With Eyes Wide Open

Emily

On Sunday mornings, I sat and followed along with my pointer finger as our teacher, Miss Charity, read Bible stories of David whipping the butt of Goliath and Noah and his big ole floating zoo with every creature times two. There my seven-year-old self sat in a smocked, lace dress, matching fancy socks, and patent leather shoes that squeezed my toes. I smiled and acted reverent. It was a charade. I was miserable. It was only during the prayer that I could sneak stares out the window and dream of being home where I would kick off church clothes and transform into the real me, the barefooted pony rider with one speed ... full throttle.

It was easy to peek during the prayer; I always had a warning whistle of the closing, “In Jesus’ name,” as my clue to slam my eyes shut before the grand finale of “Amen.”

Closing

Emily

This week I closed on property that had been part of my life for almost a dozen years. Closed as in ... cleared out, cleaned out, moved the utilities to another’s name. It is strange to me that whether you buy or sell a house, you still use the word close for the ending action. I have never been a fan of good-byes, always crying at the likes of “Snoopy, Come Home” or “The Tigger Movie” where Tigger utters the phrase, “T.T.F.E. Ta. Ta. For. Ever.” Get the towel please. I am blubbering over here.

On Sunday, I hauled away a final load and made a pass through a house and garage that I was once so happy to own. Time slips by, leaving joy and wreckage along the right of way.

At this space and place once called home ...

School's Out ... Almost

Emily
family, life

School should be out, but it's not. We are paying a 90 degree summer rate for stolen snow days. Teachers, bookbags, and sneakers, fresh and new in August are tired and frayed, ready for a respite.

I cried every single day of first grade, even the last day of school. I was moved from classroom to classroom, my teachers passing me along like a white elephant Christmas gift, where the wrapping looks cute but the contents are not as expected. My brothers alternated the duty of escorting me from school bus to class as silent tears poured down my cheeks. After I was delivered, they bolted for refuge in the junior high building. I. Hated. School.

It got better along the years. I finally realized school played to my nerdiness. That along with the abundant library where you could read as many books as you wanted was almost a fair trade for the caged confinement of desks and chalkboards.

The Old Man by the Coffee

Emily
life

I met a man today. His name is Larry. He was in line beside me at the coffee shop, waiting for a refill of decaf. He is old in the way that stoops the body and makes eyes cloudy, watering for no real obvious reason other than they have been in the sockets for so very long and have probably seen many things. Larry was dressed in that casual, sporty, old man way with dress pants, button-up shirt, shiny shoes, and a little cap like the jockeys wear in the Kentucky derby. I felt an urge to sink down beside him on a couch and watch an old Clark Gable movie, listening to his stories about the war and the Great Depression.

Larry stepped right up to me, too close really for someone you have just met, but I didn't mind. Perhaps when you are old and you can hear the clock ticking, you are less bound by the rules of personal space. Larry saw my sweaty clothes and asked what I had been doing. When I answered, "Exercising." He asked if I had been running through the forest. He once had a friend who when she was at Princeton would run through the forest to clear her head and think. I often trail run. I moved closer to Larry. I understood. It is so hard to clear the head and think.

The Feral Bunny

Emily
family

My eight year old daughter wants a bunny. Not a stuffed bunny or a chocolate bunny or a little plastic hopping bunny. She already has all of those. She wants a real, live bunny. Very, very badly does Ryann want this bunny. I hate to sound so skeptical about my daughter and her baby Peter Cottontail. I have just come to understand that with children much like with their taller, grown-up counterparts, life is sometimes more about the getting than the actual having.

Here is the thing about little girls, they may be made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and perhaps this next part was omitted from the poem because it is difficult to find words that rhyme with “relentless without mercy,” but it doesn’t make it any less true. My daughter wants, even needs, a bunny.