two things she loves.
Noise and rhythm,
two things I love.
But as the sky
and the sun coexist,
each needing the other,
it’s the same with
me and my mom.
Sometimes, love is loud.
Sometimes, love is quiet.
Always, love is my mom.
not today
I wipe a tear away
and remind myself
I’m not riding
in a hearse.
This is a limo.
My limo.
And this day
is supposed to be
my day.
I grab my jelly beans,
fish one out,
and pop it in my mouth
without looking.
I play my guess-the-flavor game
whenever I think
too much,
too long,
or, like today,
at all.
Because when you
put something
on your tongue,
your mind focuses
on it almost
instantaneously.
First one.
Cotton candy.
And then another.
Very cherry.
It brings me
back to the moment,
and I want to live
the moment with everything I’ve got.
I grab a glass
and fill it with
sparkling water
because that’s all there is,
and besides,
me and alcohol
don’t mix.
One leads to two
leads to too many.
I tend to lean
toward extreme,
and I don’t like
where I end up
after I start down
that road.
I raise my glass
and toast to no one
and to everyone.
“To a good day,” I say out loud.
I drink the water,
the fizzy bubbles
sk ip pi ng
across my tongue.
That’s more like it.
sorry, Mom
As we drive
the tree-lined highway
toward my destination,
I wait for the inevitable.
When my phone rings,
I can see the panic in her eyes,
hear the fear in her voice,
feel the longing in her heart.
They are friends of mine—
panic, fear, longing.
I send her
to voice mail
so I can talk to my new friends
for today—
joy, happiness, and adventure.
“Hi, Mom.
I’m sorry I left so early.
I didn’t want tears this morning.
There will be enough of that
tomorrow.
I hope you understand.
This is the last day
of my before.
The day before it all changes.
Forever.
This is my day.
I promise I’ll call you
if anything comes up.
But I’ll be okay.
Try not to miss me too much.
After all,
it’s
just
one
day.
I love you.
Amber.”
how it has to be
These past weeks,
Mom has hovered close,
asking me to help her
with this thing,
that thing,
and another thing.
Today, I just couldn’t help her.
She’s a crier.
Watching movies—
kind of our thing—
she’ll cry whether
it’s a happy ending
or a sad ending.
Today, I had to help myself.
If we were together,
I’m afraid it would be one
long,
painful,
miserable day
of crying.
She’ll call my dad in tears.
Tell him I’ve left.
He’ll come over.
They’ll let Kelly stay home
from middle school.
They’ll be a family together,
without me.
Today, they’ll have to help
themselves.
And to their surprise,
they’ll survive.
fill my soul
My iPod,
tucked away
in my backpack,
is my only true
companion today.
Of course,
she brings along
the music
I love
with my whole
heart.
When I put the
earbuds in,
I find P!nk
still singing
about wanting
an endless night.
I lean back
into the cool leather seat,
close my eyes,
and let the music fill
all the empty spaces
with glitter.
missing you, Madison
Although the ocean
never sleeps,
the town of Newport does,
and now,
in the early morning hours,
it’s barely awake.
The driver drops me off
at a café.
Inside I order hot tea
and a donut, and take a seat
with a view.
Two older ladies
sit across the room,
drinking and talking,
one of them tall and skinny
with a neck like a giraffe,
the other so chubby,
she has three chins
and no neck at all.
What a pair.
It makes me think
of Madison,
and my chest responds
with a dull ache.
We’re as different
as country music and hip-hop.
She’s cute and sweet
with wavy blond hair.
I’m rough around the edges
with red dye bleeding
through my naturally brown hair.
She likes the rainbow colors.
I like the scary colors.
She sings in musicals,
I play in a rock band.
She has other girl friends,
I have other boy friends.
Except for Madison.
Because the things that matter to us,
that’s what we have in common.
We like hanging downtown,
eating sushi, talking books,
politics, and school drama,
loving it when we see eye-to-eye
and loving it even more when we don’t.
Art makes us smile,
and on summer days when
there’s nothing else to do,
we are Monet and Picasso,
the street our canvas
and chalk our paintbrush
of choice.
She’s a one-in-a-million friend,
and I’m lucky she’s mine.
How can I live without her?
I thought about asking
her to come with me today.
I thought, maybe I
could make her promise
to keep a smile on that
adorable face of hers
no matter what.
But the more I thought about it,
the more I decided I’d be asking
the impossible.
Like asking a soldier
to not feel any fear
before heading into battl
e.
I’ve already slipped once,
and I’m the one
who has the most to gain
in keeping my own promise.
It’s better this way.
A little lonelier.
But better.
morning waves
After I’ve emptied
my tea cup, I head
to the beach.
The white caps slide across
the sparkly blue dance floor.
They whisper to me,
Join us—dance!
I close my eyes,
take a deep breath of the sea air,
and spin around and around,
the sand cold yet soothing
underneath my bare feet.
When I stop,
the world is spinning,
and I gasp at how
familiar it is.
Everything spinning out of control.
When my balance is back,
I run, faster and faster,
jumping over seaweed
strewn out on the sand
like strands
of a mermaid’s hair.
I run past an old man
on a morning walk,
waking up to the smell
of salty air instead of
fresh brewed coffee.
Into the water I walk,
my pants rolled
up to my knees.
I stand still
and let the cold waves
splash over my feet.
It feels good.
Something finally feels
good.
like a painful song
The waves
come and go.
I know that rhythm.
I know it too well.
Like the anger,
sadness,
denial
I’ve felt
these past weeks
that I’ve been pushing down,
telling myself to
suck it up—
it all comes back.
Bigger.
Stronger.
I walk out farther,
the water almost
knee-high.
My eyes close
for a moment
and my heart wishes
I could throw it all
to the tide,
like a bottle
with a scribbled note inside.
And then,
without warning,
a big wave comes
and splashes me,
as if to make a point.
The waves never stop.
No matter how much
I wish they would,
the waves
come and go
come and go
come and go.
Two years, nine months ago
Dear Amber,
How are you doing, honey? We haven’t heard back from you, but that’s okay. We’ll keep writing. Maybe the more you get to know about us, the more you’ll see that we are good people. Allen says you are probably afraid. And of course, that’s understandable. You have no idea what kind of people we are. But through these letters, I hope you’ll see there’s nothing to fear.
A newspaper reporter knocked on our door yesterday. I wonder if the same was true for you? I know this will probably be disruptive to your life. I wish it didn’t have to be that way, but we don’t know what else to do. We want to know you so badly—to have a relationship with you.
Today was a beautiful spring day, so I went for a long walk in our neighborhood. The tulips are starting to bloom. I love tulips. We have lots of red and yellow ones planted in our front yard. They’re my favorite flower.
I’m wondering, what’s yours?
Love,
Jeanie and Allen
treasure hunt
I sit in the cool sand,
my mind drifting
like wood on water.
A few years ago
we stayed at a beach house,
Dad, Mom, Kelly, and I.
When we were almost ready to head home,
Mom insisted the three of us get
one last fill of the ocean,
as if we were fragile sea creatures,
needing the water
to survive.
When we got down to the beach,
Dad started running and said,
“Ten minutes to find a treasure.
The winner of the best treasure
gets to pick the music for the ride home.”
Kelly yelled out,
“I’m winning this one, Jelly!”
I threw my head back and laughed.
We hadn’t played Treasure Hunt
since Kelly and I were little.
We used to play all the time—
at the park,
on a hike,
even in our own backyard.
I skipped across the sand, the breeze
catching my shirt,
exposing my belly, white
as a seagull’s.
I laughed again.
Across the beach,
Dad and Kelly
scoured the wet sand,
no doubt searching for
one of Mother Nature’s
lost jewels.
My eyes scanned
the dry sand
by the piles of driftwood.
I dug with my hands,
searching for
a buried treasure,
until my arms
became heavy.
I climbed the pile,
searching the other side,
and then
something glistened
in the sun:
a blue-and-silver fishing lure
complete with a hook.
An amazing treasure,
especially since I was saving someone
from being caught in the foot.
Dad waved his arms,
telling us time
was up.
Kelly showed us her find first:
a golden rock, an agate,
clear and smooth.
When I showed them mine, Dad said,
“An in-line spinner.
Very nice!”
And then, with his fists closed tight,
he turned his hands over and slowly
spread his fingers
wide open
like a sea anemone
in a tide pool.
Kelly and I gasped
when we saw
what he held.
Two silver chains
with a tiny
silver dollar charm
on the end of each one.
After Kelly—always the affectionate child—
gave him a hug,
she said, “But you don’t win, right?
You didn’t find it.
The rules are you have to find it.”
Affectionate and competitive.
“Kel, I think we both win.
Thanks, Dad.
I love it.”
“Me, too,”
Kelly echoed.
“But who picks the—”
I tapped her on the shoulder
and yelled, “You’re it!”
intentionally ending one game
and beginning another.
Of course she chased me,
because that’s what little sisters do.
And of course I let her choose
the music on the car ride home,
because that’s what big sisters do.
They let their
little sisters
win.
mixed feelings
I like
the memories
because they remind me
I haven’t always been
this girl,
constantly
mad or scared
or confused.
I don’t like
the memories
becau
se the tears
come easily,
and once again I break
my promise
to myself for this day.
It’s a constant battle.
A war between
remembering and forgetting.
my heroes
I catch a cab at ten
and make my way
to the aquarium.
I want to look at sharks,
quiet and
fierce.
Study them.
Learn from them.
They own the water.
They are not afraid.
beautiful boy
He stares
at the tank
of jellyfish.
I stand on the other side
and watch
the pale pink parachutes glide
through the water.
They are
hypnotic.
He moves
slowly,
circling the
round tank.
Moving closer
to me.
I realize
I’m not watching
the jellyfish anymore.
I’m watching him watching them.
He stares
with such intensity,
I can’t help but wonder,
What is he thinking?
Feeling?
Wishing?
While he’s under their spell,
I take him in.
He’s wearing a black knit beanie
with bits of black hair
sticking out,
a gray hoody,
and skinny jeans.
Only skinny people
can get away
with wearing
skinny jeans,
which is why