Victims of Homemade Wine

Rhubarb, the label read
We pulled the cork out with a screwdriver
and sipped from frosted plastic margarita cups.
Wal-Mart. Dollar each
and later they broke from their flimsy stems,
as I threw them to the floor. Accidentally.

Bitterness bloomed in the confines of the Olds
Cell screen glowing from an ended call
Six of us sandwiched, overgrown babysitting charges
For our DD.

Later, after they left
The two of us ran, wet under buckets of falling rain,
Back home, together, together as we had always been
She had bled somehow and I didn’t notice
But I could see her heart, shattered and starting to heal
Underneath the droplets.

Aurora

Our words float like feathers on the breeze of early morning –
Lost among the treetops.

The branches contrast
With the brightening blue of pre-dawn;
My thoughts do the same
Against the clearing canvas of my innermost mind.

Chilly air fails to penetrate warming hearts,
On the last night, the last morning -
Last words saturated with increased meaning.

You and I: Dimensions

Like liquid crystals are we
Melding, breaking, reforming anew
Separate planes reflecting light
Casting each thought, each doubt as colored rays,
Scattered about our world
In the center of which we are one,
Perpetually changing
Adding to the array of light with which
We fill our souls.

Two Hours Too Late

I had planned on falling asleep around eleven this evening, because I have to wake up at 7:45 to get ready for my 8:30 breakfast followed by a 9:05 class (Sacred Scriptures, no less). Obviously, that plan went awry somehow and I instead laid in bed for half an hour with no luck at falling asleep. Suddenly, inspiration struck: the nostalgic node in my brain started firing all sorts of neurons at me and one word flew to the forefront of my mind.

LiveJournal.

For years, I updated my LiveJournal religiously – or, perhaps that’s bad word choice – very regularly, shall we say. The religious updating didn’t last far into my high school years. ‘Blueflipflops’ was my journal’s random name; if you visit it today, you’ll see a Fight Club icon in the corner and a post directing you to its reincarnation, f1refly (taken from a Saves the Day song). I toiled over it, knowing that someday I would appreciate the effort I took at noticing trends in my ‘romantic’ life and social endeavors, then writing about them in ridiculous detail.

I skimmed over a handful of entries from the summer of 2003, a particularly tumultuous time that involved the finalization of my parents’ divorce, my first ‘break-up’, my first ‘hook-up’, my first experiences with alcohol, and essentially, the ‘coming-of-age’ stage of my adolescence. I lived at Canadohta Lake with my mom that summer, and as shines through in many of those *private* entries, I had the time of my life. Ashley and I were inseparable: I helped her through Minky’s death and the adoption of her new kitten, Chloe. We spent countless nights in her hot tub, on the trampoline under the stars, staying up too late talking about everything and nothing. Several entries were typed up on her computer as she was at work or golfing, I practically living in her house most mornings and early afternoons.

I had an obsession then with finding “someone” to care for me. I didn’t care who it was, seemingly, because I let myself get duped by more than a few pathetic excuses for life – no names necessary. Looking back, I have to laugh, because I remember how happy I was to be on the prowl, living every day and every night as if I had a million more days and nights to be young. I didn’t give much thought to anything concrete or real or meaningful, though I liked to believe I did. I would post about how I was in a melancholy mood (that was my summer of Something Corporate, Frank Sinatra, Dashboard and John Mayer …’nuff said.) Christine was my chief co-conspirator into this virtual diary of sorts; she would comment on my melodramas with wisdom and enthusiasm. I must have seemed so foolish to everyone who read it, but maybe at the time they were in the same sort of mindset too. Thank God I privatized all the entries so basically no one can stumble upon them and have a good laugh at my expense. I was a typical teenager, but oh, how I deceived myself from seeing that. Everything mattered, everything was leading to something else, everything would someday diverge onto one right path that I was ‘meant’ to find. I truly believed all of that, and maybe I still do somewhere deep down, but my eighteen-and-a-half years have done more for me than that, to be sure.

I can say now that I’m thankful I was such a drama queen four years ago. I learned oh-so-much from those silly boys, those outlandish crushes, and the dozens of landmark lyrical masterpieces that seemed to help me on my way. I probably owe more to Ashley than anyone, truthfully, for even putting up with how ridiculous I was. At the beginning of my second semester of college, there are only a couple of things that still hold true four years later:

(August 10, 2003) Your three best qualities?: intelligence, hopefulness, sense of survival  [I hope that people sort of see that in me. I like to think that I'm pretty optimistic, and, well, I did overdramatize the events of my 8th & 9th grade years (ALOT) but I do feel like I pull through things pretty strongly.]

(August 24, 2003) movies [evidently movies I had watched that summer and enjoyed]:
goodfellas
bruce almighty
ocean’s eleven
pearl harbor
say anything
2fast 2furious
identity
seabiscuit
fight club
[The non-bolded? Let's just say I was easily influenced by my peers back then. Peers being... well, I can think of one guy and one girl who had direct connections to me 'liking' these movies. Uck.]

And I can thank my ‘boy of that summer’ for introducing me to Maroon 5, whom I still like, and whom I liked WAY before the radio killed their music.

That’s all I guess. I’m glad I’m older, and a hell of a lot wiser. But wasn’t it great to be 15?

Charlotte – 6 (cont’d)

She watched, feeling somewhat awkward, as a heavyset woman barreled her way out of the kitchen with an enormous, affectionate smile on her face.

“Anthony… my Anthony…” Bertie’s fleshy arms pulled him into a tight squeeze of a hug, and she planted a matronly kiss on his forehead. “Good Lord knows I wish you were still around here. Kids these days, I tell ya… This your lady friend? Gonna introduce me?” Without giving Anthony time enough to sit back down in his seat, Bertie wiped her hands off on her apron, then thrusting one in Charlotte’s direction. “Bertie Shore. So glad you’re here… any girl that Anthony brings by is sure to be a hit with us… he’s got the best taste, don’t ya, darlin’…” She pumped Charlotte’s hand tightly in her own clammy one. The woman seemed to move with the energy of a small child, but with the momentum and grace of a small elephant. Her face was slick with sweat from working in the kitchen, her maple eyes radiating warmth and care as they surveyed the sight before her.

Anthony laughed heartily at the bewildered expression on Charlotte’s face as he introduced the two woman formally. Bertie drew back toward him, placing her arm around his shoulders. “You know everything is yours. Get the works. Whatcha drinkin’? I’ll have ‘er bring the whole bottle out to ya…”

After a few more minutes of small talk, Bertie boisterously retreated back into the kitchen and Charlotte breathed a long sigh of relief. “So that’s whose standards I’ve got to measure up to? She seems to have a pretty high opinion of you!”

Anthony nodded slowly. “She got me through some interesting times. I owe a lot to her and Walt.” Charlotte silently wondered what else he was implying by that, and judging his reluctance to disclose it by the way he averted his eyes to the view of the ocean through the window, she did not press the issue.

A couple of glasses of raspberry iced tea and one jumbo shrimp cocktail later, Anthony was again leading Charlotte through the crowded restaurant toward the door. Once outside, they both cherished the feel of the cool summer air playing across their faces. Anthony stepped out onto the road with a thoughtful look on his face, and beckoned for Charlotte to follow. “One more sight to see tonight.”

Charlotte – 6

A few minutes later, they had reached the buzzing Shore’s, the restaurant at which Anthony had spent his adolescent summers working. After Anthony greeted the hostess with a hug and a moment or two of small talk, he led Charlotte through the snaking pathway barely cleared between the loud tables, booths and barstools. The hostess slapped two tattered menus on a worn, wood table that looked as if it had washed up on the beach outside and someone had installed it absentmindedly in the back of the cluttered, eclectic restaurant.

            The hostess smiled widely and squeezed Anthony’s shoulder. “Bertie’ll be right out!”

            He nodded in thanks as she walked away and watched Charlotte’s face as she took in the melange of sights, sounds, and smells around them. Every seat was filled, and it appeared that at some tables, extra chairs had been brought out. Most tables consisted of families, a lot were couples, and there were even quite a few tables of solely adults, starting the night off early with cocktails and crabcakes.

            Anthony explained to Charlotte how he had spent six summers there, splitting his days between summer courses, internships, and waitering. Bertie and her husband Walt had taken him in as a surrogate son as his parents went off on trips for the company, worked from the office on the second floor of their seaside vacation home, and attended dinner parties and charity events. He often ended up spending the night in the wait staff room on the couch, waking up in time to clean-up and help set the place back up for the lunch hour.

            He’d saved every penny: twelve-grand from the age of fourteen to the age of twenty, from busboy to waiter to bartender to assistant manager. Bertie adored him for his modest charm, his friendly eyes, his hard-working attitude. She’d tell every waiter and waitress after him, “That Huntington boy never missed a day of work, and he held three jobs, and took college courses. You’d think you kids’d want to be here and make as much money as he did…”

            They smirked behind Bertie’s back at her ridiculous adoration for a kid who was practically famous for being the nerdiest one around. No social life that anyone could see, even though he had everything. He didn’t ever have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to. And yet, he did.

            Charlotte wasn’t surprised at Anthony’s devotion to the place; she had seen him at work and knew he tended to immerse himself in it. Plus, the restaurant hooked you instantly with its New England charm, its authentic décor, the warm tones of the natural wood and lighting.

(to be continued… soon!)

Charlotte – 5

A luscious blend of the scents of barbecue chicken and the salty ocean permeated the air just inside the front door as Charlotte opened it. Seven-thirty-seven, her cell phone’s glowing blue clock read; she called back upstairs behind her: “You’re worse than I am! Let’s go!” Her urgent tone reached Anthony as he stepped into well-worn sandals and pulled on his weathered light leather jacket, shaking his head at Charlotte’s obsessive punctuality. He looked around the bedroom: the soft, shiny oak of the queen bed and the seafoam green quilt that covered it, their suitcases wide open at the foot of it with all of their clothes for the weekend sifted through after Charlotte’s indecisiveness in getting ready. Taking a deep, silent breath that filled his lungs, he pulled the chain on the lamp and the room went dark.

She was waiting on the front stoop, bathed in sunset tones that invigorated her lustrous skin. She was humming something in a way that showed that she thought no one would hear her – the tune was melodic but flawed, as if she were making it up on the spot. Anthony pulled the door closed behind him and Charlotte started, then stood, brushing herself off and pursing her lips as if she had been impatiently waiting for hours. “Ready now, you girl?”

He steered her head toward him with a hand at the base of her neck, and kissed her cheek with a laugh. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so long in the bathroom, I would have actually had enough time to shower and shave… It’s only seven-forty though, Char, we’ve got plenty of time.”

The two started off down the seaside street, breathing in fresh, late summer air and musing about the kids playing beach volleyball on the sand, the golden retriever panting at their thighs and chasing the ball every time it soars out of bounds. Charlotte felt strangely alive with his last two fingers entwined with hers casually, comfortably, as if they have never walked any other way.

Anthony, doing most of the talking, pointed out a brick house across the street with an enormous bay window facing the ocean, and cracked a silly, secret smile: “I knew the girl whose parents owned that place…” Charlotte analyzed his expression curiously, it being one she hadn’t yet seen him wear.

“Was she a friend, or more than a friend?” She prodded with a playful squeeze of his hand.

He shook his head, obviously remembering as he took in the beauty of the old house’s fresh façade and elegant landscaping. “I don’t even know what I’d call it.” This sense of mystery was something Charlotte had never experienced before with Anthony; his quiet demeanor had an air of aloofness, but she had surpassed that quickly to learn that he was the kind of genuine person who felt he had nothing to hide when it came to those whom he trusted.

Charlotte was unsure of his intention in pointing out the place, so she just settled for a subtle “Hmm” and left him to his memories. She noticed, though, that he looked over his shoulder once they had passed in order to peek in the driveway.

Charlotte – 4

            “What’s this rinky-dinky?” Floyd grins goofily, holding up a little plastic model of an old typewriter, nickel-plated and tinted with metallic, rust-colored paint.

            Charlotte, offended, snatches the miniature from Floyd’s gangly fingers and turns it over in her own hands. “My mother gave this to me for Christmas or something when I was little. It’s a pencil sharpener.” She points out the cone-shaped opening on the side and the empty rectangle on the bottom where the shavings would fall out. “I loved this thing. My Barbie dolls were always the intellectual type, anyway.”

            “Only you, Char, only you. Well, throw it out or keep it?” Floyd raises his eyebrows, anticipating what, in the past hour, has become the standard answer.

            “But… ohhh, I can’t just throw this away! Look how darling it is.” She giggles at Floyd’s expression and places the little typewriter back onto the shelf above her desk.

            “You know, you’ll never get rid of any’a this clutter if ya don’t get rid of some of it!” He pulls a few dusty shoeboxes from under the bed, directing a strong stream of air over their tops so as not to dirty his fingers. The puff of dust particles diffuses into the air, light rays finding each one and brings it to life as it floats about.

            “Oh my… I’d forgotten about those…” Charlotte springs up from her kneeling position on the floor by the desk and sinks into the armchair next to Floyd, clutching one of the shoeboxes. “Floyd…” Her face falls swiftly from the playful expression of the minute prior to a sudden, sad countenance. The top of the box slides from her limp fingers to the floor as she beholds the contents of the box.

            A pile of creased letters, ticket stubs, dried flowers, and random trinkets lie dormant, like hibernating bears that have been peacefully waiting to wake up for the past six months. Charlotte’s hesitant fingers sift through the items with incredible care, stopping on each for a moment to reminisce.

            A midnight blue, velvet box sits nestled in the corner, a literal jewel among muted, dusty remains. A tiny smile turns up the corners of her mouth as she lifts it, and flips back its top. Floyd looks on, his eyes darting from Charlotte’s to the box, confused and a little stunned at the sight. Inside, a small circle of beige string lies where one would expect a sparkling ring to be.

            “I fell for him this night…”

Charlotte – 3

            A gang of fallen leaves invades the sidewalk as Charlotte turns the corner; she relishes the nostalgic sound of the oranges and reds breaking under her weight. A few cars speed by, headlights flicked on in the dusky dimness. The lane is quiet, on a night that feels empty and alone in its autumnal glory.

            Charlotte smiles slightly as she continues her stroll along the perfectly squared-off sidewalk, rolling green lawns coming up to meet her on the right side. An old-fashioned stone wall, about knee-height, borders the lawn along the sidewalk from where it starts to rise up toward the slate-blue house set back from the road.

            She turns in the driveway to this small estate. It seems as if nothing on the road is alive, no one occupying the smart, fresh colonials that line its boundaries. Silence sits haughtily on the ancient oak tree branches, looming over her, teasing, “Back so soon?” Charlotte crosses her arms subconsciously, warding off the October breeze.

            The doorbell rings to an empty foyer, and she can hear its melodic tones bouncing off of the hardwood floors and manicured walls. She peeks in the tiny window above the doorbell, and can see only the sun’s last rays cleansing the shiny wood. No signs of life.

            She is rounding the curve of the street when he drives past, a ghost behind the wheel of a sleek Volvo – machine of the rich, environmentally-conscious elite. The brakes make a smooth ‘whoosh’ sound as he engages them almost immediately.

            His voice melts her resolute shell with its angst and weakness, “Guess we were on the same page tonight, just different books.” He had gone to her apartment building again, then.

            “Thought you’d at least come home and change first.” She climbs into the passenger seat uninvited, noticing the song that softly fills the leather interior – “We’ve Got Tonight”.

            He turns the volume down as he steers up the driveway, putting the car in park at the back door of the house. “Why did you walk here?”

            “Why not?” Charlotte studies his eyes, his long hands, his straight, pained expression. A cloud of inner struggle casts shadows over his face as he pulls the keys from the ignition and his briefcase from the backseat. “You were outside last night… I saw you.”

            He tiredly steps out of the car and walks around the front, Charlotte’s eyes moving with him as if loosely attached by invisible silky threads. “Go home, Charlotte.” His words hit her ears without him turning his head, his legs moving him forward steadily and without pause.

            She has been stung again, by her own choice, her own actions. A wave of confusion washes over her, as it seems to do with the turn of the tide. He, her moon, triggers the violent effect of gravity on the waters of her world.

Charlotte – 2

            “…So I climbed back over that fence and walked back inside. And he was gone.” Hilde furiously swept once more, a cloud of dust and scraps floating out into the alleyway behind her bar.

            Charlotte let out a disgruntled sigh. “That easy, huh? Not for me.” She shifted on the bar stool, resting her head on one hand while watching the older woman perform her daily cleaning tasks.

            “You think too much! Just end it. Leave it at that. What’s the sense in waiting around, watching him beg, wondering if it was right or wrong?” She hip-checked a chair that was an obstacle in her path, dusting the underside of the tables and the bar running along the back wall as she went. “Go with the gut!”

            “But Hilde, I adored him. I do…” A couple staggered past, drunkards holding each other up as they made their way home from a particularly long night. Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh, “At least I’m drowning my sorrows in advice and not certain other remedies.”

            The no-nonsense proprietor threw a snarling glare in her direction. “Those certain other remedies keep a roof over my head, so you won’t hear me complain,” then, softening a bit, “Not everyone has someone who’ll listen, darling, remember that.”

            “That’s another thing. He’s got no one here, just me, and now he’s got no one at all.”

            Hilde set the duster on a table and put her hands on her hips. “Then why’d you do it, if you’re gonna beat yourself up?”

            Another unanswerable question. Charlotte was thirsty for air, maybe a run would give her answers she couldn’t find. She squeezed Hilde’s arm in thanks as she made her way back out into the quiet morning.