Sonnet 19
The devil wants me dead; I half agree.
My childhood fades with every rising sun,
and I am told my life will always be
the torture I now face: I want to run
until my lungs explode with atmosphere;
my traitor home has turned, for I soon leave
and never will return; I long to hear
the truth about forever and believe
in what is held for proving it; and sleep,
it leads me like a lover to my bed,
yet there is only glass for broken feet
and dragon years to slay before I rest.
Each use of time is wasting it away.
If this is life, then may I die today.
Since We Were Five
I’m not sure if you know that I’m alive;
although, to tell the truth, I can’t blame you.
I’ve been in love with you since we were five.
You must be used to seeing me beside
your desk or table while we were at school.
I’m not sure if you know that I’m alive.
While you were playing soccer with the guys,
you kicked a bit too hard and lost your shoe.
It’s then I fell in love with you, at five.
But after middle school, I realized
that all the other boys must like you too.
I’m still not sure you know that I’m alive.
I know I have no chance, but I still try
to say, like people in the movies do,
“I’ve been in love with you since we were five.”
But I’m a coward. I can’t meet your eyes,
however desperately I wish you knew:
I’m not sure if you know that I’m alive;
I’ve been in love with you since we were five.
Remembering Ashley
The first thing I notice is that the tree is dying. The weather is still warm; it’s still mid-July, and the leaves are already turning brown and grey and falling from the branches, rotting on the grass. I open the car door and step out onto the gravel path. The air is strangely old and humid here. Despite being quite alone, I lock the car before shutting the door.
As I walk through the overgrown clearing along what used to be a well-worn path, I begin to second-guess my decision to come here. Mom and Dad told me to take a ride in my new birthday present, and I ended up here. I’d been planning it all along; I think I decided sometime long ago that that nostalgic place would be the first place I would go on this day. I have another party to go to with my friends in half an hour, but the cake-induced malaise I feel in my stomach reminds me that I am sick of the festivities and in no hurry to continue them. Besides, I know that there is no way to back out of my decision now. Time has passed, and I am finally ready to confront my past.
I continue walking, noticing how much everything has changed. The path is virtually gone, lost in the grass from so many years of desuetude. The trees seem to have all grown bigger and greener. Even the sky looks wider to me now. But the tree, standing along and so proud in the center of the clearing like a mortally wounded soldier awaiting the mercy of death, looks largely the same as it always has, despite the dying leaves and discoloration of the wood. Memories wash over my eyes like filters, altering my view of the quiet meadow. I see myself at six years old, a thin fallen branch in my hands, bravely fending off legions of baddies. At ten, I am climbing through the boughs and imagining that they are the masts of a grand ship, and pirates are approaching on the horizon. At twelve, I am sitting against the trunk, head in my hands, unable to imagine at a time when I wish to imagine anything at all.
There is also a girl there with me. She offers a shoulder for comfort, loads the cannons in preparation for battle, and fights at my back as we protect each other. Little but her age changes through the years. She always has long chocolate hair and eyes to match, wearing the same patterned shirt and the same sweet smile. As the nostalgia passes, she grows older, matching my own age, until all at once we return to reality and she is standing in front of me. “Happy birthday, Peter,” she grins.
“Ashley,” I say, surprised.
“I told you I wouldn’t forget.” She reveals a delicate white flower from behind her back. “July twelfth. You turn sixteen today.”
I smile as I take the flower, but accepting it fills me with a horrible guilt; she has no idea of what is to come tonight. In the moonlight, I see that the flower is flawless and breathtaking. The deep white petals are curved like six silk lips, and the stem is firm and green. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
She blushes and turns toward the tree. “Birthdays always make me think about the passage of time. About the past, about the future.” She turns back to me. “Peter, do you remember when we used to play here? When we were younger?” I nod. She continues, “We’ve both done a lot of growing up since then, haven’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” For a moment, I am silent. Does she know what I am thinking? If she does, she gives no physical sign. The quiet begins to make me uncomfortable. I sigh. “Ashley, we need to talk.”
She smiles at me so innocently that I nearly tell her that it is nothing. But if it is not now, then when? Today is my sixteenth birthday, and there is something I must do, however horrible it is. “What is it?” she asks, seeing the pained look on my face. Her eyes take on a sympathetic look. “Are you okay?”
“I shouldn’t see you anymore, Ashley,” I mumble.
She says nothing at first. A weak smile flashes briefly across her lips, and her voice cracks slightly as she quietly asks, “What?”
I look into her brown eyes. They are wide and scared. Shakily, I take a deep breath and say, “Today, I am sixteen. I’m getting too old for this. I’m getting too old for you.”
She reaches up a hand to stroke my cheek, and her eyes jump back and forth between my own. “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “Did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head, vigorously. “No, no. It was nothing you did. You are… perfect,” I say. “I’m just growing up.”
“Can’t I grow up with you?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and step away, swinging my arms and looking around the clearing. In my hand, I spin the white flower. Part of me wants to abandon the whole thing now, but I know it’s already too late. I look at the lone tree, at its dying branches and at the rotting leaves peppering the ground. My mouth opens, and I begin to speak. “Ashley. You and this tree… you are my strongest memories of my childhood. The tree is passing away, while the forest around it keeps growing. Before long, it will be completely gone, and I will never come back to this place.” I look at her and, like the tree, she seems so alone, so hurt, her hair waving in the gentle breeze like the wild grass at her feet. “I need to grow up. I need to leave my childhood behind me.”
“No…” she says softly. “Peter, don’t…”
I take a breath. “I… don’t believe in you anymore, Ashley.”
Tears build in the corners of her eyes, and she lets them fall. She looks at her feet and at the rippling grass beneath her. “Do you mean it?”
She meets my eyes, and I feel my own burn in response. I want so badly to take back what I said and comfort her, but that would be a lie and I know that if I do, everything I have done will be a waste. I nod. “Yes, Ashley. I’m sorry.”
She weakly attempts to smile at me. “It’s alright. I knew this day would come, it always does.” She walks forward with her arms open. I hesitate, wondering if this is a plea for reconsideration. She shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Peter. I’m just saying goodbye.”
I return her embrace. I cannot feel her like a real human body, as I once did; her solidity is already fading. I grasp her tightly and take a deep breath of the cinnamon scent of her hair. We stay this way for a few seconds, and then timidly break apart.
“Promise me one thing, Peter,” Ashley says, as she places one hand on the trunk of the tree and looks back.
“Anything,” I say.
She exhales deeply, and smiles. “Remember me.” With that, she walks behind the tree and does not reappear on the other side. She is gone.
The trees sigh as a new breeze runs through them. Then there is complete silence. Thoughts of her run themselves in my mind. I look down at my hand. Her flower is still there, drinking in the moonlight. I press it to my chest, with a last sigh in Ashley’s memory. I look at the tree, and as I do, a leaf breaks free of a branch and drifts to the ground. I watch my eight-year-old self as he builds a snowman here during a forgotten winter, and smile at the girl who puts the carrot in for his nose. I listen to the isolated practice of a violin and remember the one who sat and listened. Through everything, she was always there; she was the definition of my childhood, and I would never forget those years. “I will always remember, Ashley,” I say to myself. “I will never return, but I will always remember.”
The Valentine Plan
As I stood there in the lightly falling snow, feet frozen to my driveway, watching the silver Toyota pull away, I went over the whole ordeal in my head and tried to make sense of it. I slipped my hand into the front pocket of my white jacket and found the single pink conversation heart I knew was there. I popped it into my mouth and bit down.
I’d been planning for that day, February 14th, for a while. By the time my mom drove me to Target to look for a present, the plan was already taking form. “How about this one?” she asked, holding a stuffed pink bear up to her face.
I frowned. “No, it’s posed; it’s too stiff. I want to get her something soft, something she can hug.”
Disappointed, she placed the bear back on the shelf and we continued our search. That was when a white dog with pink spots caught my eye. I reached out to stroke it, and my fingertips barely registered its fur. I grinned. It was perfect.
We left the store with the stuffed dog, a package of heart-shaped Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a gift bag my mother insisted was “adorable” and “perfect.” When we got back home, I booted up my computer and put the finishing touches on the drawing I’d made for her. It was of a particularly pleasant dream she’d had where we fell asleep against a tree together. I printed it out, carefully mounted it on some thicker paper, and slipped it into the bag alongside the other items. Satisfied, I hid it all away in my room and nervously awaited the fourteenth of February.
It was the night of the thirteenth that the final and greatest part of the plan came to mind. At that time, I still had Virgin Lips; I’d never been kissed. Well, things were different now, weren’t they? Never before had a girl and I shared mutual feelings of attraction, and the sudden thought of finally experiencing my first kiss was thrilling. And tomorrow was Valentines Day. What could be more perfect? I froze, my mind working, thinking of a way, until my eyes strayed toward my hand. I’d been idly chewing on seasonal Valentine hearts, and the one I held in my hand at that exact moment bore the perfect, simplest message: “Kiss Me.”
I didn’t spend long thinking it all through. Maybe if I had, it would have all gone over smoothly. But the sun went down and came back up, I went off to school, and when it was over, I nervously fidgeted at the passenger side door of her older sister’s car. She took me home every day. After what seemed like twenty minutes, she walked out of the school, arm in arm with her boyfriend Matt. In my mind, I replaced them with my special girl and me. It made me smile. They finally reached the car, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
The two of us hadn’t kissed on the cheek yet. This sudden realization struck me like a javelin to the heart. I was trying to skip a step! I couldn’t do that! Could I? Wasn’t that against the rules? I didn’t know!
It’s okay, I said to myself. Just go ahead with the plan. It’ll all work out.
“Guess what Matt got me for Valentine’s Day?” the sister asked as she started the car.
“What?” I asked.
She grinned widely and raised one hand to her neck. “This necklace!” She leaned over slightly, still keeping her eyes up, and held it out so I could see it. It glittered like ice in the winter sun.
I forced a smile. “Wow, that’s really nice!”
But nothing could distract me. When the dirty tan brick of the junior high building came into view, I began choking on a nervous lump in my throat. We parked in front and the younger sister, my girl, came out. My heart fluttered a bit more than usual. I gave her a smile as she climbed into the back seat. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I said.
“I had the worst day today!” she fumed. “Sterling was being such a jerk to me.”
Our next destination in our daily routine was my house. That was when I would tell the two sisters to wait, go inside, and come back out with the gift and, most importantly, the heart. For the entire duration of the trip, she talked about how horrible her day had been. I sympathized with her, and wanted to somehow help her feel better, but somewhere in the back of my head, I was worried. Would she still want to kiss me, despite her furious mood?
I clasped my hands tightly to keep them from shaking. We were pulling down my street now. Slowly, we rolled to a stop in front of my house. I turned to the back seat. “Wait here, I have something for you.” Quickly, I jumped out and ran inside, nearly slipping on my icy porch. The gift was waiting for me on the living room couch, just where I’d left it. I performed a swift search of the contents to make sure everything was in place (it was), and then I picked up the heart. I looked at it, at its simple message, and instantly, doubts flooded my mind. How would I give it to her? Just pull it out of my pocket and hand it to her? Wouldn’t that be a little strange? What if my lips are chapped? What if my breath smells bad? Should I go get a mint? No, no time! What should I say? Should I say anything? What will her sister think? Will she tell her mom? Her mom hates me already! Will I ever be allowed to see her again?
I took a deep breath and cleared my head. The answers would come to me when the time was right. There was nothing to worry about. I put the heart into the front pocket of my jacket, grasped the gift bag’s pink handles tightly, and confidently swaggered out the door.
In my head, I imagined her standing by the car, waiting for me with a gift of her own in her hands. But she wasn’t there. She was still sitting inside. A minor setback, I told myself. When I approached, she got out. There was nothing in her hands. “Sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t get you anything…”
I shrugged. “That’s alright.” I honestly didn’t care at that point; I just wanted to get it over with. I accidentally glanced at her lips. They sparkled with freshly-applied lip gloss. Did she have the same idea? My heart skipped.
I held out the bag. I’d imagined that she would take her time and go through the contents slowly, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced inside and quickly thanked me. Before I knew it, she was pulling me in for our daily hug. Wait! What about the heart? What about the kiss? My mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening! I pressed my arms against her back and played along. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe once we stopped, I would quickly give it to her before she got back in and left. Yes, that’s what I would do.
What happened next occurred so quickly that I did not have time to react. While I was thinking, she pulled her head back slightly and turned her face toward me. For a split-second, she waited. That was when I was supposed to turn my head as well, and our lips would meet and the heavens would open and concourses of angels would sing hallelujahs.
I hesitated.
Before I could make a conscious decision, she made her move, and her lips landed on my cheek, pressed lightly, once, and then it was over. She got back in the car with the gift and shut the door, and her sister pulled away, leaving me there, standing in the snow, confused and frustrated.
I had just missed my chance. I still had Virgin Lips. My plan had failed.
The car drove out of sight, and I let the candy dissolve on my tongue. After all my planning, after all my hopes and imaginings, I was still standing alone, my first kiss still only a dream. I felt robbed. It was unfair. And yet I knew I only had myself to blame. She’d offered it to me, and I hadn’t taken it. Why? Because I was thinking too hard about how I would do it. I chuckled dryly. It was so ironic! Because I’d tried so hard and been so excited, I’d forgotten to plan out the most important parts, and froze when it didn’t go like I imagined. Because of this, I failed. And although my cheek tingled a little and was slightly sticky to the touch, that trophy was not the one I wanted.
And yet, as I passed back over the day, I slowly began to realize something. Every past Valentine’s Day had been one of heartache. For so long, I’d wished for what everyone else already seemed to have: a special someone. Didn’t I receive my wish this year? Sure, my attempt at my first kiss was a failure, but there would be tomorrow, and many days after that. If I had not developed my Valentine plan, this day would have been just like any other. There would have less of a gift and no candy heart. Of course, I also wouldn’t have been so worried, I wouldn’t have shaken so badly, and I wouldn’t still be standing in the snow, but although part of me wanted to complain about these things, another part of me knew; this Valentine’s Day was the most exciting and enjoyable one I’d ever had. It hadn’t been another lonely and jealous day of watching other couples exchange affections; it had been my day. I thought of this with a smile itching at my lips as I walked up the driveway and into the house.
From that point on, I always remembered one thing when I thought of Valentine’s Day: plans rarely work out the way you want them to. Sometimes they lead to the same end result with only minor changes. Sometimes they fail miserably and leave all your hopes in ruins. But despite all the bad luck and poor planning in the world, sometimes they turn out even better.
Hoping I Can Cook
I’m standing at the stove, so hot and tall,
hoping I can cook,
but I’m intimidated, short and small,
even with my book.
I search the cabinets, corners, drawers, and nooks.
I’m looking for the meat -
some lamb chops, chicken legs, or fish Dad hooked -
to put into the heat.
A veggie now, and lunch will be complete.
Put carrots in the stew.
And hey, this peanut butter sure tastes neat!
I think I’ll cook that too.
My soup is bubbling now, and turning blue.
I think I did it wrong.
It’s looking quite a bit like witches brew,
and smelling rather strong.
The stuff expands, explodes! Just like a bomb!
The splotches on the wall
confirm what I’ve been thinking all along:
I just can’t cook at all!
