A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None

Dusk flirts with the balcony of my grandparents porch which overhangs a Garden of Eden. The trees dance in the wind; the blackberries not fully ripe; the tall grass an arrow to the bay. Childhood.


My eyes cascade the scenery. I stop at one desolate spot in the tall aspens. This spot once encompassed my most precious journal entries as a little girl. It composed of a worn rope, a sturdy plank, and an old, broken tree.


Memories flood. I smell the air and hear the sounds of days long forgotten. I'm on that swing again. Sitting there in solitude, pumping my legs forward and backward. My light brown hair sweeps over my sun-kissed, freckled face. "Those are angel's kisses." He once said.


His hands calloused, grasp the thickness of the rope with unsuspecting strength. I am lifted over my grandfather's head as he prepares to launch my six-year-old body over the leering blackberry thorns. In his release, I grin.


In the height of the swing I experience liberation. Nothing matters. My feet graze the leaves as the pendulum reverses. The sky is uncommonly blue and the clouds,  cumulous and white. I giggle and look back at his leathery face.


The memory fades. The swing is now gone along with the freedom of letting go.

My grandfather is selling this home. Along with all of my secret spots and fairy houses. He turned eighty this week. His hands are now soft and wrinkly. No longer calloused from years of pushing a swing for a little girl that wanted nothing else.


But the heavy fist of reality brings me back when I realize memories are only for reminiscing. A smile plays on my eyes.


Tonight I received a kiss. A kiss with a fist, which is better than none.

Helplessness Blues

Another box. Another dirty rag. Another sparkling shelf. Another "almost full" box. Another empty roll of tape. Another trash bag. Another day gone.

I pull the tape as it screeches over the next box. Week three on the Island of Friday Harbor. The tape sticks to the roll, making it nearly impossibly to find the end. As I roll the tape in my hands, searching for it, I find myself smiling. 

Why would I smile at such a tedious task? Because all day I've been caught in a cloud of reminiscent beauty. I've been down this dusty road of moving before. Three times in High School alone. However, this time was different. Not only was I assisting my parents in salvaging their social connections by getting off an island, I was staying busy at the same time. Two birds with one stone? I think yes. 

The busier I am, Fear's chance of creeping into my tangled thoughts is slim to none. 

I'm just shy of twenty-two years of glory. I've been through enough to callous my heart as well as my hands. But these hands and this heart are leaving for a humid land; a land named Houston. Both will soften. 

I find the end of the tape and continue my task with joy in my heart. Fear continues to play at my fingertips with every closed box and spray of cleaner. However, I feel it. I feel power in patience as I wait, with each passing day, till I leave to share with others what brings me the most joy. 

The image of my face and personality are already becoming a memory in the minds of those I love, who still reside in a town of 30,000 in Idaho. Most wont be there when I return and it makes the edges of my thoughts rougher and the corners of my mouth stiffer. And yet, I'm still happy. 

The tape runs out. Sadness enters deep pockets, once full of love. I grab another roll and start packing again. The sound of the tape sinks into my mind, blocking thoughts of negativity and regret. Everything will work out. 

My bright headphones hang from my ears, playing a song that causes a shiver down my spine. "What good is it to sing helplessness blues? Why should I wait for anyone else? And I know you'll keep me on the shelf, I'll come back to you someday soon myself."

I grin again. For the amount I lose will I gain that much and more. 

Brace-faced with a Five Head

I looked back down at my half-eaten chicken patty sandwich. Nothing was on it. I could barely open my mouth because I tripled my rubberbands in my braces. I had hoped to shorten the tedious process of tooth correction only to employ migraines at the tender age of 13.


 I wasn't even hungry any more. Placing the sandwich back down, I continued my conversation with my friends about the new Gameboy Advanced that came out. I had a Spongebob game. The boy to my right was obsessing about the Platinum Pokemon game. Pokemon was so the fifth grade. I rolled my eyes and pushed my oversized glassed up my large nose. 


Then it happened. HE walked by. I smelled the air as he passed. This was, after all, the first boy that didn't have cooties. His hair was long, brown, perfectly swooped to the left. As I was watching this 13-yr-old supposed "greek god," he flipped his hair as he walked. In mid hair-flip he turned and looked at me; or at least I hoped he'd aspired to do so. (If I'm being honest, he was looking well beyond my large forehead.) Time stopped.


I smiled. Mouth, full of metal, I smiled. He looked at me, smiled back, then walked away. Although it was a courtesy smile, it was a smile. I felt validated. In my bright, purple, butterfly shirt (a hand-me down from someone younger than me) I felt justified.


I was brought back to reality when my best friend had said my name, at least 14 times, "Justine. You have half-masticated chicken meat all in your braces."


My life was over.


And so the awkwardness began. In the words of my friend, Emmilie Buchanan, "I will make 17 cats really happy someday."