but takes it. I don’t resist. His hand is gentle upon mine, but too unfamiliar. We reach an apartment complex, dingy and crumbling.  We enter the building, and my frozen hands tingle from the sudden warmth. The metal door thuds with finality.

“Do you feel better now?”  I search the man’s eyes for compassion or hate, kindness or evil, but all I can see are eyes cloudy from a night of too much vodka.

“I think so,” I manage.

Oleg sits down at the kitchen table and pours himself a drink. He looks at me with those murky eyes, motives still indiscernible. I sit there, helpless, body warm, but as numb as ever.

2011

The Lost Boys of Sudan

We will walk forever, eternity

From the coral, blood-splattered open grave;

We cry, but no tears will set our eyes free.

Dead eyes of lifeblood, dead homes made me flee,

Ebony ghosts slice your shallowness; rave!

We will walk forever, eternity.

So dare, look at me, a skeleton tree,

Tongue stiff and twig limbs; eye sockets a cave;

We cry, but no tears will set our eyes free.

You say in America we’ll be free,

Scatter us orphans, in vain tongue your “save;”

We will walk forever, eternity.

Phantoms of family condemn us to be

Lonely,  to torment forever a slave,

We cry, but no tears will set our eyes free.

Home stays a taunting and flaming decree,

Foreign enigma price makes us walk brave.

We will walk forever, eternity,

We cry, but no tears will set our eyes free.


Here is a link to some information about the Lost Boys of Sudan.http://nahalhumanitiesgreen.blogspot.com/2010/03/where-do-we-belong.html

2011

At the Youssoupov Palace

The evil(monk), (un)holy man
in possessive, possessed freedom
shed his shadow on these walls,
spread toxic medicine
to a desperate mother’s heart,
seized the scepter, with a guise
of divinity, healing gifts;
grainy photographs show so well
his lusty grabbing.

Minty satisfaction
shocked our veins when we descended
into that palace basement;
Wax figures seemed to parody
the planning in that darkened room
Madeira and cakes,
Cyanide-laced
Enough for six men
left him laughing.

Crumbs in his tree-like beard
unaware, he spewed
lewd jokes, his tried forte
on wide-eyed assassins,
nobles choked by
failure to succumb;
some inhuman power
proved the poison harmless juice.
In
frantic
disarray  chaos
            a heart-pounding
twenty-something vigilante
Fired on the hairy barrel chest
of the peasant giant. Breath releases.
Fists unclench.
It worked.
(Until he woke up
In manic rage).

Lather, rinse repeat,
defeat was not an option.
Another bullet tamed the demon
long enough to heave his oak tree body
into roaring breakers of the Neva,
that river emblem of
Motherland power.

Rasputin
breathed his last
slicing breath,
lethal knife of ice water
(unbeknownst to his dangling consciousness)
and abated in the silent
winter freeze.

2011

Masha

Her bony fingers
whisper on the guitar
in our wooden corner.
Her withered cry “пора домой”
paints far away
imaginings of home.

We walk at night
along the pedestrian street, unimportant
figures, shadows under city lights
and stop for dirt-cheap pelmeni
drowned in mayonnaise.
She drinks her beer
Like a child drinks juice;
I bite my lip.

The city is cruel and swallows her;
cigarette coughs shake her skeleton.

On future nights
when I breathe smoke
and hear folk guitar
her ice-blue eyes will haunt me.

2011

Harley

A black beret makes him blend
Into the clones of Russian men.

His eyes speak an enigma tongue
that leaves a funny taste on your own;
His eyes tattoo a question,
you cannot find words for it.
His eyes conceal and tease,
withdraw so close to Eureka.
His eyes love to laugh,
and find humor in youthful ignorance.

Silky lines of Pushkin
mete his Koroviev gait

His voice is high and crackly,
“Люблю тебя петра творенье”
His voice is ripened wine,
“Люблю твой строгий стройный вид”
His voice is shadow of story,
“Невы державное теченье”
His voice is mystery,
“Береговой ее гранит.”

2011

Beginnings, St. Petersburg

Russia, we said
to all those people
asking
Why? Why
go to that place
of Communism
snow huts
vodka and caviar?
(The center
of all that is evil,
you know).
Of course we went
not knowing gravity’s laws
would overwhelm us
with the force of the Neva
on her flooding days.

Two suitcases bulged with
winter boots, peanut butter,
questions
in a Starbucks kiosk
a random group (impossible)
we hid
expectations
at the diving board of new,
new strangers
on a common, unknown path.

You remember
we started out that life
in a St. Petersburg series;
a purgatory of
American cafes
Subways
grudgingly catering
to our untrained tourist tongues
drowned by the metro
in her rhythmic, faithful scream

Brought us to palaces,
and tapestries of riches
stunned with newborn child awe
(at first) then melted
into thin broth,
common
in the brazen repetition
of fairy tale fountains,
glittering domes, gold
halls that reached on
in yawning infinity
where the tsar strode.
The gaudy weight
like lead, burdened
for stories of peasants
shivering in izbas
with seven children and tattered rags
praising the tsar,
their little father
in his dreamlike
removed from life
excessiveness.

We were removed
birds free from the earth
flying
over blurry wholeness.
We were spectators,
testing, twirling our forks,
adventurous, through
the beets and cabbage
(we used to think were strange).
We were blind,
squinting
at an unwashed window
concealing,
revealing a smidgen
a spark
of the soul that
longed to reveal itself

In the canyon eyes of
people
who would embed our hearts
with words
that have no written form.

2011, Dedicated to my fellow RSPers

Tear the Veil

 In humid breath of quiet night your meaning dances free,

And joyful darkness sways in time with whispered mystery,

The veiled emerges, twirling in a stunning splash of red,

Enlightens, then retreats into a specter of the dead.

Your clarity abstracted; in the daylight smog it seems

That hopes you spoke into the soul are only distant dreams

I strain to capture, resurrect the clarity I knew

But every try dissolves to a diluted, weakened brew.

Metaphors may try to breathe your precious cry

But only do in vain, and fade into a lie.

They lie in droning songs, that chant the same cliché,

That knock on Wisdom’s door, but mouth the truth away.

The curse of earth to birth pretensions covering the right

Drags men and women forward with the hollow clone of light.

Seeing but not seeing, singing without song,

The chosen roam in comatose believing of the wrong.

The good men filled with hunger race after worms and mold,

Mirages tantalize the wise when thirst has got its hold,

Blindfolds mock the chosen ones, who think they have their sight,

Eclipses blind and shatter life with brilliant streams of light.

Truth caged in a dimension, only touched in times

When souls are quiet, fixed on whispers far beyond the rhymes.

But days of stale monotony exalt the longing sigh,

The goal of motion, meaning sought within the laughing lie.

So bring back color, vibrancy to black and white review,

Define the wine, the bread; refresh with glimpses of the new.

Come break the barricades to meaning guarded by the lies,

And shatter repetition with your wordless loving eyes.

April 2011

The Magician's Daughter

Some of my first memories in that little house

Were of Daddy juggling with me in the breezeway,

Two red balls turned into three, into dreams of a life on the stage.

The living room spoke an enchanted language of diamonds and spades

Of Queens and Kings

Of silver rings that mystically linked and a black and white wand.

Here he lived life that was hours of work for an hour of fame.

The blood, sweat and tears were all worth it

For my hero card shark.

Every summer we adventured three hours from home

Past the grassy fairy tale bogs

To a familiar campground.

I’d join him up on the wooden stage

The princess of the kingdom.

After the show I was met by demanding voices

 “Tell us the secret!”

“No”, I said. A good magician never tells.

I had the key to the coveted secret,

I had the key to something more.

Bright lights blazed in my eyes

As he floated me to Oriental music

Or we tossed six flashing clubs

And I drank the applause of the dark apparitions;

The stage was my home.

On those long car trips home through summery Maine

I leaned my cheek on the sheer glass

Following powdered sugar stars on walls of navy ice,

Or if my brother was there

We’d giggle in our late night childish joy,

We were made up characters from a different world

In more than one way.

Sometimes Dad would leave for two weeks

Away

To Italy

To Japan

Knowing his return meant hugs and foreign treasures

I stayed up late those nights

Awaiting the sound of a car pulling in

The engine stopping

The key turning

The door opening

Ambushing him with hugs, our unraveled traveler

Jet-lagged, but smiling,

Finally home.

He went to Germany,

So long ago, a flash

A memory because

 Daddy brought me my teddy bear

Cuddly, a token of the days that breathed me into

Spoke me into who I am today.

Different always

Always breathing

The envious breath when confined to the audience,

Red velvet chairs make me squirm

When spotlights flash and beckon me forward,

To venture further and find the fierce adrenaline-joy

That he taught me to love.

Daddy’s blue eyes in me as I live and write and breathe I am

A magician’s daughter.