Twelve Goodbyes

“Looks like we’re all leaving you today,” he said with a smile.

            I looked up and smiled back at him. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

            “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, okay?”

            I’m not that sick. I can take care of myself. I rolled my eyes and nodded.

            His smile faltered for a second. He walked over and kissed the top of my head swiftly. Then he walked away, brushing off his sleeves.

            Today is May twenty first. It’s a Saturday. I am home alone because my parents are workaholics. I am slowly dying from the inside out. But that isn’t terribly important. What is important is that I have some confessions to make, and this time they will be heard.

            I waited for the garage to close. And I watched his car roll away in the reflection of the television. He didn’t pause to wave goodbye at the end of the driveway.

            I stood up and wobbled a little bit. The floor sunk away and I felt pressure building against my skull. Breathe, I told myself, because sometimes I forget that’s a human function.

            The house is empty. I am alone… almost.

            I slowly inched towards the stairs that led to the basement. It was only a half staircase, not to difficult to jump.

            “Is taking the easy way out such a crime?” a thick and creamy voice said from behind me. She had a slight lisp.

            I ignored her.

            “When are you going to name me? I think I deserve a name. And I really don’t want yours anymore. As much as you hate to have your limelight stolen, I am my own person, not a piece of you.”

            I dug my disintegrating nails into my palms. She’s not a person. People can’t do the things she does.

            “Do you want a hand getting down? You look a little stuck.” She reached out to me, to hold my arm.

            I jumped before her flawless skin could make contact. Air wound around me, spinning and healing my wounds. Then I landed. My legs gave out and buckled under me. No noise came out of me, not a cry or a whimper or a whine. I lay there, basking in pain.

            She walked over and stood above me. Her wide brown eyes searched uselessly through my own dull lifeless eyes. “Why won’t you let me help you?” Her voice cracked. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she was on the brink of tears.

             I can take care of myself, I thought. I stood up and found that ignoring the pain was easy when it was everywhere at once.

            My mom used to be an artist. After my original father left her, all she would do was cry and cry. She burned all her paintings. She’s been remarried four times since then. She makes me call each man “dad” because it makes her feel less abandoned. We like to pretend they really are my dad. The truth is that no one could ever replace my dad.

            Though her personal work is gone, the art room stayed. It’s the perfect hiding place for dad’s letters, each with the return address of a new base camp every two months.

            The back wall was splattered with shades of green and blue paint, the left wall orange to red, and the right wall with purples and magentas. The fourth wall was a mural. It was one hundred and thirteen sea shells. Each one had the figure of a new born baby in it. One in particular shone the brightest, with silver wisps of light emanating from it. That one is supposed to be me; it’s the only one with her eyes open. Bright blue eyes, full of life and love and hope. The mural was drawn two weeks after I was born.

            The floors were dark brown wood, with scratches and stains all over them. Dust covered everything from the half empty tubes of dried paint to the crumpled papers with fading ink. I picked up one and smoothed it out. On one side there were seven harsh lines with ancient drops of moisture scattered around. The other side was clean.

            I combed through the mess until I found a bitten pencil with a missing eraser. I numbered one through twelve on the page, and started my confessions.

Dear Mom,

1.      I hate the new kitchen.

2.      “Dad” number two raped me.

3.      I’ve never had an abusive boyfriend, just an ignorant mother.

4.      I tried to overdose on miscellaneous medicines I found around the house three times.

5.      My real father loves me more than he ever loved you.

6.      When you missed my play in fifth grade, it wasn’t really okay.

7.      I’m highly allergic to “dad” number four’s dogs.

8.      I’m failing science as a cry for help.

9.      I stopped talking because there’s no point if you aren’t going to listen.

10.   I used to love your artwork.

11.  If you said sorry, I would’ve forgiven you.

12.  It’s too late.

            Now, to make each and every word seen and heard. I grabbed any tubes of paint that I could find that still had something to live for left in them. I was still searching for a sufficient number of brushes when the girl started talking to me again.

            “You were amazing in that play, with your cute little pigtails and rosy cheeks. You were the only one who remembered every line. Your teacher cried with joy at the end. I don’t know if you had seen that, but she did.”

            My hands shook and I dropped the rusty remains of a brush that I had been holding. White noise started playing in my head. My head felt like a too expanded balloon, ready to explode any second. But I have to finish, I thought, just a little bit longer.

            I piled the supplies I gathered and my list on top of each other. I ran up the stairs, not stopping to think about falling or dying right there.

            I went to the living room, with the empty walls and clear space, it was perfect. I painted confessions two, three, and seven in that room in bright red. Then I looked down at the floor. It was so bright and happy, the light bamboo panels. In mere minutes, the words of number five sloppily shone like fresh blood.

            “Think about how all your friends will feel.”

            The word “friends” rang in my ears, over and over.

            I couldn’t concentrate anymore. It felt like bees were slowly eating away at my brain cells. Somehow, one, four, and six were blazing across the counters and cabinets of the kitchen in a yellow-green.

            I fell hard onto the tile and heard a crack as a can of paint opened and spilled around me. It tickled my toes as it flowed away. It smelled like inspiration. I felt my heart beat ebb away. Thump…thump thump…

            No, I need to finish. I will not die half a failure.

            I sprang uneasily to my feet and dipped the tip of a brush in the river of deserted and unloved purple. Eight, nine, and ten stuck to the fancy chairs and the silk curtains of the dining room.

            All the time, the girl sat on the floor and stared at me as if I was committing a crime. The girl with black hair that barely touched her shoulders, which I fiddled with while we watched the clouds, once upon a time. The girl whose stubby fingers I had intertwined with my own as we contemplated the “why” of life, once upon a time. The girl that had left years ago, but I liked to pretend that she was still here, because it made my silence that much less lonely.

            I will not cry.

            I have two left.

            Everything I was engulfed in leaping flames and the ground was slippery. I never had to imagine what dying felt like. This was it.

            In my mother’s room, there was not one piece of out place. The carpet was white as snow. The sheets were black and modern looking. It made me sick. I tipped the can of blue so that a fine stream of gooey paint slowly poured onto the floor.

            If you said sorry, I would’ve forgiven you.

            I gave my mother so many chances to fix it all.

            The walls screamed the words. I felt my body burning with rage and sorrow. I will not cry, not for her, not for anybody. My legs started working, pulling me away from all that I had done.

            One more.

            Then I was outside, looking at the rows of cream colored roof and siding. It was all so perfect. Black paint, to match the color of my insides.

            It’s too late.

miscellaneous pictures? sure let's go with that

Goodbye, Lia

                A sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sign, trickled out between my parted lips. I imagined the noise as a fine stream of light green mist, rising into the clouds.

                I could hear my heart pounding through my ears. My body felt overwhelmed, bursting at the seams, alive.

                The sun’s shine dried small drops of rain off my arms and chest. The grass beneath me was soaked.

                I used to think that I could outrun the rain. Not the drizzle-type rain, the deafening kind of rain. The weather where people crash their cars and houses topple over. People call me crazy for being in a wide open field when the skies are in the midst of a war. I find it the safest place in the world to be. Especially with Lia.

                I heard her muffled thud as she lied down beside me. I listened to her ragged breath as she attempted to slow her pulse.

                “You always beat me,” she said, the same green smoke trailing along her words.

                I smiled. “Only because you stop and look at every tree you pass.”

                “Why don’t you stop to look around? Have you ever noticed how beautiful the world is?” Her tone was light, the topic was not. She pulled her left leg up to her forehead, stretching her toned muscles.

                “I like to get here before you. After that I have plenty of time to observe my surroundings.” I reached over and curled a stray piece of her hair around my finger.

                Lia laughed. “Always so competitive,” she said.

                I turned my head and felt the rubbery grass crinkle around me. Her eyes, soft and golden, held mine. It was scary how she could do that, look and me and fill me with so much love. Sometimes I wished she would just away, I needed her to leave. I needed to step out of this frightening lust, and back into our comfortable friendship. I have to… but part of me wasn’t ready to let her go. This love felt so right, why should I have to give it up?

                Lia looked up at the sky. It had begun to rain again. Fat drops of water landed on my jeans. I watched them settle through the fibers.

                “I’m going home tomorrow,” Lia said her voice indifferent.

                “I know.” What else was there to say? I know you’ll always walk away. I know my home will never yours. I know I’m not good enough for you. But I can’t change her mind, I and I don’t want to either. I wished she would change her mind on her own. I suppose there could be a chance for her to come out, and tell me how much I mean to her. This happening was immensely unlikely.

                I stood up and brushed dirt off my palms.

                “Where are you going?” Now she begs. But it’s too late.

                “Lia, I cannot keep being your toy. This-” my voice cracked. She’s begging for this last moment, why am I backing away? This was what I wanted.

                She watched me as I wringed my hands and let out short sputters of breath. “Naomi, please, I’m sorry, you know…” Her words trailed off. She suddenly sounded very childish.

                I looked up and sighed toward the sky and I dug my heels into the soft soil. Rain splattered down around me. I was preparing for takeoff. I looked ahead to the line of trees. They were far away, but not far enough. Nothing would be far enough to get away. “What, Lia, what do I know?” I whispered to the floor, this beautiful, rich green floor. She heard me.

                “If you run again,” she gulped, “I won’t come after you this time.”

                Tears of fury shot up through my throat. “This time? Are you implying there was a time when you would try to find me? Have you ever put me first?” I could feel my muscles flexing, craving for me to run. I wanted to run so bad, worse than I ever had before.

                “No, no, I know you understand, come lay down, the clouds are so pretty.” She grabbed for my hand. Her eyebrows were knit together tightly. Her knees were bent, as if ready to pull me with all her strength. Lucky for me, she’s the weakest person I know.

                I shrank away from her touch like it was a burning flame. I don’t understand. I have no idea who this girl in front of me is; all I know is who she pretends to be.

                Lia plopped down on the ground, looking like a pitiful seven year old. And oh how I did pity her.

                “I just, I feel so lost, and I don’t know. I can’t be as confident as you. But that’s why I need you, because I know you can fix it and you…” She was talking to me, I think. She was whining. Dear god, shut up.

                I gazed off into the woods, thinking about all those kind whispers, and a pair of soft hands drifting over my face, never holding back. I thought of how different these two girls were. Then it struck me, after all the thinking and crying and thinking and expressing, I know what I want. Lia was still talking, now hiccupping in sobs.

                I reached down and pulled off my sneakers. I tied the laces together and hung it over my wrist. Lia screamed my name, she screamed for me to stop, to save her.

                It was pouring as I ran through the forming mud and flattened blades of grass. The sound of Lia’s cries was drowned out by the crack of thunder. My hair flowed behind me. Our field wasn’t so big. Before I knew it I had reached the edge of the woods. Of course, this didn’t stop me. I jumped over fallen branches and tapped on the trees that flew by. My legs had a mind of their own, my soul drifted above my body, watching as a gleeful smile reached my eyes.

                Go back to your boyfriends, Lia. I can’t keep waiting for you. I need someone who knows who they are, and she’s here. But it won’t ever be you.

Come home...

I opened my eyes lazily and watched the bare light bulb swing back and forth on a thick wire. I could hear the strands of copper rubbing against each other. I could smell the rust.

I closed my eyes and blew out a spiral of icy breath. I opened my eyes again. The light stopped swinging.

I was in an old kitchen; the house was thought to be abandoned long ago. But we never left. There was nowhere else we would rather be.

The counters were bare and shining, we never had a use for them. It was daytime. But no sunlight ever came in. Only shadows did, which made the kitchen sadder and more gloomy-like. The floor was cold, but there were no bugs or rats here. They didn't dare enter here.

I stood up and brushed the dust off my clothes. Instantly, I was struck with vertigo. I wondered how long I had been lying there, changing the world inside my head.

Lia coughed from behind me. One of us was always sick. She came to stand next to me. She was emitting fiery warmth. I put the back of my hand against her forehead.

"You're warm. You should take some medicine," I whispered. It was always whispers around here. Part of me was afraid if we're too loud, then the house would shatter.

Lia put her hand over mine, and held it tight. Half of her face was illuminated by the light. Her short hair was sticking out at odd angles, as it constantly was when she wakes up. Usually, she put her bangs into a ponytail that stuck straight up. It reminded me of a unicorn. But Lia was more beautiful, more majestic, and real. If only I were real too.

"I've been thinking a lot..." she said, avoiding eye contact.

"I love you," I said. I looked her dead in the eyes. I rubbed my thumb in circles over the smooth skin on the back of her hand. It brought me back, all the way back to when we ran down the empty streets, kicking pebbles, laughing at the breeze, smelling the grass that was never cut, splashing water from the pure ponds, the whole time we were hand in hand. We were always connected.

I watched her swallow hard. Look at me, Lia, please. Smile, for me. Something, anything. LIA COME BACK HOME. I pushed the thoughts at her, and I hoped a thousand times that one day she would get them. She would wake up from her daydreams and know how much I need her, right now.

Suddenly, my world got hot. So hot I could feel the thick air shoving its way down my throat. I choked. Lia stared at me hopelessly, like she always did at this point.

I knew how things went now. The air would get hotter and hotter. I would cough and scream and fall down. Lia would wrap her arm around my waist from behind me. Then she would put her nose against the back of my neck. Her cold breath saved me. Her simple words kept me alive. She would murmur into my ear, see you in the morning, love. Then she did. She was there when I woke up that day. When we woke up we laughed at each other's bed head, and ate breakfast together, and walked together, and then we sat with each other. We sat and neither of us talked, but both of us knew. We knew each other so well, words weren't necessary anymore. The world around us spun and spun, but we were living to our own tune. Eventually, time found us. Then I broke.

Now, I will wake up, because right now, at this very moment, it is time for me to keep going. I will count down the days. Worst of all, I will cry because Lia is hundreds of miles away and I have no idea if she is just fine without me. I have no idea if she has replaced me. Please, Lia, I love you…

7.39

                “Page four seventy-one…” I murmured, flipping through the massive text book in front of me. Bright red blue and greens flashed by.

                “Do you really have to do that now?” Olivia said, glaring at me over thick navy glasses.

                “Yes, actually I do. In case you haven’t noticed, this book weighs as much as I do, and I don’t fancy lugging it around school all day.”

                Olivia grunted. Ana grinned down at her book.

                I squeezed my eyes shut and focused my mind. Problem number thirty-two… graph the inequality. I sighed and leaned back in my chair to examine the ceiling.

                Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Olivia pull a book out of her backpack, obviously bored with Ana and me.

                X is less than seven which is more than… The rain beat harder down on the windows. It sounded like someone was throwing rocks at us all. Not even the comforting library could make me feel better.

                “So I texted my mom and she said you could sleep over,” Olivia said in her high pitched voice.

                I rested the legs of my chair back down on the floor and looked across the table at her. But not before I could catch sight of Leah.

                She was wearing a navy-purple button down shirt. It filled into the perfect curve of her waist, and flared out at her wide hips. She leaned on one leg, in a very casual position. Her body rocked back and forth, she was never still.

                “Um hello?” Olivia was agitated, more than usual.

                “Huh? Sorry, what was that?” My mind was completely blank; whatever she had said didn’t register.

                “What are you staring at?” Olivia’s face twisted into a snarl.

                Leah leaned on her other leg. She rested her slender arms on the main desk where the librarians sat. I felt it an injustice to her to say that I was looking at nothing.

                “Everything,” I breathed.

                Olivia rolled her eyes. Anything that wasn’t crystal clear bothered her. “Well, you’ll need a bus note if you’re coming over. You know what a bitch my bus driver is.” She examined her nails.

                “Yeah okay,” I replied, only half meaning it.

                I looked back down at my math homework. Numbers and letters blurred together. All I could think about was Leah. The thought of her was like an infestation, eating its way through the dips and curves of my imagination, leaving blissful rainbows in its wake.

                I ran my hands over the blank sheet of paper in front of me. I closed the textbook with a thud. “Math is too difficult for my small brain to comprehend,” I sighed.

                Ana laughed, peeking at me over her novel. Her wisps of hair cascaded across her face.

                Olivia broke into a wide smile, and started her rant about her latest crush. “So I’ve been waiting all day for him to text me, but now I’m thinking that I should text him first.”

                “Text who,” I asked, my eyes still glued to Leah’s back.

                “You know…” She gave me that I-don’t-dare-speak-his-name look.

                “Oh, right. Go on.” When Olivia is distracted, she stops asking me questions.

                “But I don’t want to seem obsessive…” She droned on.

                Leah pushed off the front desk and spun around. For a split second our eyes met and her face slackened. Oranges, greens, and violets exploded through my veins. But everything was a torrent and I couldn’t find the words to get her attention, or show that she had mine.

                Then she was gone, and the moment felt sour and disgraceful. My small world was shoved back into a tube of black and white. No muscles worked, I couldn’t even raise my hand to say hello to Curtis, who was smiling at me.

                “…Even though he has a girlfriend…” Olivia just doesn’t know when to stop.

                I heard Leah’s voice echo from the outside hallway. I still had time to go after her. The black was engulfing the last small speck of purple now.

                “She’s trying to get your attention,” Ana whispered into her book.

                I kicked her under the table. Olivia looked startled but continued blabbing. Why would Leah possible be interested in me? No, no, she does not care for me. If I admit that she does, I would fall right through the thin layers of my defense. I will not love Leah. I will not be in love with Leah. But all the hope I had left seemed to stream out of me. I know it’s too late to backtrack on my feelings. I can refuse to believe it, but every fiber of me knows. I am drowning in a current of passion.

3.07

I knew what he was saying before he said it. I hoped that if I played stupid then he would give up asking. I hoped that there was hope for our friendship. I was wrong.

      “What’s wrong?” He asked a smile on his face, his knee close to mine.

      We were close, I could trust him. “Well, there’s this… person, that I have deep feelings for,” I said, not really knowing how to make the words sounds right.

      He nodded, smiling wider.

      “And,” I continued, “They really understand me. They can see beyond what’s on the surface.”

      His leg touched mine. I jumped up and changed seats so I was sitting in front of him.

      “But, this particular person…” I looked at him. His features so familiar, I can trust him and he is my friend. So I let my heart free, and the words just started flowing. “I get so lonely and desperate. I want someone, anyone to see me instead of just looking. I can’t tell if my feelings for her are real, or if I’m just searching for a love that doesn’t exist. I feel like I'll never find that love. I want these feelings for her to be real, but I don’t want to hurt her if they’re not.” Oh God, that whole rant made so much more sense in my head. It sounded like my words were tripping over each other as they spilled out of my mouth.

      “I love you though, isn’t that enough?” So I guess he comprehended that in the slightest.

      “You know I need a different kind of love.” I sighed. Guys just don’t understand.

      “I do know what you mean, and I do love you like that.”

      I froze.

“You always have other choices,” he said, a slight trace of his smile still visible.

      “What are you talking about?!” I was outraged. How dare he do this to me? Somehow, my legs had worked so I was standing up, backing away from the picnic table.

      “Well it’s quite obvious that I like you, and you’re bi, so it’s okay.” He was smiling again.

I felt the grass in-between my toes as I kept walking further, further away.

Please stop talking now, tell me it’s a joke. Laugh about this all. Please.

“I’m not bi,” was all I could manage.

“So you’re straight? That works too.” His smile was huge, disgusting, and devious.

I was so angry. I found my voice again. “I’m gay. I told you before. When you asked me on that stupid date? I TOLD YOU. I am a lesbian, homosexual, a dyke, what is there not to get about that?” I stopped walking backwards. Now I was digging my bare feet into the earth, my fingernails digging into my palms.

“Wait… you… I thought you were… joking…” His body went limp. Eyes wide open, mouth slightly parted in disbelief.

At first I wanted to yell, and then I decided I would keep it all bottled up as usual, just to make him feel guiltier. “Why the fuck would I joke about that.” Those were my final words to him, a statement, not a question. Then I turned on my heel and ran.

I ran all the way off the high school campus, past the gardens and mismatched tables. Past the classroom where my shoes lay in a heap along with various used books and almost dried up pens. I ran all the way past the track field where people called to me. I ran past girls that snickered and whispered behind their hands. I ran all the way into the woods.

My calves were getting cut all over from broken branches and I could hear the pitter-patter of my feet, and the snap of twigs, the crunch of leaves.

I will not cry.

I trusted him.

I sat on the forest floor and stared at the sky. I turned up my imaginary music and blocked the world out. I’m sick and tired of being invisible.

I am weak, and I choose to take the easy way out. Realizing and accepting feelings means that I have to do something about them.
I will not like her.
Time is running out, anyways. It's too late to start now. But of course, there's nothing to start.
Because I choose to not like her.
In my little world, where I feel so lost and alone, so desperate and hopeless, she saw me. When everyone else gave me dirty looks and whispered...
She called me beautiful.

Sorry... didn't know people were actually reading this thing!

Dear readers,

So last time i checked... no one cared about my blog. it was kinda lame. and my life was going downhill fast anyways. so i gave up, and was too wimpy to check back. BUT i've been doing some deep breathing (and yoga, against my will) and lots of reading, and i'm starting to get better. and luckily, on my track to getting better, i have written lots of new stories :). i'll be putting them up asap JUST FOR YOU.

thank you for being,
<3

Alien Skin

I have transformed from brick wall of smiles into mirror with cracked edges. When people look at me, they see what they want to see. They refuse to look a little deeper, to see the pain. If they saw it, then they have to deal with it. Let’s be real, no one wants to deal with each other’s pain. We’d rather stay in our fantasy worlds and pretend everything is just dandy.

I have become a mirror.

I blend into the background. I copy my surroundings. I can become invisible.

Eight out of eighteen. Overall grade: eighty-five. Four questions answered incorrectly. But we get a second chance, because it’s a pretend test. You get three tries. Outside three crows fly by, and one seagull lands on a roof. I listen to the buildings cry and try to look past the stains on the window. Students laugh around me, but I don’t hear them. I feel the air vibrate and the waves float past my hands. The laughter wraps around my fingertips and mocks me.

I raise my hand and count to seven. I put my hand back down. My vision goes blurry and my cheeks catch on fire. If I cry, my mascara will run down my face, stick into my pores, and never let go. I’ll feel the pain for weeks. I look up and turn my mind white. Count to thirty. Back down to my paper. Number four, incorrect. Grab the text book, turn to the glossary. Dry skin rubs against itself. It hurts. I have to stop. Left hand reaches for the back of my neck, where my spine juts out, and my hair covers the skin. Jagged nails dig, dig, dig, until they hit raw muscle. Wade through muscle until I hit bone. Around the bone, grasp the spinal cord, become paralyzed. The nerves stop communicating to the brain, I stop tasting the air. I stop hearing metal rust. I stop seeing atoms zip through empty space. I stop feeling every section of my skin stretching against itself.

Is that how normal people live? I don’t know if I envy you… or pity you. My world is so beautiful. It is full of florescent colors, conflicting with each other to create an explosion of light. Everywhere. What is yours like? Faded greens splashed over layers of gray?

My world is magnificent. The pain is bearable, as long as I get the glorious shine. It makes me feel alone. But that’s how I like it. My solitude never leaves me. If you had my brain for a day, you would go mad. Years and years and years have trained me to come to peace with my malfunction. I embrace it all. And in return, it will never leave me.

You have memories in images, pictures.

I have memories in fugacious smells. I can know exactly when and where they came from. It makes me sad to remember like that. You can’t draw a scent. You can’t name a scent. You can’t take a picture of a scent. All I can do is hope the memory will come back someday. But I hate to rely on hope.

More photography...

My cell phone buzzed on the coffee table. I sighed and answered it.

“Hello?” I said in a dull tone.

“Leah? It’s your sister, Tiffany. Mom’s in the hospital.” She said.

I just sat there for a second. I stared off into space. Then I grabbed my keys as fast as lightening. I raced out of my dorm. My roommate stopped me by the entrance.

“Hey Leah, where are you going, you’re going to miss class!” She said.

“Don’t care.” I said back, pushing her out of the way.

She gave me a questioning look.

“My mom is in the hospital!” I screamed in her face. I ran out the door and raced to the emergency room.

That was four months ago. I had debated moving back to Seattle after college. Now, without my mother to hold me in Cleveland, I was free. I liked being stuck here rather than my mother being dead.

I noticed the garden across the street when I was walking to the grocery store one day. I remembered my mother’s Rose bush she had when I was a little girl. Then the doctor diagnosed her with ALS. The roses died. My sister went away to college. My mom went into a nursing home for a while. Then she came out and my sister and I moved to Cleveland to take care of her. A cold drop interrupted my thoughts. It rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away. That night I bought a packet of rosebush seeds.

When I came back to the garden I looked around for a shovel. I wanted to buy one the night before, but I didn’t have enough money. A woman leaned a small shovel against a wall and walked away. I quickly grabbed it. I searched for an open spot of land and dug as fast as I could into the ground. Someone tapped my shoulder. I pushed them away and kept digging. The person grabbed the shovel.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“This is my shovel you stole.” She said calmly.

“Oh.” I put my head down sadly.

“What are you planting?” She asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said walking away.

“You can borrow it,” she called after me.

I turned around and took it and went back to digging. We talked as I dug and planted. She wanted to know a lot about my mother, so I told her the whole story. Then she told me about her granny and the goldenrod she planted. It was getting late by then, so I told her I had to go. Before I left she told me I could keep the shovel.

When I came back to the garden a couple days later I saw a boy pulling weeds out from around the seeds I planted. It was very early in the morning and the sun was just rising. There was barely anybody at the garden. He looked up from the dirt. I noticed that his hands were rough and scratched like sandpaper. He saw me. So I walked over and said thank you.

“You should check on them every day, water them and weed ‘em,” He said.

I nodded. Then he walked off. But I didn’t notice where he went because I was focused of my roses. A small speck of green was coming out of the ground. It was withered and sad looking. I watered it thoroughly. I had planned on going back to school right away, but instead I sat down on the ground next to my mound of dirt. I took my textbook out of my backpack and studied. It started to get very hot so I went back to my dorm.

I came back that evening, when it had cooled off again. I watered my roses again. Right next to them was some goldenrod. I gently picked it up. I knew exactly what to do with it. I ran to the nearest bus stop and hoped on the bus. I was anxious the whole ride, but held onto the small flower with care.

When I got off the bus, I ran to the spot and dropped to my knees. I laid the goldenrod down gently right in front of mom’s headstone.

On my way back I called some friends and did some favors and earned enough money to buy a small shovel, and a pair of gloves.

Then I smiled, which was something I hadn’t done in a long time.

It's time for a happy story.

I think it’s time for a happy story.

I sat at the window, staring. I watched the death melt and flow away. Everything is temporary, right? That’s what I told myself over and over during this season.

I hate winter.

Everything is dead.

The trees are dead, under those three feet of hideous, rotten snow, there is dead grass, and in every crevice there are small things with barely a pulse, trying to hang onto life.

But none of that matters anymore. Because now it is spring. I can feel it and I can smell it and I can see the air better. It’s so beautiful, this world.

And now the grass is wet and the color of hay because it was just raining and the grass is still dead. The sun came out though, now everything is marvelous. I want to stay out there forever. I want to lie down and feel LIFE beneath me; I want to feel a part of something.

Even the bugs, yes I miss those stupid little bugs. I hate bugs usually because I don’t like how they feel on my skin. It tickles and sometimes I can’t tell when there’s something on me and when there’s not and then I get paranoid and then everything hurts.

I don’t think about that right now. I ignore how cold my toes are and the fact that the bottoms of my pants are getting wet from walking through puddles. Not even the little things can ruin my mood right now.

The sky is so blue. I remember we learned at school why the sky is blue. But I wasn’t paying attention that day because outside it was raining and I like to watch the rain. Today there is not a single cloud in the sky either. I remember my father used to say this almost every morning when we walked to his car to get bagels for breakfast.

The wind is still a little cold. I’m sure in a few months I’ll be trying to remember how cool and fresh everything was. But now I’m hoping for it to be warmer faster.

I don’t feel so alone when I’m outside. Well, I do feel alone, but it’s a different kind of lonely. It’s the peaceful kind. I feel that even though I’m alone and if I cried, no one would be here to comfort me, my little complex world feel whole. As if the missing piece to my puzzle has been found, and after everything is put together, I can smile without having to convince someone I’m okay even though I’m not. I just smile because I’m happy and that’s what people do when they’re happy.

Despite everything that is happening with my friends and that boy, I am happy. At this moment, I’m so happy that I think I’m going to cry. Because when you cry when you’re sad, your heart hurts and the world looks like a single shade of gray. When you’re happy and you cry, things are brighter and you notice things you normally wouldn’t notice, like how there are so many blandes of grass so close to you. Then you remember how much you love your friends and family because they would cry for you too.

So I cry, because I’m so in love with my solitude.