Novembering II

Good Old Days

On my birthday, we drove to Granite

To the cliffs and the river.

We watched the moon and the water

and the way the light danced like koi

silver and gold and grey,

an overcrowded fish pond

mesmerizing us into silence.

We watched in the dark, 

the four of us huddled,

back to shoulder 

 head to lap.

Wondering about life

and boys

and deodorant.

And I remember thinking, 

it has to get better.

I didn’t realize, 

in that moment, 

that night on the cliffs

river wind floating over the train tracks 

into our uplifted faces,

it was.

Novembering

Northbound

I’m waiting for a train to take me north.

To penguins 

and polar bears 

and ice caps. 

To where the wind steals your breath

leaving you panicked

and gulping for air

like the unfortunate swimmer 

rolled by the waves 

of white.

Your eyes burning

like salt on cracked skin,

forcing them to shut out the beauty 

of the icy world all around. 

Where my mind is so focused 

on breathing 

and seeing

that there is no room left 

for you.

More Ramblings from the mind of the SNOD

Flash Light Tag

You push me into my coat

and off the porch steps

I hear you shout 

as you leap frog over my head, 

and  start running,

blending  into the trees 

in the backyard.

I pick myself up

and I follow

you

tripping over my shoelaces.

Heart Surgery

In a hospital room,

you hold your girl

as they prick her finger, her arm, her heart.

and you calm her

and kiss her

and give her away to a doctor 

who is going to cut her open.

You smile till she’s gone.

Then you’re gone,

the you that held it together.

And I remember you

and me

in a hospital room long ago.

My eye cut open

by a sister and her bike gear

and I wanted you out of everyone else

to come with me.

At the Hospital, my first visit,

you stand beside me as they thread the needle

preparing to sew me up.

You held my hand 

as they patched the cut under my eye.

And now you sit in a room,

hunched down, 

holding your body to itself,

bravely waiting

for that baby to come back to you.

And I wish I was there to hold your hand.

To Paigie

My Grandfather’s Dress

A black taffeta hung in his closet,

standing amidst baseball hats and suits.

The lace pressed against barn-dirt sweaters

pleading to be worn.

I tried it on and displayed my vintage self.

I was a Gram mannequin.

Hair was slightly different but my face was like her.

He saw her

staring out

and the dress wasn’t old for him.

He saw their first date.

The camera capturing them on the doorstep.

His hand on her back as they danced

She exploded

into his memory.

‘You look nice,’ he said

and finished his ice cream.

-To my Pipop

O

Stopping on our way to the Library 

You begged 

to stop and rake leaves.

The same boy

who was too tired to finish our four hundred feet to the library.

So we raked.

I raked actually

you pushed branches around with a shovel.

We worked for half an hour,

clearing the yard on Second street

till we had enough.

You backed up,

Chariots of Fire played in my head

as you dove head first.

You rose up

throwing leaves  at the sky

forgetting how tired you were.

To our Tulip II

October 16, 2013

Dear Sweetie,

    It’s 11:08 p.m. I open tomorrow and should go to sleep but I can’t. I keep thinking about you. You have a big surgery tomorrow. A valve of yours doesn’t work quite right. The doctors knew it might come to this but we all prayed that it wouldn’t. You have to have open heart surgery. Sweetie, I felt pretty dumb not knowing how serious it was. Nanny told me about it while I was working and I looked it up and teared up on sight. Three percent mortality rate? What does that even mean? I stared at the i-pad screen through bleary eyes trying to make sense of what I had been told.

Your momma was a mess. She hadn’t known that this was the plan. They’re going to break your sternum and you are going to have a scar going up the center of your chest. It’ll still be you. Just a more worn you. A more lived in you. We all have scars, Sweetie. Yours is just going to be bigger and ultimately better than most. This scar is going to help your heart work right. Anything is worth that. We want your heart to pump soundly and clearly through many family dinners and summer nights. We want to hear you laughing at Oliver and his silly faces. We want to watch you dance to Robyn and see you “sasquatch it” down the hallway chasing Wyatt. Sweetie, you got this. I’m praying for peace for you and for your Momma and for your Dad. Be a brave lady, Sweetie. Remember what Christopher Robin told Pooh bear? “You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” I love you.

Cape May, NJ

Sometimes I get this pull in my stomach when I see pictures of Cape May, New Jersey.

The lighthouse. The downtown. The victorian houses.

Like when you’re really thirsty and you have to down a glass of water right away

but once you do it doesn’t feel any better, you just feel really sick.

I miss the sea and the sand fleas itching in my swim suit.

Waking up in the middle of the night with sand at the bottom of your bed 

and my lips cracked by the sun.

Seeing the moon wobbly on the waves.

Building castles with wall upon wall hoping to protect it from the rising tide.
Jellyfish dead on the beach and in the sea and the dolphins eating away at them,

their voices echoing under the water.

Crabs pinching your feet  and bodysurfing into the legs of a wader.

Biking the streets to ice cream at the candy kitchen and to the stroll.

My family and your family eating dinner together

and playing on the beach late at night with no one but the ghosts crabs to see us.

The salt water taffy at the pier and your dad’s fishing trips and his fish chowder.

What I wouldn’t give to swim out deep, passed the break, to where I can’t touch

and where the water slips over my head as I dive down in a dare to touch the ocean floor.

Hi, Evan.

Come on, fellow Pickwickers!! I know there is only a trio of us left but let us write!

-SP

Samantha had just gotten her driver’s license and was eager to show it off. Being born in July had its perks - she was the oldest in her class by a month. 

“Hi Julie, hey look at this!” she shouted to her best friend Julie. Julie was standing about two feet away from her.

“What? Oh, I know, you’ve shown me that like seven times.” Julie was annoyed because she was born in August and was about to get her license too, and because Samantha had yelled into her ear.

“Shown you WHAT?” Samantha teased loudly, “Oh you mean my DRIVER’S LICENSE?” 

Julie rolled her eyes and walked away to sit at her desk. Julie wasn’t deaf; but she was standing in between Samantha and Evan. 

Evan. Tall, muscular (well, for a 16 year old), soft brown hair that wafted gently around his ears, a voice that warbled like an adolescent songbird’s when he played the guitar for assembly. Samantha was in love. 

She had never actually spoken to Evan. She wasn’t worthy, she knew, and thus had never so much attempted a conversation even though they had been in the same class for two years. Instead, she would speak overly loudly to Julie or one of the other kids in hopes that Evan would overhear and want to join in. So far, it hadn’t worked. 

But this time he glanced over at her and said “Oh cool. Your driver’s license. Dude. Jealous.”

Samantha’s eyes grew wide and she racked her brain for a response. But then the teacher came in and told everyone to shut down (the school board had passed a new rule banning the teachers from saying shut up) and so she sat down. 

Dude. Was Evan calling her dude? Was it a term of affection? Or was it a filler, like um? She pondered this for the rest of the hour.

The next day, Samantha’s mom let her drive the family car to school all by herself. Samantha had been begging, pleading, even going so far as crying herself to sleep about it (but making sure she had red-rimmed eyes when she went to get a glass of water in the kitchen where she knew her mom was) and finally her mom had succumbed. 

Samantha backed out of the driveway and then turned left to head toward Lakeside High School. She was very careful to effortlessly rest her arm on the rolled-down window and only had to grab the steering wheel with both hands a couple times. 

At the parking lot she turned in. Ahh, smooth there! She thought to herself. People were watching! Oh!

There was Evan! He was walking with one of his buddies and soon he would pass her car. Samantha started breathing nervously and felt herself getting red. She would wave, she decided, with her right arm, so that her left arm could stay nice and effortless on the window sill. That would mean letting go of the steering wheel but she could handle that. 

Here was her chance. She smiled, coyly, out the window. “Hey there,” she said, and lifter her right arm. But she had misjudged the angle she raised her arm at, and in doing so, hit the window-washer handle. 

Windshield washer fluid formed a perfect arc, a rainbow, a shower of blessings down on Evan’s head. 

“What the !?” Evan yelled. 

Samantha’s life was over. 

That Smell in the Air

Hazy lazy late summer early fall,

Smokey croaky hot breezes.

Trepidation - now I recall

Stomach pangs and voice wheezes

Outfit choices, demon voices:

Public speaking? Fix your hair!

Walking shaky, none rejoices

Hands all sweaty, almost there

Whiffs of wheat-smoke drown this old town

Now you smell it now you don’t, 

Palpitation - hearts slowing down

Fear of Freshman Year in has blown.

To our Tulip

Dear Sweetie,

         It’s raining outside and you are watching it from the window. You watch as the drops rain down the pane, absorbing into one another. Your fingers tracing them leaving little peanut butter smears. You turn, delighted with your picture, showing me the globs on the window. I smile and blow you a kiss. You stop what you’re doing than. You bring both index fingers to your mouth and blow me our special kiss. One I taught you when you were so little. I was so proud of you. You mimicked me exactly and to this day you still remember it as ours. 

         Sweetie, life hasn’t been easy for you. You have had to get shots and surgeries. You have had to go to Doctors far away. You have had to go into scary rooms without Momma or Dad and you have done it beautifully. You have been brave and strong. You cry out but you go. Someone once said that "Courage isn't the absence of fear. It is doing what you are afraid to do.” Sweetie, you are courage. 

          When you were born, I was in Bulgaria. I was so far from my sister and I was so scared for her and for you. We knew that you would be different. The doctors had wanted your Momma and Daddy to give you up. They wouldn’t. You were so beautiful to them. The doctors said you might have hoofed feet and when they were wrong, your Aunties bought your Momma some pretty little girl shoes for you. Sweetie, those doctors were so wrong. They were measuring life by their standard not God’s. If those doctors could see you today, they would be ashamed. They would watch you walk on your perfect feet. They would see you play with your brothers and cousins. They would watch as you snuggled up to be read a book or watch a movie. Perfectly created by a perfect God. When I finally got to Skype and see your face, I cried. I cried because you were here and your Momma was safe. I cried because I couldn’t be there to welcome you to our family. I cried because of all the babies who weren’t brought into the world by their parents but were given up to a horrible fate. I cried because I was worried about you and what your life might be like. Sweetie, I don’t cry anymore for you. Everyday I thank God that you are you and no one else. You are so beautiful and God has everything in His hands. When you learn to read, we will rejoice. When you play your first soccer game, I will be there to watch. These are not ifs but whens. Because you are courageous and you won’t give up. I am so proud of you, Sweetie. I love you.

Wiffle Ball

      My summers were spent in the one hundred percent humidity of Elkton, Maryland. Sweating was living and No-See-Ums dotted your skin. My head was surrounded by fly catchers and my feet were black bottomed. Summers were crabs and hotdogs that my Poppop burnt, the sea and corn on the cob, catching fireflies and homemade ice cream, and wiffle ball. 

I come from a large family of seven kids. My parents, also both come from large families and the result of all of this family was cousins. I grew up surrounded by playmates. People who weren’t brothers and sisters but who also weren’t just family friends. It was a different bond. For four weeks out of the summer, our cousins would descend upon my Nanny’s house. Fresh from Bulgaria, they would arrive. We spent every day together in those four weeks. Swimming and playing on my Nanny’s old Nintendo from the 80’s. Mastering levels of Mario 3, that no longer were considered by most of the world. But when Paigie and Brooker beat level 8, for the first time,defeating King Koopa and his cohorts, we hooped and hollered it up in that small back bedroom on Winding Way. 

But most of our days were spent on the diamond that we created. Down below the pool but right before the woods was grass. Left field was always suspiciously wet and many a rumor was spoken about how that was where the sewage pipe drained. The old tree that we used for home still stands and the grass, worn out by little feet, marks our home plate. We spent most of the day on that field, divided by teams. If you weren’t on the same team, than you weren’t friendly. You were focused on winning and being the wiffle ball champs for the day. You ragged on your favorite cousin, hoping he would pop out to you in left field. You taunted the pitcher, the batter, the runner at every opportunity. We weren’t “playing” a game. As a family, we were too competitive. We were going to win. I have one distinct memory as a 12 year old going through a hitting slump in wiffle ball and in my softball career. I couldn't "swing my way out of a wet paper bag". Two of my little cousins realized this and ribbed me hard and I got so mad I walked off. Our wiffle ball jeers never followed us off the field though. When the game was threw, we all ran and jumped in the pool and that was that. No more angry tones or sarcastic jibs. We dunked each other, toweled off, and ate dinner to the winking of the fireflies in our woods.

       One epic game stands out in my memory. A game that marked the end of something. My cousin Will and I were going off to school and I feel like all of us knew that somehow it wouldn’t be the same. Once you go to college, you don’t always come home for summers. We all knew this. We had seen it in our older cousins long ago. Once you graduated, you stopped playing. Well this game, this game was by far the most competitive I’ve played. Will and I were on opposite teams and as the oldest cousins, we felt the need to keep the peace. Not this one. We argued over foul balls and “doinkers”. Everyone was on edge. The game stood 6-7 and my team was down. Jordan was on first and I was up with one out. I lined it out to left trying to get it beyond Willy. He chased it up the hill and with one hand snatched it from the air. Jordan tagged up and was on his way to third when Will pegged him and the game was over. We had lost. I still feel that bewilderment at our loss. We were a sure win holding most of the power hitters and the speed. I watched as everyone ran up the hill and into the pool. Something was over but no one seemed to notice. Except Will. He walked over to me and without saying a word threw his arm around my neck and walked with me up the hill.  

I made myself a promise that night. I would never stop playing. Even after I left for school, I would play. If there were cousins around, we would play. It didn’t matter that some were gone. We would continue on as if they were there. Even after all of these years, when I see my cousins, we set up a diamond with old catching gear and flip flops.We manage to scrounge up a wiffle ball and some duct tape and we play. We play until the ball is invisible and the air has cooled. I hear the jabs of cousins, taunts and nicknames from long ago: Boomer, DeadlyJedly, ElBell, Princess, Beb. Cousins, who are now soldiers, fathers, nurses,moms, playing long into the night, into the darkness broken up by car lights shining onto our makeshift diamond. And, I  can still taste the charcoaled hotdogs and the watermelon dripping down my chin.

~To Brooker, ChillyWilly, Bradle, Ellbell, Drewbs,Jordo, Jerm, Taybaybay, Cakes, 
Princess, Joshka, Bunga, Dookie,

Carlos, Jedly,Smooch, Gench, CaseyBrooke, Ddub, 

Pig, Beb, and Jonnyboy,

I owe all of my Summers to you. 

       

Motorcycle Goddess

by Samuel Pickwick

There she went. 

The hot exhaust from her bike stung his eyes, but he forced his lids to stay open so he could etch into his mind her black curls under their handkerchief helmet, the tight leather pants on her muscular legs. Her fingers tightly gripping the handles, the part that makes the loud “Vroom vroom” as she pulls out into the intersection. 

He scratched his balding head, burning in the sunshine. Squinting into the distance after her, he almost missed the “Walk” symbol. 

Had she seen him wave today, or not? That was the question he asked himself every afternoon on his way home to his condo from his teaching job at the community college. 

Professor Crumner. He often whispered it to himself, lying awake in bed, cooking his TV dinner in the microwave. He even found himself doodling the name when he was supposed to be grading the students’ papers, and then he always had to use Wite-Out and then write comments on top of that, and sometimes even angry red slashes, just to make sure no one saw. 

How he wanted to be a professor. Maybe she, his motorcycle goddess, his Aphrodite of the open road, would notice a Professor. The fact was, he was still finishing up one blasted community college course: Psychology. It was his fourth time through.

“I think she looked at me,” Mr. Crumner was thinking now. “Her sunglasses just covered it up. I think she would have waved, but she always does like to be the first to go in the line of stopped cars. She is so clever.” He smiled to himself as he thought about her sheer cleverness.

He had waved, eagerly, his hand jerking back and forth like a dog tearing into meaty bone. He waved every day. 

At first, he had only seen her every few days or once a week, but then he started sitting at the intersection until she came by. His head was very red, but that was mostly from the Hair-Be-Here! he used every morning. 

The next day, he hurried from his classroom, arms full of to-be-graded papers and rushed to the intersection. He couldn’t have missed her, could he? One of the stupid-as-hell students had asked when the final would be. Blast.

However right when he had almost reached the intersection, something got in his way. Literally. He ran into something, and heard a small voice say “Oh!”

Mr. Crumner looked down, suddenly angry. A woman stood there. She was quite ordinary looking, with pale colorless hair in a low ponytail, and a long nose. Really, the only odd thing about her was the way she was looking at him. Shyly, with a small smile on her thin lips. “It’s me,” she said.

“Who the hell are you?” Mr. Crumner said, and looked up to scan the intersection. He was impatient - didn’t have time for mousy little women with long noses. 

Her eyes widened. “Why, I’m HER!”

Mr. Crumner looked down at her. “What do you mean, woman? Speak clearly now - I am a professor!” He didn’t feel bad about this lie. The woman looked stupid.

She laughed and looked nervous. “Why, you wave at me every afternoon! I always drive home at this time, and you stand on the corner and wave!”

What was she talking about? This wasn’t Veronica (for that was the pet name he had given his Leather-clad Lover)! He was truly angry now, and righteously so. 

“Excuse me,” he said haughtily. “I must be going now. I have no idea what you are speaking of.” Just then he heard the familiar roar of an engine and looked up just in time to see Veronica speeding off. He had missed her! And it was all this woman’s fault. Without looking back at her he stomped off toward home.

The next day when he got to the intersection, he looked around warily for the woman. Thankfully she was nowhere to be seen. 

Ah! There was his Motorcycle Mumu (another of his fanciful nicknames) approaching! He raised his hand and waved as fast as he could but this time the light stayed green and she went right through. 

Mr. Crumner lowered his hand, but suddenly he heard honking. Looking up he saw a purple mini-van which had stopped in the middle of the intersection, with... the mouse-woman waving eagerly!

“See! You DO know me, man! You waved, I saw! You were being so funny yesterday, how strange and sweet you were being!”

Mr. Crumner was suddenly cold. He looked around, embarrassed by the woman’s display, and rushed off down the street toward his condo.

The Water Collection

Sand Bars

~Augustus Snodgrass

I remember that night 

better than others.

Red flags had waved swimmers away

all day

 and tides ripped 

the waves.

Night fell 

and the sea fell too,

white crests ghosting

reflecting back the night

The sand bar 

stood between us and the sea

and we played 

in knee deep water.

We gulped the air

hungry for the salt,

far past our bed time

or any time.

We ran till we fell,

face first,

water coming from our noses,

gagging for breath.

We stared at the ocean.

Tonight, it was ours.

And the four of us

held hands

and marched on it.

The Water Collection

For Posterity

~Augustus Snodgrass

I used to dive off cliffs;

Head first,

arms wide,

Plummeting down 

towards rocks 

and river.

My head hitting first

and then the water holds me

as I go down 

then up,

fast

because my breath is gone.

But one time,

I tripped.

My toe caught.

The nail ripped;

red ran down my foot,

which was flying 

as I fell.

The river out of reach.

last minute

reflex,

I kicked forward.

I hit the water.

I stopped jumping.

But you said I’d have no stories to tell my kids.

You said it was for posterity.

The river is beautiful

but I don’t trust the cliffs

I don’t dive

I don’t throw myself off anymore

I wait 

cautious,

looking down

calculating.

And then,

I jump:

feet, torso, head.

A free thought from TT

On Being Happy
by Tracy Tupman


The Way to be Happy
is distilling happiness from little things
said he, and paused for emphasis,
like a bullfrog after a particularly mellifluous croak.

Not wanting to ruin a first date,
I didn’t mention that ‘distilling’ was pretentious
and clashed with his infinitive ‘to be’
but politely said Like what.

He remarked Oh the sun on this
and the scent of that.
And while I like warm sun on a carpet
and know cut grass has that smell,

and do not mind territorial birdsong,
nor fire chewing wood in the cold,
nor color, nor most things quotidian,
he is wrong. In point of fact,

I will be most happy when I see at last
the really big stuff: whole cities dropped into the sea
the Hero waiting, wreathed in cloud
and many nations rising from the dead.

Serious

Belonging
by Samuel Pickwick

You belong, 

I whisper to him in the dark

To me, Daddy, and God.

Sometimes I wince

Saying that last name.

I don’t trust Him enough

to own my son.

What if He takes you away?

I worry into his small soft ear.

Would You take him from me?

I look at him, 

so perfect, so human - 

And remember Who gave him to me,

Who entrusted one little life to me.

You belong,

I wonder aloud as I gently lay him down,

To me, Daddy, and God!

How can I pretend

To be in charge of life and death,

even his?

I open my hands

Trusting God our Father

to give, to take away.

Because of Valentines

To an unknown soccer player

    By Augustus Snodgrass

I don’t know your name,

only a red and white jersey

with no name on the back.

But I know 

you have something.

It’s the way your faux hawk looks 

when you leap

 in front of huge defender 

and barely head it 

into the top right hand corner

or your purple cleats

that out run

every other player 

on the turf.

I watch 

as you step off to get water,

high-fiving your best friend

(who has already introduced himself by the way).

And I sit 

knee propped 

and iced,

wishing I was just a bit braver.

From The I'm-So-Bored-Notebook

Pickwick,old chap, I found these in the back of the old notebook. Remember those days? Freezing and half asleep, the only thing keeping us awake was how hard we whisper laughed at what we wrote. 

Ode to Disputatio

By Samuel Pickwick

We don our black robes-

sheets of thin ice that envelope

our bright scarves and sweaters.

Today we are receiving

nucleotide knowledge; or

are the dense words really 

just missing our ears.  And instead

settling down into the folds

of darkness, where they can

rest until they begin to

leak out, where we hung

our robes in the closet.

And that is why, every

once in a while, a brilliant thought

pops  into our minds, the robe

has rubbed off on our favorite blue sweater.

Ode to Some Girl's Hair

By Augustus Snodgrass

A black head sits in front of me,

covered in dense curls,

thick and lustrous,

shining in the Disputatio light.

Black snakes coiling dangerously

close to my fingertips.

They hang from the theatre seats

but I resist the apple 

and fold my hands upon  my lap.

The Water Collection: A Sampling from the Snod

The End of the World

Maybe it’s because

we found freedom,

when we moved from bunk beds

into twins,

leaving our older sister 

alone

with no one to boss.

And, we made plans

to stay up 

all night

with our play mobile.

And now,

we jump off cliffs.

Feet first for you,

a fall for me,

timing our jumps

with the ocean surf.

I don’t want to jump.

But you do,

throwing yourself off without care.

Trusting the sea to catch you,

while I pray 

that it does.

And, we climb rocks,

bleeding from our feet.

And I think, 

we might 

actually

be 

crazy.

Inaugural Blogural (AJ)

An old and unedited poem from last year, just because I'm too excited to wait 'til I have something worthwhile!

Insomnia

Similar to the goatee

as popularized by mephistopheles

or a tattooed neck

fate's mustache limits employment

opportunities.

No one would hand over car keys

for instance

or sign a name calmly

for a notary public

with a mustache like that. 

But tonight, as fate leans

over my kitchen table

(she will sleep no more,

he croons)

I can't help but observe

that, in his line of work,

fate's mustache

could not be done without. 

Snippet (SP)

To get this blog kicked off - a snippet from a story I was writing (for NaNoWriMo) a few years ago. It's from the middle-ish of my story. 

-SP

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Sometimes being “just worried” can cloud your whole day, put a dark grey shadow on everything. It reminds me of a class I took in eleventh grade, which I guess was just last year but feels so much longer ago.

It was a watercolor class - and you have to understand, I’m not much of an artist, but somehow color really affects me. I love color and not in the way that a designer would and paint everything super bright but more just how you can put a drop of black in baby blue and instantly everything turns shady, or how a drop of red turns everything warmer somehow. Anyway one day we were all supposed to be painting a beautiful scene of a bright summer day in Holland or somewhere all European. So I started off all right and thought I was doing great, when I made the mistake of looking at the easel next to me where Michael, our resident artist was painting yet another masterpiece.

And when I looked back at mine I was sorely disappointed. The sun looked like a neon tennis ball and even I couldn’t tell that my windmill was in fact a windmill.  So rather than just showing my teacher and letting everyone know once and for all how terrible an artist I am I make a fast and furious decision. I grabbed a wet brush and soaked it in grey and without hesitating spread it across the page. All of a sudden my warm summer day in Holland had turned stormy and dark. Right then my teacher came up to me and, looking over my shoulder, gasped with what I thought at first was horror but then when she called the class around to see I realized she was actually pleased with my mistake.

“The sign of a true artist,” she said that day, “is unimpeded creativity. Do what you want, not what you think you should do, not what you think other people want you to do. You don’t have to be original. You have to be you, and most importantly the creative side of you.” Apparently I was the true artist of the day. 

Anyway God must be a true artist too, he must, because He can cause a whole day or a whole week or even sometimes a whole month to get cloudy and dark just like that. I wonder if my art teacher would say that God is a true artist. 

Again, anyway I’m worried. And as I think about it, I’ve been worried for a long time, and I’m not sure about what. Now it’s worrying me that I’m worried.

Aren’t worries just like that? They come in bunches, sort of, like one worry multiplies into two then four then eight until finally it all blows up then goes back to normal. Doesn’t it seem like everything gets worse before it can get better? 

I roll back onto my side, letting my pillow flop out flat again. Outside I can still see the moon glowing but it seems to have moved slightly to the side. Or wait, maybe I’m the one who has moved. I always forget these things - obviously I wasn’t the best at Physical Science. Do we move, or does the moon move? I ponder this question. Does it matter which one is the one that moves? I don’t really think it does because I can’t tell one way or the other anyway. 

Another worry hits me now. Am I weird? Strange? Quirky? Is that okay? Does it matter? And that worries me too. Lately I’ve been asking ‘does it matter’ about lots and lots of things: school, God, life. I punch my pillow down in a sudden burst of sleepless frustration.

One time I went up to our pastor after church service and timidly asked him if I could meet him sometime about religious questions. He looked surprised but said sure, how about tomorrow? All that night I scribbled down questions and then crossed them out, again and again, trying to get at just what it was that I had a problem with about God. The next afternoon when I walked into his office and sat down I had boiled all my feelings into one question: How do you know that God loves you?

Not very original, I know, but really. I believe in God, because I can’t even fathom existence without Him, but come on. How do we really know for certain that He is a being who actually loves? And loves me in particular? Really pastor?

I didn’t say that - that would be rude, but I wanted to. When I finally asked him my question his eyebrows shot up halfway up his forehead like he had never even thought of that, and that was how I knew my mission was going to be fruitless. He first said something about how I should have the faith of a child because I still was a child, and I shouldn’t be messing with big adult questions and about how only God knows the answers to some things and humans weren’t meant to know. And finally he ended with “God loves you because you are a good girl. Aren’t you?” I left right then.

I haven’t gone back to church for a while now. After he said all those things and made me feel like a silly little girl, which maybe I am but I really am trying not to be, I just didn’t feel called, as he would put it, to go back to Southview Bible Church, where Gram had been the pianist and Great-Grandfather had been a deacon, long long ago.