She Sailed Away

Work has been busy. Home has been crazy. Vacation begins in two days.

Clothes are strewn about the room. On the bed the empty suitcase lies wide open; so much potential to pack.

It is her first trip of this kind. Sure, she has taken other vacations, but none of this sort. Fortunately she is creative and can pull together 3 or 4 outfits from each article of clothing. Her packing methods bewilder her. Only in packing is she so decisive and knows what to pack.

Her eyes widen with the sight of the boat. It is one of the biggest boats she has ever seen. The ramp looks like mere toothpicks to the ship. As she nears it, her heart races. It must be sturdy if they are letting all these people on it. Right?

On deck, the wind blows through her hair. The sky is clear blue as is the ocean under it. The horizon glistens with adventure. Up on the deck she watches the masses board. They move so systematically. They all have the same look of hope and ambition on their faces. The breeze carries their spirits high in the air.

Her luggage is stowed and the cabin is set. It's not home but it will do for the week ahead. She sprawls out on her bed and daydreams her coming days.

The captain announces the ship is about to leave port. Let her trip begin! She steps out on the deck again to see the shoreline disappear. Against the rail on the top balcony she feels like she is floating. The water is distant below. The land grows smaller and smaller as the waves crash by. The sun beats down on her shoulders and she can begin to feel the burn. The refreshing kiss of sea breeze makes up for the peeling shoulders she will have later.

It is three days before they are scheduled to embark the first island. In the mean time, her days are filled with plans to wine, dine, dance, and sunbathe. She makes new friends and tries new things. It had been six years since she surfed. Today she is in line to do it again. She is fascinated that you can surf on the boat on the ocean. Who knew?

The first two days fly by. The ship is so wonderful and has so much to do. Lost in her amazement and lust she loses track of herself. And she loves it! Work, home, land have all left her mind. She is free to live and enjoy. She tucks herself into bed on the second night with a smile.

Bubbly Beverage

Today is here. She awakes. Her mouth is dry. After a few swallows she throws the blankets to the side. Legs swing over the side of the bed and she rises. Automatic pilot brings her to the kitchen. She keeps her feet on the rug; it is too early to feel the cool tile beneath.

Tupperware fills the fridge with leftovers. On the door the wine, milk, juice, and soda sit. The fridge has one of those columns for the cans. It is one of the best parts of the whole place. Near the bottom of the column is the last can. It is waiting for her.

POP!

Air sizzles out of the can. The bend of the tab cuts through the perforation. She pushes it back down; otherwise it'd get in the way of her nose. A rush of orange flavor invades her nose. She can almost taste the soda on her tongue.

She isn't sure when, but she developed a habit of smelling things before they enter her mouth. It makes the food or drink taste better, more invigorating.

With the can in her right hand, she takes a sip. The cool, fragrant liquid reaches her lips. Her tongue is wet with anticipation. The liquid envelops it. But it doesn't feel wet.

Bubbles surround the tongue. Orange bubbles. They pop and fizzle with flavor, but share little taste. Millions of the bubbles seem to fill her mouth. She swallows them down the pipe with full exertion.

Her mouth remains dry from the tease of the can. Hopeful for a better outcome, she takes another mouthful. The fact remains – the soda is too fresh; the bubbles are too present.

She places the soda back in the fridge, next to the leftovers from last night.

Thirst subsides and hours pass. The day is filled with activity and nonsense. At the end of the day she returns home.

To comfort her in front of the movie, she needs to quench her palate. Aftertaste of dinner sits on her tongue. Steak teriyaki, garlic mashed potatoes, and green beans. She is too full for dessert, but something sweet, wet, and light would be perfect.

The movie stills and she walks to the fridge again. A foot steps onto the cool tile. A hand reaches for the door and the other grabs the can. The can is cold. Liquid inside smells the same syrupy orange goodness she smelt earlier.

On the couch again she sips her soda. The bubbles are mostly gone. Orange liquid goes down nice and smooth. The syrup carries the flavor and liquid over her tongue and through her body. It satisfies her to her childhood days and compliments the old school Christmas movie.

She recalls the day of popcorn, Grampy's kitchen table, and playing cards. On our overnights there, he'd let his granddaughters drink orange soda, and have popcorn and ice cream. It was such a treat! She'd put the popcorn in her soda. Weird now, but delicious then! Sometimes they'd also have orange soda floats with vanilla ice cream.

The last drop trickles down the can. She shakes the can to let it dribble out. It is the cherry on the sundae. Her craving is fulfilled and her palate is satisfied.

 

How does the first sip from a fresh can of soda make you feel?

Novocain Nevermore

My heart raced. I knew the pain that was coming and I do not handle pain well. The anticipation drove me to fight it. The needle came nearer and my muscles came tenser. A pinch in the skin! The metal prod delivered a cool fluid into my veins. The nurse said to relax. I was too apprehensive; it seemed like forever until my arm went to gel. By the time the cool liquid reached my upper arm, between my elbow and shoulder, I felt a looseness I hadn't felt since I was a child.

"Just close your eyes, relax, and begin counting backwards from 100," the nurse said. What happens if I reach 50 and I'm still awake?
And with a deep breath to 94 the worry scurried away.

I felt no pain. Very little memory of the event lingered. It was done and gone. The moments passed at the speed of light. I woke up in an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar faces and feelings. A fog hung heavy over my eyes and I couldn't move. Not just yet. It seemed to take forever for the sights and sounds to come to recognition.

One by one I could see the clock on the wall, the lady at the desk, the beds next to me. Objects around me became clearer, yet a fog still hung like a mist. Edges blurred. Time continued to escape me. Things happened and I passed through. The cool fluid sustained my veins. My shell was numb.

Time hung in overcast.

Memories stand vacant.

My hand stings with soreness. It is tender and bubbly from the needle.

With care and softness he removes the cold metal prod. Soft absorbent gauze covers the hole and mild pressure is applied. Deep breaths and fluttering eyes I can see again. My nebulous landscape clears, and like the rainbow after the rainstorm, hope returns

The sun is shining brighter than yesterday. It fills me with a warm fluid. The pain is gone; just a bump remains as the only reminder of the trance. Gone is the unfamiliar. Gone is the numbness. Gone is the shield.

Edges are sharp and lucid. Time is on my side. Feeling is all around and the moments are full. My senses crest and satisfy in a fresh future.

Learned

All day long the teacher scrolls words up on the board. Through her vocal transmission the words become lessons to her pupils. Some students listen with all their attention they can muster. Others sit back and dream of the boy across the room, dinner after school, and the world when they are grown. Yet, others sit half-listening; they pick up the key words and ideas as their minds also wander elsewhere.

The chalk settles into the black slate hanging omnipotent on the wall. She hopes her students grasp the lessons as the board does the chalk. Looking back at the class, she can read their faces. Some will just never get it in this format and her hands are tied. The minutes tick by like hours and the restless students shift in their seats.

The bell tolls the end of the day. She made it through another one. The air in the classroom suddenly feels light and free. Happy students rise from their seats and begin their end of the day activities – cleaning desks, putting their chairs up, getting their homework together, talking to their best friend or the boy across the room, helping the teacher to close the room until tomorrow. The relieved teacher sits at her desk for a breath.

She erases the chalk off the blackboard. The young boy takes the erasers outside to clap the dust out of them. The erasers will be nice and clean for tomorrow's class. As the dust settles on the grass beneath, he knows his job is done. He reenters the classroom and he places the foam blocks on the lip of the board and looks up. A jilted reminisce of all the day's work is still clinging to the slate, despite his best efforts to have erased it. He feels anger and confusion.

Mesmerized the boy just stands on the cool tile with the outside door still ajar. He pays attention in class intensely and attempts to make sense of it all. Exponents and timelines, flower parts and sentence diagrams hang combined on the board. During class he did not realize how much he had absorbed from today's lesson. He did not realize how the lessons stayed with the board either. When the teacher wiped the board clean, he thought the lessons went with it.

He can see clearly now that the lessons do not disappear. They are written over and they are connected. What ended on the right piece begins again on the left. The middle is the most jumbled. Like a collision, he thinks. The dust from his day in front of him tells the tale of that which happened. The mangled mess of dust reminds him of a puzzle. He stands in awe of it for 10 minutes.

Yet now, he can piece it all together. He no longer looks with confusion at the black slate. He looks with knowledge, intensity, and understanding. He knows he's truly learned his lesson. A part of him holds onto this sight. He enjoys the physical representation of his learnings.

The teacher observes his revelation. She waits until all the students have left to wipe the dust off the board with a damp cloth. A new blackboard for tomorrow's new lessons shines on the wall.

Healthy Options

And now, like the weather lately, I am unsure. Of course we do dinner. First date is dinner-casual.

But the meteorologist called for rain this evening and I dress the part. At dinner, my rain coat rests on the back of the chair. The soft white linen napkin drapes my lap. The date sits across adjusting his arrangement of forks and sips the wine we ordered. A waiter comes by to inform us the meal will be out shortly. I can almost taste the filet melt in my mouth.

I bite my tongue instead. The dinner is all imagined. Rather I sit on the couch contemplating. Shall I eat out tonight? Or make something? I must make a choice. One is healthier than the other. I know what goes into the meal at home; I am unsure of the restaurant food. My tongue continues to throb.

The sky is full of clouds. Tonight no stars shine. The humidity hangs in the air, right there with my decision. I have gone out to this dinner numerous times. It finishes with a garnished dessert and cordial. The driver's seat in my car is soaked with rain in the morning and I feel empty.

Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast helps you to perform better throughout the day. But what about dinner? Does it make a difference if you eat healthy at night? Might it eliminate nightmares?

I open the cupboards. Canned fruit, dried meat, condensed soup, and broths fill the space. Oh the choices! My stomach wrenches in hunger as I dig through the stored food. I am not sure what I want. The thought of having to chose plagues me. I know it is not a major decision and I know the right choice would be the fruit. But I cannot seem to make it final.

Plus, fruit for dinner?!? Yeah, no. I need something more. Scouring the fridge I discover dough, soppressata, and cheese. A pizza it will be! Yet again I contemplate for a brief moment...pizza - how healthy is that? I suppose because it is homemade, it is healthier. Right? Perhaps. I can tell you in the morning if I had nightmares.

The dough spreads nicely. I roll it and top it without rise because I prefer the thin crust. No one in town has it quite right yet. I do. Twenty minutes later bubbling and sizzling, the fresh pizza comes out of the oven. The rain begins to splash against the kitchen window.

Steam rises and the dough slides off the stone. The cooling rack catches it. I am fascinated by the grease the pizza created on its own. I did not put any oils on it; just garlic, cheese, pineapple, and soppressata. I slide the pizza onto the cutting board and begin slicing it. The slicer breaks through the layered pie. Sixteen clean pieces.

I turn the oven off. I grab a plate with a few slices and a glass of beer. The show is starting on television and I place my meal on the table beside the couch. I shiver as I settle into my seat. This storm has chilled the air and I reach for my throw. The warm pizza relaxes my stomach as the cold air permeates.

I recognize this homemade pizza is just a temporary solution to the storm outside. It is just enough though to get me by in the night.

In the morning I awaken to the glow of the sun through the window. Already I can feel the warmth of the large star above. The storm and nightmares have passed and today is a new day. The best part? I have fourteen pieces of pizza left over!

A Salute

Today I marched with the fire department in the Veterans' Day Parade. I had forgotten how much feeling and freedom the parade invoked. Today I remembered Veterans' Day parades with my Grandfather. Jackie, Kerry, & sometimes Alicia would sleep over on Friday night. We'd wake up anxiously on Saturday morning. I didn't have to go to swim lessons. My parents allowed me to skip to go to the parade.

We'd walk down the hill through the park and to downtown. We'd watch the parade pass through and then peruse the shops or stop at the Y to say hi to my mother. The street vendors would be clearing and we'd grab a balloon for Kerry. Kerry only joined us if my grandmother drove down too. For this parade, Grandfather always met us there.

He'd race us from the house to the park. Sometimes he'd bring bread so that Jackie could feed the fish in the pond. We'd meet him by the library. Always we'd view the parade from the Christmas tree between the library and post office. The men, women, and children would march by in steps of honor. A sparkled in Grandfather's eyes as we sat on the curb cheering the parade by.

Nine years ago, Grandfather passed away and I marched (rode) with Watch Hill Fire for the first time. Ten years ago, I sat with him at his last Veterans' Day parade. My mother's Pontiac was brand new and he joked about it being a sports car. I always recall his station wagons. She shut the car off as we sat and waited for the parade. The radio stayed on and the jazz played. It was a bit chilly out, cloudy; it was supposed to rain later in the day. Grandfather had been sick for quite some time and despite the weather, he insisted on going.

As the parade came down the hill and their music played in the background, the jazz in the Grand Prix stopped. We were confused by it. Before, the music only stopped when a door opened. The doors were closed; we were still inside. The owner's manual read that after 10 minutes of sitting idle, the car would shut down. Mother restarted the car and we laughed at the simplicity of it all.

Ten minutes later, the music ceased again. The parade marched toward us and Grandfather asked my mother not to restart the car. He saluted the veterans as they passed and praised the bands. I saw the sparkle return to his eyes. A sparkle I hadn't seen shine so bright in years. A sparkle I felt shine down on me this year during the parade. And a sparkle I hope to pass on.

At today's parade, I realized the dedication, honor, and respect Grandfather had to the cause. I thought about how shameful it was for us to only have 6 participants, and more shameful for the streets to be sparingly lined with folks. Nine years ago, the sidewalks were lined 7 people deep. Everyone had an American flag. Everyone raised their hand in salute. Today, it was very few. Today, I felt the pride of my grandfather.

Around the Corner

"Patchy fog later today," says the radio forecaster.

A certain obscure haze hangs over the yard. A cloud sits just above the stone wall. The air smells simple sweet. The morning feels different. The car is warm, and the ride to work is breezy. The sun blinds me ahead, and in the rearview mirror a deep blue disappears.

At lunch I retreat to the Point. The light house sits here as an empire. Its power and beauty radiates out to the sailors and guides them safely to shore. On many days you cannot see beyond the wave's crest where the lobster pots bob. Today the lobster pots are lost. To the west the haze returns. Though now it blankets the cool calm ocean, rather than the stone wall across from my house. Despite the calmness in yonder, the force still crashes against the rocks upon which I stand. The spray washes me as the holy water did many years ago. I feel absolved.

The haze settles on the ground as the fog rolls inland. The southbound ride home into the clouds blinds me and smothers me. My headlights are useless. Their beacon is lost and no longer guides this lost sailor. Yet, I drive on.

I know this road better than the back of my hand. Does anyone really know the back of their hand? I'm sure I'd miss a freckle, or a pore, or both, if asked. Knowledge and confidence make this ride easy though not pleasurable. I pass on the left. I pass on the right. I lead the traffic, and tail the next.

Through the mist I navigate. The lines on the road guide me home and to my bed I rest.

Dust Trails

We drive. The radio crackles as the downtown scene fades. The streetlights illuminate less of the road ahead and the engine revs. Though the road is quite dark and empty, I've been here before. It's pretty during the autumn sunlight. The leaves glisten with their orange and gold rot as the cars pass too quickly. Under the harvest moon, the streaks of seasonal shade create a tunnel of dim, colorful light. The ride is hopeful.

The trees turn into dark empty fields. The fields spring houses. The houses sit as empty and dark as the fields. He turns off the crackling radio. In the distance I can waves crashing. The car slows and he pulls into a desolate lot. The world is dark around us. We're afraid to speak.

A cool fall evening in October is the best time to visit the beach. The tourists are all home far away from here. The sand is cool and the waves are serene. The bar lights are off and the residents are at rest. Above, the night sky perpetuates.

He says that is for why we came. The only lights around are the ones that gleam over our heads. We grab some blankets out of the trunk. The closure of the hatch seems to echo through the silence. It also sparks our conversation. Suddenly it feels like an inferno. We cannot stop talking. For a moment I try to pause and trace our words. The map is all over the place, some circles too.

We walk. We talk. We leave our footprints in the sands. We climb the rocks. The rocks, or boulders, are cool and stable. I am thankful for the blankets. They create a warm barrier over the unwavering rock we sit upon. The dialogue is not interrupted by the harmonized movements we create. Sitting together looking out on the ocean waves, we absorb the light of the moon rising on the horizon.

As the moon reaches its altitude, our conversation reaches its depths. We lie back on the soft fleece blanket and stare at the stars. They blink and burn. Our words stretch to a lull and I am mesmerized my by the sky above me. My mind escapes into it.

In the silence we lay. The stars stole our words and we are transfixed. The coolness of the rock radiates through the blanket. The crash of the waves against the rocks reminds me that it is all just water droplets. And the sky above continues to twinkle.

But what are they really? Scientists tell me they are just gases burning. Gases are not even tangible. Reach for the stars, but keep reaching because you will never get to touch one. Reach and if you do get one, you will be burnt to a crisp. I begin to ponder this further and deeper. I feel removed from the warm body next to me, from the cool rock and warm blanket. I am floating in the blanket of the sky.

And a blur whizzes by. I am caught by surprise and in an instant I am replaced. The rock grounds me. I blink to see if I can find the blur again. It's gone. I realize the moment that just passed. I found my first shooting star. Its glaze chasing the star was just a trail of dust. I wish on the dust.

A wish on the dust of a falling star is a wish to fall apart. A wish on the sparkling trail it leaves behind is a wish on the past. The dust, the trail are all pieces of what once was. It is mere evidence of the death of a star. I realize my own wish would involve collecting that dust and putting it back together. Let it sparkle in its own right. The wish vanishes from my heart like the trail from the star. Gone.

The waves continue to collide with the jetty. The wind continues to bellow. He continues to lie next to me and we fit together. He is my pile of dust.

Vino Verbatim

For months I have been trying to formulate my personal statement for graduate school. Finally the other day I considered story-boarding it. I have never been too keen on the notion; however I have had many paths and directions to follow. It's tough to decide. How do I sum myself up convincingly enough to get into the school I desire? I must make myself worthy of the future I want. And that alone is a daunting task.

I feel distracted now to trace the ideas of self-worth down this fated path; however, for now, I will choose to follow the intent of these prose (as I wonder if the power of direction in this essay is in the prose or in me to type…?) Oh the bewildering!

And thus my story goes….I came home from work and put my things away. The brink came to decide what to do to start my night. How do I make the most of my evening? My free time that I have so little of? I put the restraints on my mind and focused on the task, the dream at hand. Sticky notepads and markers appeared on my couch. I found myself piecing together words, phrases that I want to include in my essay. The stickiness wasn't taking to my walls so I found the masking tape and posted them in a blob. All over the wall in my bedroom the phrases formed a sort of circle. Oval maybe.

The masking tape helped them stick. Stick they stuck.

Yesterday in the exempt staff meeting we were vaguely, very vaguely, talking about timelines and the future. All I could consider was where I want to be six months in the future. A year? The answer wasn't where I was.

The answer was on my wall, in a blob. A mess, but an answer. I knew I had to come home and reorganize. That is just what I did. It was as though my blob was smothered but not completely. Smooshed. I made my blob turn linear. I rearranged my notes starting with my past to present to future wants. Looking back on it the next night, it made most sense. I could formulate my essay from this.

The trouble comes tonight. I lay in bed ready to relax and fall asleep. Looking at the notes I want to arrange them now by color. I used various marker colors (11 to be exact). I feel the need/desire to trace them by color to determine another view of combining my thoughts by other than time.

If I do that, here is what would match:

Germany & Italy, interaction real culture

Cultural impact, human rights

Passion, multi-cultural, intellectual challenge

Diversity, International Club, American freedoms

Ms. Gagnon, explore

APG BA, connect communities

Study abroad, knowledge

UN / NYC trip, worldly

Change agent

Burned Alive

Very interesting the matches I find, especially the passion train.

Lascivious

A New A Bode

The walls are bare and the floor shines. I waltz around the empty house taking it all in. The desk can go there. The couch along that wall. Or that one? So many options, so many choices.


The color on the walls matches most of my things so I won't need to adjust that. Good.


Movers unload the truck and decisions must be made. I will put the couch along that first wall, the bed will orientate Eastward, and the kitchen table - well that one's easy. They do it with such ease and agility. It only takes them an hour or so. They are kind enough to bring the upstairs furniture up the stairs; however, now a hole exists. It was perfect...


As they pull away, I admire the dented wall. It's nothing some putty, paint, and sander can't fix. Cover it up and no one will notice, including myself. I'll walk by it 3 weeks later and forget that it was even there. That's ok. All the strong walls have rough patches. At least they didn't mark up the shiny wooden floor.


The wood paneling runs the length of the house. The sun shines through the bay windows and bounces off the oak stained ground. Everything is piled in the middle of the floor. A shadow covers the living room floor. The pile seems insurmountable. Oh! where to start?


I begin with the necessities - phone charger, pillows, plates, bar, and jewelry. The rest will come in time to its proper spot. Day by day the pile and shadow dwindle down. Eventually it is just the random pieces of a past life left. They file away into a junk drawer, closet, or garbage. And the days move on in repetition...




Things are put away in their proper spots now. The house is clean and the cat frolics in his new surroundings. An area rug lies now where the pile once towered. It is Sunday. Nothing planned, no agenda. Everything is good.


Too good? What comes next?? I fidget as I wait for that next piece, for the pipe to burst, for the grass to grow, for the carpet to need vacuuming, for something else to happen. I wait. The house does not need anything right now and I wait for it.

One Less Red Balloon

Huff. Huff. And blow out. Repeat.

The air transfers from one balloon to another. The balloon stretches. It gets larger and larger. The elasticity is almost at its full potential. The air is hostage inside. The red color looks almost pink near the top. The man ties the balloon off at the bottom and attaches the string. The child grabs for the string eagerly. A band marches by.

John ties the string around the child's right wrist. A slipknot should do it. The line is taught as the air mass bounces above in the air. The child sings out in glee. John smiles widely and the parade continues.

The child becomes anxious. She starts playing with the knot around her wrist. The politicians stride through. The knot becomes loose and the balloon reaches upward. The child does the same as the thread snakes out of her grasp.

Against the bright blue sky, the red balloon disappears from her beady sight. As it rises above the millions in the city square, the pressure around it increases. The air needs to escape. It cannot continue this way anymore. The elasticity the air once pushed out is not giving way. The insides are wet with moisture. The outsides are cool with temperature. The pressure continues to build. The balloon rises. The string follows. The child reaches.

PoP!

The balloon rains down on the crowd. The children pick up the pieces off the roadway and sidewalks. They pull and stretch their pieces and then toss them back on the walk home. The adults shake their heads of the litter and continue on their way also. She collects the pieces she can. If she can get enough of them, she can piece the balloon back together. Right?

John sees her dismay and buys her a new balloon. This time it isn't red. She hopes she can hold onto it this time! Looking up she misses her red balloon. The blue sky isn't the same.

Soaking up the moonlight

Yesterday I drove to New Hampshire. Driving on 95 I always think of you. Same when I get off the highway there. Cat Country was playing and driving mode set in.

Your song came on and before the lyrics broke through the speakers, tears fell. Five months later, I cannot fathom your absence. I miss you, your presence, your radiating smile, your wave passing down the road.

Its funny. I heard the song the other day too. I was on my way to work. Caught me completely off guard. Tears welled up, my throat closed - as it does now. The song plays for a reason. It plays for you.

In the meantime, my own life has not been looking up. I've given thought more & more to where you were. How dark did it get for you? Was there no more moonlight left? You have been constantly on my mind.

A seaside session with a close friend brought it home when she shared the same thoughts. The first notes hit the radio waves and I smiled. Shook my head. Missed you more than ever. It's the midst of summer and you're gone - somehow, someway, somewhere.

The summer nights are clear and bright. The moon shines above traveling through its phases. A dark night poses a new moon and no guidance is given through the darkness. We are most alone on these nights. I know the moon is still orbiting, but the light is unseen. Comfort determines to carry us through.

The next nights are filled with slivers of the waxing light. With each passing night, the moon shines brighter. We are more and more thankful for its direction in the dark. The stars around the moon glisten in glory.

A full moon illuminates my pitch black night. I can see the paths through the woods and I can find the stream. No matter where I am among the trees, I feel the moonlight on my shoulder.

As the paths are clearing, and we walk forward with merit, the moon slides into the waning pieces. In a few days time, we will be strong and the light will disappear. Until next time...
When I look up at the sky tonight I will see you in the moonlight, radiating down on us and keeping us strong in our darkest hours.

From dusk to dawn From full to new You're never really gone Let the moonlight through

Snow & ice

The snow comes down sweetly and sugarcoats the ground like the ocean's foam. Millions and trillions of snowflakes give up their individuality and join together. Each one plays a role. Each one is a binding piece. Together they hide the dirt. Together they warm the environment. Together they survive. Something happens. Together they separate.

They separate and the wind blows. A force is applied. The snowball rolls on and on and on. It gains hundreds and hundreds of flakes as it travels its unknown path. It may be guided by gravity. It may be guided by a gloved hand. It may be guided by its own unforeseen force and determination. The snowball rolls on and on.

It passes fields and animals. Together the snowflakes cross roads and bridges. They race down hills and climb mountain tops. With each roll and turn the snowflakes accumulate. They come off the ground and travel on. The dirt is left exposed.

Snowballs are everywhere and travel in every direction. They meet up to build creations and they plummet together to become larger. Every so often however, they cross the right hand. The hand is not gloved. The hand is small. The hand is curious and reaches out. The hand contacts the snowball. A snapshot is taken.

The photo shows the hand and the snowball. It shows the sugarcoated ground and the dark sky above. The hand is unweathered. The snowball is cold. The snapshot ends.

One by one the snowflakes melt. They trickle from the innocent fingers and melt the snow below. The snowball shrinks. The hand holds tight. The heat warms the cold. The hand cradles each snowflake. The snowflakes continue to stream away and disappear. The core is left in his innocent hand.

He puts the pellet of ice into his pocket. He wants to keep it safe forever. He goes inside the house.

HUMDRUM MUFFIN

She taps on the wheel impatiently. A piece of paper may, may just fit between the car bumpers. The red brake lights scream out to her like a warning sign. She is craving that new breakfast sandwich. Advertisements for it are everywhere. A poached egg draped in melted cheese and succulent ham sandwiched between a rich buttery croissant. She saved her money all week, sacrificing the candy bar at check out and the chips with her lunches. Her mouth waters and her stomach cries out in a desire stronger than hunger.

Two more cars until she gets to the small speaker box with all the power. The words enter the box and the product pops out of the window. It's like magic.

She can practically taste the sandwich. So close. The car ahead inches forward. She follows. The order replays in her head. "Medium iced tea. No sugar. No lemon. And the breakfast sandwich with ham." The voice drowns out the music playing over the radio.

The window is down. It's a warm day out and the sun is shining. It's going to be a good day. Nothing special planned or expected, just a good day. A good day made better by starting with the ham, egg, and cheese croissant sandwich. A voice enters through the window. It's echoing the other person's order. She cannot fathom how people prefer their coffees "light and sweet." Why bother? He drives away and as she pulls up she reminds herself that everyone has different tastes.

A raspy voice greets her morning. She tries to picture the person behind the voice. Her response is accurate and concise. "Good. " A brief pause and she orders her iced tea and corn muffin.

The car rolls up to the other bumper. As her foot presses the brake pedal, she realizes what she just did. Every other day she gets that corn muffin. It's bland and regular. And it isn't the sandwich her stomach is set on receiving. It's too late to change her order. The guy in front pulls away.

At the window she reluctantly pays for her muffin she is so rehearsed in ordering. The money saved goes back into the wallet. Today will be just another day.

Maybe tomorrow.

X Y Z

I checked the forecast. It calls for a thunderstorm tomorrow afternoon.

When I wake in the morning, the evening humidity still lingers. The mist left droplets on my car and I have to turn my headlights on to see ten feet ahead. I look up and I can see the sun burning off the clouds. It will be sunny out after all. I pull out my sunglasses and slide them on my face. Ahh! the fresh spring air! I pull over and take the top off my car. It is so convenient how it fits in my trunk. The morning flies by and the sun shines down on this beautiful day!

It is one of those days. The sky is full of its brilliance of blue. The sun sits high above and its warmth radiates down. I can feel it on my shoulders and the cool wind in my face. The roads are clear. I can almost feel the heat absorbed in them. Down the country roads the trees wave me by and the river winds underneath. It's me, the radio, the open road, and this beautiful day.

I continue driving around and I don't want to stop. My route avoids traffic lights and stop signs. I want to keep going and going. I know I can't; the gas tank won't fill itself. And in this town, in this area, lights and signs are all too abundant to avoid. If I have to chose, I'd rather stop at a sign than at a light. I see them everywhere. Too many people are at the traffic lights and they take forever to switch to green. The stop signs are brief and simple. I like that style.

The road seems endless like the sky. Lost in driver hypnosis I pass through the stop signs. No one is around, no one knows. I look to the sky. A dark luminous cloud invaded my forever blue. It must be the storm from the forecast. It appears to be some distance off yet and I turn my car toward home. I am not sure how far away I am, nor how much time I have before the cloud lets loose. I keep checking for the monster in my rearview mirror like a cop is following me. Is it gone yet? No, it continues to drive closer as home seems further.

I feel the cool drops on my arms. I can see them on my windshield. Before I have time to fathom the storm, I find my body and car soaked. I pull to the side of the road and put my top back on. I am minutes from home. This road is familiar though I don't drive it often. The lightning strikes and the wind howls. Thunder rattles the windows. The rain pelts down and the drops jump up as they hit the road. My wipers can't keep up. I guess the Rain-X® doesn't work either. Limbs fall around me. The road is a mess. I feel like I can reach up and touch the clouds. Soaked and alone I make it home.

Why did my serene day turn stormy? Why did I let myself get caught in this storm? Why did I not return home earlier? Why does it seem like the storm came out of nowhere? I knew better to believe the day would continue to be gorgeous and perfect. Why did I ignore the stop signs? Was it because no one was around to stop me? What was the purpose of checking the forecast if I didn't follow it? Will another day like this one ever come again? Hopefully without the thunderstorm…

At home I remove my wet clothes and climb into some dry sweats. A cup of tea warms my hands and calms my spirits. I collect my thoughts for the day. The ride was wonderful until the storm hit. It changed the scenery. Trees that waved me pass are missing limbs. The river that winds underneath the road runs deeper now. The sky is dark and cloudy. My sheets encase me like a cocoon as rain continues to run down the side of the house. The remnants of the storm carry me into a restless sleep.

Research Job

If I could spend my days researching, I would travel and collect data first hand. The best way to learn is to learn first hand. I could spend my days in the town squares of Europe, and my nights in the library looking up the scientific theories behind the research. I love languages and my research would reflect this. I am fascinated with the correlation of culture/language and word choice. I enjoy tracing words over time and relating their history to present day use. The research will have to wait until retirement however, as once I begin I won't be able to stop.