My brothers’ room had a hole in the floor. We would pass through the hole, down a ladder and into a tiny playroom. We had to climb or slide down to exit the room. At the bottom of the slide, a trampoline with brown material protected us from rusty springs.
[This post was originally published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com on May 13, 2015. To see the post in all of its Thought Catalog-y Glory, you can click here. Or just read on…]
Your dog walks faster and starts to circle. You know what’s next. He looks straight ahead, concentrates on his task. Sensing your own unfixed, awkward eyes, you wonder, where am I supposed to look while this is happening? You must decide, so choose wisely.
An elegy for you! In response to Writing 201’s Poetry Prompt: Fog.
Surrounded by a dream, vivid and alive,
Wandering disarranged hallways,
Reaching and running for elusive awards.
Touching the dream, warm cotton or flannel.
Noticing the dreamer, apart from the sleeper,
Stepping between asleep and awake.
Our lil’ baby Marriage is turning one today! We are so proud. We created her ourselves by signing checks and a marriage license. Amidst the postpartum excitement, we also swore we would run a half marathon together. Holy Commitment.
Our first run as a married couple was on our honeymoon in Tahiti. The scene was as picturesque as you can imagine. Blue skies. Bluer water. Tropical flowers and vegetation spilling on to the path, we ran. My face was less like blushing bride and more like beet-red. As I wished for a full breath in 95 degrees, 100% humidity, I reminded myself: That guy ahead of you is your Husband. Appreciate this.
Mrs. Pauley is squawking again. I spring onto our porch, ducking among potted plants, just like a secret agent.
“Mom! There are squads across the street!”
At the screen door, Mom wipes her hands on her apron.
“That mess is none of your business, bubba.”
The officer shakes his head as Mrs. Pauley’s mouth moves. Our landlord is there too. I wonder why. He rubs his forehead, checks his watch.
They guide her away from the house.
“Forty years!” Mrs. Pauley squawks, “Forty years!”
Her cane falls. I compromise my secret agent status, dashing to catch her, but she crumples.
