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.