Nowdays tend to be different,
they tend to be easier,
brighter and sunnier.
Nowdays, I'm more content,
I smile more, laugh more
Gotta say myself, I'm a little funnier.
I wake up each morning,
ready to face any challenge,
My mind just wandered and I wonder,
did I just find a rhyme for orange?
The rain can fall, I'll enjoy it
I missed the bus the other day,
I walked.
So what.
The clouds can be gloomy,
and storm all day long.
I'll just stay inside and watch a movie
with my dog.
I'll take on these challenges,
and I'll laugh bad days away
this new Jake, this happier one,
is really here to stay.
So I'll take a selfish moment
and take a look at my mirror
smile because whatever comes my way,
I have no fear.
I have family and friends,
that I hold so close
I have more than one place,
that I can call home.
I'm the luckiest person on the planet
and it's thanks to all of you
I'm the luckiest one alive
I hope you feel as lucky too.
This is my selfish moment,
where I want to cry instead of smile
I'm just so happy,
and it's been this way for awhile.
Nowadays, they tend to be better
These days I can weather
God, thank you for my family and more,
and thanks for whatever the future has in store.
-JGG
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Zafu, my old friend.
I woke up this morning,
Among dreams flittering away
Memories like butterflies
Vanishing as I wake.
The path in my mind
Made during the night,
Washes away as I open my eyes
With morning first light.
I hear a chime,
My knees touch the ground
I hear a chime
I sit without a sound.
I hear a chime, an echoing chime
It here where the I is found.
Time passes unobjectivly,
As subjectively I see
A stream, babbling by
And hear the buzzing of a bumble bee.
It’s all so beautiful,
It’s all just…there
Although I wonder to myself,
There is where?
Who am I, speaking and listening?
What is this vehicle meant for
I know not the answers to that,
Just that I can do more.
Do more than I ever thought possible,
Feel more than I ever conceived
This moment is gone and this one is the one that matters,
Now that’s pretty easy to believe.
I hear a chime,
My knees on the ground,
I hear a chime,
And give a soft bow,
I hear a chime an rise
With the echoing sound.
-JGG
Friday, April 29, 2011
A million more.
There is a dam placed between an endless valley and endless ocean
The ocean is filled with clear, beautiful endless water,
Once in awhile the dam opens and water bursts forth,
Soaking the dry ground with life
A force so strong it rushes forth with a lions roar
As a destructive wave blows through a valley,
But the valley is endless as well.
The dam closes, because we are scared to let too much out.
That feeling of power, of pure release was well… momentary.
We must keep our endless supply of clear water to look at in awe
And turn to look at the valley, waiting for it to need it again.
Standing on that dam, on the brink of endless and endless
I am that valley, I am the ocean and I am the flowing.
I am that softly soaked ground, the sun shining down and the distance in between.
I am the budding flower,
Reaching vibrantly up with life
I am the dirt that soaks our roots,
With the rain that we poured down
On us to let ourselves grow,
Push through ourselves,
Open and bloom in a field of a million more.
I am the wind sweeping that field,
Nudging you gently,
In the field of which we are, in which we grow.
As I turn to a cold August chill and
Our petals fall to the ground,
Then we are simply time softly laying there,
Slowly disintegrating
As rain and snow covers us, by spring we are gone,
Into the ground, into ourselves,
To nourish our roots and bud once again
And push through ourselves
To bloom in a field of a million more.
We are the field in a field of a million more
We are the flood inevitably in store
We are that dam blocking the way
And we are the man opening the flood gates
We are the vast ocean
The waves rushing motion
We are that endless earth
And the flowers driving force
Were the sun and all that space in between
All that we can see and what remains unseen
We are everything, everything my friend
And nothing but a circle of many beginnings and ends
We are everything that has happened and everything in store,
We are life, we are love
And a million more.
-Jake Grant Gabriel
Monday, April 25, 2011
One second in time
I was left this weekend speechless and yet forced to say something. The only thing that came out of my mouth was telling someone, "Thank you, for leaving me with nothing to say but 'Thank you.'"
-JGG
-JGG
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Holi- Festival of Colors!!!
This last weekend in March we celebrated the coming of spring in the traditional Indian way. We went to the Hari Krishna temple for Holi, the festival of colors.
Needless to say, it was packed! I've never seen so many people!
It was a spirtutal and fun experience. Basically a giant hippie-fest. I've never been around so many loving and friendly people
Hiranyakashipu is the great king of demons, and he had been granted a boon by Brahma, which made it almost impossible for him to be killed. The boon was due to his long penance, after which he had demanded that he not be killed "during day or night; inside the home or outside, not on earth or in the sky; neither by a man nor an animal; neither by astra nor by shastra". Consequently, he grew arrogant and attacked the Heavens and the Earth. He demanded that people stop worshipping Goda and start praising him.
Despite this, Hiranyakashipu's own son, Prahlada, was a devotee of Lord Vishnu. In spite of several threats from Hiranyakashipu, Prahlada continued offering prayers to Lord Vishnu. He was poisoned but the poison turned to nectar in his mouth. He was ordered to be trampled by elephants yet remained unharmed. He was put in a room with hungry, poisonous snakes and survived. All of Hiranyakashipu's attempts to kill his son failed. Finally, he ordered young Prahlada to sit on a pyre on the lap of his demoness sister, Holika, who could not die because she also had a boon which would prevent fire from burning her. Prahlada readily accepted his father's orders, and prayed to Vishnu to keep him safe. When the fire started, everyone watched in amazement as Holika burnt to death, while Prahlada survived unharmed, the burning of Holika is celebrated as Holi
.
In the celebration and for the coming of spring, colors are thrown (traditionally colored powder and water) But, here in Utah we only throw colored powder. It's a great, loving, togethernesss feeling that is all about love and the triumph of truth and freedom... the triumph of Love over everything!
We went down into the crowd next to the stage on the second day and lets just say it's high energy down there, people were crowd surfing and it's the place you want to be if you want to get plastered in color. Watch the final throwing of the holiday and see for yourself!
Click here to watch the best color throwing video from my friend Pam!
We had a great time, got covered in color and came home with a fantastic feeling!
Happy Holi everyone!
Oh how I love Janis Joplin
Sunday night after the Festival of Colors we went out and all sang karaoke at Tryangles... well it's really called "Gay-aoke" Thought I'd give you a little taste of my extreeeme musical talent! Caution: It's loud and it's ME singing, haha!
I also sang Twist and Shout Which somehow even due to my lack of timing and talent got everyone on the dance floor. Everyone just must love their Ferris Bueler moment. I know I did!
I wrapped up the night with a duet of Jesse's Girl with our awesome friend Lisa that we met that night!
Overall weekend report.... Epic!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Creating the perfect diet
This diet is my current diet that I am losing weight off of. With working out an hour or so a day and 20 min cardio I have already lost an inch off of my waist. Body fat percentage is dropping fast. It only has eggs in it because I am doing the 90 day workout and it only has yogurt in it for it's benefits. I am going to soon replace the yogurt with young coconut milk so I can be as close to vegan as possible. When I am done with the 90 day work out I'm 86'ing the eggs from my diet and will be vegan! Yay! Anyway, this is it for now...
2 eggs (10.28g protein)(134.4 calories)(9g fat)(1g carbs)
2 pieces of wheat toast (8g protein)(260 calories)(3g fat)(54g carbs)
-w/ butter (0g protein)(70 calories)(8g fat)
1 Morning Star sausage patty (10g protein)(80 calories)(3g fat)(3g carbs)
1 post workout shake drank over the next hour or so
-1 banana(1.2g protein)(109 calories)(.6g fat)(28g carbs)
-8 oz OJ(2g protein)(110 calories)(0g fat)(26g carbs)
-1 cup frozen berries (1g protein)(82 calories)(.5g fat)(10.5g carbs)
-1 serving Greek Gods yogurt (4g protein)(160 calories)(10g fat)( 15g carbs)
-20g whey protein (100 calories)(1g fat)(2g carbs)
-2 juiced carrots (1g protein)(52 calories)(.2g fat)(12g carbs)
-2 tablespoons ground flax seed (4g protein)(95 cal)(7g fat)(7g carbs)
-8 oz soymilk (6g protein)(100 calories)(3.5g fat)(11g carbs)
[Total Shake Protein: 38.7g Calories:767 Fat:22.5g Fiber:15g Carbs:111.5g]
1 cup of brown rice(5g protein)(215 calories)(2g fat)(50g carbs)
1 serving romaine lettuce with (2g protein)(16 calories)(.22g fat)(3g carbs)
-1/2 cup carrots (.5g protein)(26 calories)(.1g fat)(6g carbs)
-1/2 cup broccoli (2.5g protein)(22 cal)(.5 fat)(8g carbs)
-1 avocado(3g protein)(235 cal)(23g fat)(11g carbs)
[Total Salad Protein: 8g Calories:299 Fat:23.72g Carbs:28g
1 cream top brown cow yogurt(5g protein)(170 cal)(7g fat)(22g carbs)
w/ granola (3g protein)(75 cal)(1g fat)(13g carbs)
1 serving wheat spaghetti. (15-20g protein)(200 cal)(1.5 fat)(41 carbs)
It breaks down to 5 small meals and two snacks that I eat spread out from morning until 2 hr before bed. If you cut out about fifty carbs it should have some more potential for weight loss. Like leave out the pasta and every once in awhile 86 the yogurt.
Total per day
Protein: 97.98g [You should get .5 to .75 g per each pound you weigh)
Calories: 2055
Fat: 78.72g (26.1%) [Should be no more than 30%]
Carbs: 240.5 [Based on 2,000 calorie diet around 250 is heathly]
2 eggs (10.28g protein)(134.4 calories)(9g fat)(1g carbs)
2 pieces of wheat toast (8g protein)(260 calories)(3g fat)(54g carbs)
-w/ butter (0g protein)(70 calories)(8g fat)
1 Morning Star sausage patty (10g protein)(80 calories)(3g fat)(3g carbs)
1 post workout shake drank over the next hour or so
-1 banana(1.2g protein)(109 calories)(.6g fat)(28g carbs)
-8 oz OJ(2g protein)(110 calories)(0g fat)(26g carbs)
-1 cup frozen berries (1g protein)(82 calories)(.5g fat)(10.5g carbs)
-1 serving Greek Gods yogurt (4g protein)(160 calories)(10g fat)( 15g carbs)
-20g whey protein (100 calories)(1g fat)(2g carbs)
-2 juiced carrots (1g protein)(52 calories)(.2g fat)(12g carbs)
-2 tablespoons ground flax seed (4g protein)(95 cal)(7g fat)(7g carbs)
-8 oz soymilk (6g protein)(100 calories)(3.5g fat)(11g carbs)
[Total Shake Protein: 38.7g Calories:767 Fat:22.5g Fiber:15g Carbs:111.5g]
1 cup of brown rice(5g protein)(215 calories)(2g fat)(50g carbs)
1 serving romaine lettuce with (2g protein)(16 calories)(.22g fat)(3g carbs)
-1/2 cup carrots (.5g protein)(26 calories)(.1g fat)(6g carbs)
-1/2 cup broccoli (2.5g protein)(22 cal)(.5 fat)(8g carbs)
-1 avocado(3g protein)(235 cal)(23g fat)(11g carbs)
[Total Salad Protein: 8g Calories:299 Fat:23.72g Carbs:28g
1 cream top brown cow yogurt(5g protein)(170 cal)(7g fat)(22g carbs)
w/ granola (3g protein)(75 cal)(1g fat)(13g carbs)
1 serving wheat spaghetti. (15-20g protein)(200 cal)(1.5 fat)(41 carbs)
It breaks down to 5 small meals and two snacks that I eat spread out from morning until 2 hr before bed. If you cut out about fifty carbs it should have some more potential for weight loss. Like leave out the pasta and every once in awhile 86 the yogurt.
Total per day
Protein: 97.98g [You should get .5 to .75 g per each pound you weigh)
Calories: 2055
Fat: 78.72g (26.1%) [Should be no more than 30%]
Carbs: 240.5 [Based on 2,000 calorie diet around 250 is heathly]
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Preface to "Memoirs of a 17 year old."
Preface
I lie asleep in my bed, my eyes twitching and my hands grasping at the sheets with hot beads of sweat dripping down my forehead. The bed is a mess like it usually is, from these nights where I toss and turn and cry without uttering a sound or tear. The nights where I relive the horror where I lost so much, my and my dad lost so much, the world lost so much.
I’m eight years old again, buckled in the backseat of my mom’s old station wagon, singing along with the radio and it’s holiday music. It is winter, close to Christmas time so I stare at awe at the blinking lights, the trees that are covered in multicolored bulbs.
“Mom! Mom! Look at this one.”
“Oh that’s a nice one sweetie. Speaking of, your father has the day off tomorrow, we were thinking of putting our lights up. Would you like to help?”
“Yes!” I screamed in excitement, jumping out of my seatbelt and nearing my face to my mothers. “What color are they going to be?” I said softly in her ear, it was a secret every year. They knew the lighting of the house and the tree were my favorite part of the holidays. I plopped back into my seat and quickly said, “no, wait, let me guess… All the colors.
“Nope.” She said with a chuckle
“Oh, oh, oh… white icecyle lights. Mom that would be so pretty.” I imagined it as we drove starry eyed. Our little suburbia two story house completely covered in white, dangling lights, the brightest most Christmasy house in the neighborhood.
“Is that what you want?” She asked
“It would be SOOOO pretty.”
“Then that’s what we’ll put up this year!”
“Really?”
“Really, it’s your choice this time around. Plus, honey, I think It would be pretty too.” She laughed as I pounced about the car. “Now calm down honey and put your seatbelt back on. Mom turned up the radio and there were Christmas carols on, I don’t remember which ones, I just remember holding my stuffed bear in the back seat, tucked down low so I could see the top of my mothers head, just a little brown oval, her hair. I could hear her voice joyfully singing along to the carols on the radio and her head would move a little side to side with the music. I smiled, not just because of the lights but because I loved her. Leaning a little and looking I could see her right hand on the edge of the wood paneled steering wheel of our old station wagon, her soft and silky skin delicately wrapped around it.
Then I saw that hand grip the wheel tightly and the veins bulge as it ripped to the side, as did our car. I looked out the left window and there were two headlights heading towards us. It seemed like the next moments lasted a lifetime. Mom’s hair whipped around her face full of horror, sympathy, shock, instinct as she looked at me and her hand flew around to grab mine. It almost touched before the headlights weren’t illuminating the side of our car anymore but were somewhere distant on the icy black road as we spun. My teddy bear flew in the air, mom jerked about, there was a pain in my chest of the seatbelt locking, my hair flying in my face, tears welling up from fear. The sheer panic of it all sent me into shock and I blacked out.
Then the scene plays again, but just the last part, just the look on my mothers face, my teddy flying in the air, my long brown hair whipping in front of my face, the pressure on my chest from the seatbelt and then the blacking out. It usually played over and over again until my mind couldn’t take it any more
I woke up, my sheets soaked with the terror that memories can bring. It’s odd how they can be vague and so far in the past when you are awake, details are fuzzy or your mind alters it slightly. But, when you are asleep, in the dream world where it is supposed to be fantasy the details are vivid, brilliantly choreographed in absolute time and shockingly stunning at just how real they can be. This dream world where the word “Dream” makes it sound like you are going to get to… well dream… when in fact all it does is take my worst terror and show it in front of my eyes, like I should be in an audience, disconnected, enjoying the epic scene, holding a bag of popcorn and relating to the character, not being her.
This only happens every so often now, the horrifying dreams of watching my mother die, watching the car only hit the front half crushing her instantly and leaving me unharmed.
I usually get up after my night terrors and go to my desk, look at a picture of my mom and me, I’ll pick it up and stare at it for minutes, maybe an hour and think of the good times we had together, but inevitably I always end up on how her voice sounded singing along to the Christmas carols, soft and sweet before her voice stopped all together, forever
I wince. My mind plays a close up of her bright brown eyes, shock, horror… love. I wasn’t scared, not that scared at least, I didn’t even know what was happening, but she did. It took me a long time to figure out that, that last look I saw in her eyes wasn’t her being scared about the car about to hit us, it was her being scared for me, which is why she looked at me. It was her last time she would get to look into my eyes with absolute love. That look is burned into my memory and I try to think of it as a look of love, no matter how much of the opposite of that it looked like at the time.
The clock blinked as I sat back down on my bed 5:30, too early to get ready for school and too late to spend an hour trying to go back to sleep. I sat on the edge of my bed and closed my eyes for a second, in a flash there was my mothers eyes and her screaming. Opening them as quickly as possible and trying to regulate my breathing. Ya, defiantly not back to bed. I thought.
I straightened the sheets, threw my pillow at the top of the bed and flicked my light on deciding what to wear that day.
The soft smell of coffee wafted into my room and I could tell my dad was up. Probably sitting at the table groggy eyed, rubbing them and yawning into his hands. I started to walk downstairs towards the inviting aroma, turning the corner there he was, my mental image just right. He had walked out and got the paper, it lied there in its twine, wrapped so snuggly around the pages and sitting there on the table. Reaching up into the cabinet and grabbing two mugs I said. “Morning dad.”
“Morning.” He mumbled I poured each of us a cup and sat down at the table to drink our coffee.
This was our morning ritual you see, we would sit and find ways to fill the silence. It wasn’t just the silence at the dinner table, the whole house seemed silent as if once upon a time there was laughter and running thru the halls. Once upon a time all the furniture was moved in the living room so my mother and father could waltz around for their anniversary because the babysitter cancelled last minute. Once upon a time, at this round table built for four there was only one empty seat and even though now I can say there are two empty seats, that would be lying. Even with me and my dad sitting here there are four empty seats or I looked up at him and saw him stare distantly at his coffee… at least three.
“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking that stuff. Shouldn’t you be drinking chocolate milk or something?”
“Dad, I ‘m fifteen, not five.”
“Still I don’t think-“
“Helps me focus at school alright, now let’s just drop it. Cream?”
“What.” He said all grumpy now
“Cream, do you want cream in your coffee?” I stood there by the fridge for a second and with the lack of response, I sat down and poured a little into my coffee watching it swirl. Probably the highlight of my day, the playful dance the cold cream does as it enters the rich dark brew. Then the swirl slowly ends and changes the almost black colored coffee to a now appealing tan, then you stir it and it becomes one color the dance has ended, a dance only you saw and one that will never happen the same way again.
My dad didn’t say much now days. He used to be youthful, joyful, the kind of dad that had pancakes ready for you in the morning before school. The kind that would sip his coffee then kiss his wife. He would sit down and start our day with a laugh, a big smile, some good feeling between all of us to where we would start our day and no matter what happened we would know we had that, just that, a family to come home to.
He looks old or his age. My dad was a lot older than my mom, right now he is forty four. His birthday is next month, and autumn birthday, a fiery Aries that now only sparked. Even at forty wrinkles were beginning to show, crows feet, laugh lines, yet he had the same thinning brown hair that he did seven years ago. He looked old, but only because he was so weary on the inside he looked tired, he just looked tired.
Silently he stared, breaking it only when he would lift his cup to his lips to sip. If he made eye contact with me it was only for a few seconds, then he would look away. It’s always that away, ever since the crash he barely makes eye contact, we just get thru the day. As I get older it seems like more and more he avoids it. We’ve lasted seven years, we can last a little more.
“You want the paper today?” He asked gesturing towards the New York Times.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll get my news from the gang around the water cooler.” My lame attempt to make him laugh, to get something, even just a twinge of the corner of his mouth, but I was never good with humor.
“It’s just going to go in the garbage.”
“Why don’t you read it?” I conjectured. His look on his face grew tight and wrinkled, angry and hurt. “Dad, you pay for it day after day yet you haven’t even undone the twine in eight years, ever since you-“
“Enough.” He said definitively
I continued, “Ever since mom died and you-“
“I said enough!” He stood up angry, no not angry frustrated. Took his sip of coffee and walked into the living room, bounding back in his brown recliner, in his slippers and bathrobe, which he would keep on just until before I came home from school. He liked to change right before I got home and pretend he got ready and did something during the day. Which, to be honest he does, he just works from home. He writes, well, what should I call them? Fluff pieces for the daily papers. He is so overqualified for the job that they let him basically find any story that someone may or may not stop to read in the daily papers and if they did stop to read it they may or may not tell a friend the interesting fact they read this morning.
He didn’t look back over as I sat at the kitchen table and only the tick of the clock echoed in our house, the passing of time, the sipping of coffee until I had to go to school. He never did deal with any feelings about mom very well when I brought her up, which was rarely, but still. He never really was a talker about it.
In fact, after she died I don’t know what this house would have turned into, or what he would have turned into if a nine year old girl hadn’t grown up into a full fledged adult and wasn’t the support pillar for him. Or the ten year old making him get a job after he lost his. Or the eleven year old that took care of herself while her dad slowly became less and less present in his own body, or the twelve, thirteen, fourteen year that slowly built him back up to at least experience the day, to at least lift his eyes from the ground sometimes.
There was a small clank as I put my mug in the sink, the sound of the faucet and running water as I washed it and another clank as I set it back in the sink. The only noises for what seemed like miles around me. “Well dad, I’m off to school. I’ll see ya when I get home.”
“Ya, ya, have a good day.” He mumbled trying to sound sincere or even loud enough for me to hear, which I may not even have heard if it wasn’t the exact same “ya, ya, have a good day,” everyday.
The doorknob to the side door of my house turned, it squeaked a little, the screen door squeaked a lot and they both slammed with equal measure. After that, there was life, there were the soft sound of birds and the rustling of the wind thru the trees and most of all the feeling of sunshine. I stood there on the step and looked up, closing my eyes and letting the sunshine soak into my skin, happy I’m alive when by such a slim chance I shouldn’t be. I let my arms out and just looked up, letting the sun, not the coffee, be the thing that wakes me up for the day. It was my moment where it is just me, where I don’t have to worry about school or dad or anything, my moment of satori, that’s the word I like to use, even if it doesn’t quite fit, it’s what it feels like. Just me, my arms wide open and the sun, free from time, just existing.
A door opened and shut stopping my moment. It was my next door neighbors. I put my arms down to my side and just stood there watching him walk down the driveway. The wind that blew thru the trees now ruffled his eye length brown hair just a little, his green eyes you could see from here as he looked over and gave a little wave before he jumped into his dad’s car and drove off for who knows how long.
I knew things about him, but I didn’t really know him anymore. We went to the same school but every since my mom died all I got was a little wave. He was quarterback for junior varsity, built like an Adonis and looks that only Aphrodite could have given him, my sophomore high school boyfriend, well not really but there is no harm in having a little dream right? If anyone knew the importance of being in reality and having a dream versus it’s opposite it was me, and he, Kevin Montopolis, next door neighbor and crush since I was eight.
I sighed and stepped off my front porch, the morning was over, sip, sun, ruffled hair and step, step, step… a repetitive pattern forming that would eventually get me to school. I walked the sidewalks under all the large trees keeping me in the shade most the way. Still it was step, step, step… a repetitive pattern that would get me to school, where it would be class, class, class, notes, notes, tests, tests, another pattern that would get me to college to a job when all the while I go thru these motions wondering really what life is for. Why I can’t get the question why did that driver not only take my mothers life, but destroy my fathers and push mine into an existence that can only be described as existential. Yah, an existential existence.
How can one car change so much, one second of misjudgment, well misjudgment among other things… but one moment in time change years upon years. If I was supposed to live, I prayed to whatever god existed out there, for I had no idea what I believed in, to please tell me the purpose of my life because right now all if feels like is I live so each morning I can stand on my front porch and soak up the sun on my face.
Then I thought to myself, maybe that’s it. Maybe that is the secret to life. I chuckled and started on my way.
I lie asleep in my bed, my eyes twitching and my hands grasping at the sheets with hot beads of sweat dripping down my forehead. The bed is a mess like it usually is, from these nights where I toss and turn and cry without uttering a sound or tear. The nights where I relive the horror where I lost so much, my and my dad lost so much, the world lost so much.
I’m eight years old again, buckled in the backseat of my mom’s old station wagon, singing along with the radio and it’s holiday music. It is winter, close to Christmas time so I stare at awe at the blinking lights, the trees that are covered in multicolored bulbs.
“Mom! Mom! Look at this one.”
“Oh that’s a nice one sweetie. Speaking of, your father has the day off tomorrow, we were thinking of putting our lights up. Would you like to help?”
“Yes!” I screamed in excitement, jumping out of my seatbelt and nearing my face to my mothers. “What color are they going to be?” I said softly in her ear, it was a secret every year. They knew the lighting of the house and the tree were my favorite part of the holidays. I plopped back into my seat and quickly said, “no, wait, let me guess… All the colors.
“Nope.” She said with a chuckle
“Oh, oh, oh… white icecyle lights. Mom that would be so pretty.” I imagined it as we drove starry eyed. Our little suburbia two story house completely covered in white, dangling lights, the brightest most Christmasy house in the neighborhood.
“Is that what you want?” She asked
“It would be SOOOO pretty.”
“Then that’s what we’ll put up this year!”
“Really?”
“Really, it’s your choice this time around. Plus, honey, I think It would be pretty too.” She laughed as I pounced about the car. “Now calm down honey and put your seatbelt back on. Mom turned up the radio and there were Christmas carols on, I don’t remember which ones, I just remember holding my stuffed bear in the back seat, tucked down low so I could see the top of my mothers head, just a little brown oval, her hair. I could hear her voice joyfully singing along to the carols on the radio and her head would move a little side to side with the music. I smiled, not just because of the lights but because I loved her. Leaning a little and looking I could see her right hand on the edge of the wood paneled steering wheel of our old station wagon, her soft and silky skin delicately wrapped around it.
Then I saw that hand grip the wheel tightly and the veins bulge as it ripped to the side, as did our car. I looked out the left window and there were two headlights heading towards us. It seemed like the next moments lasted a lifetime. Mom’s hair whipped around her face full of horror, sympathy, shock, instinct as she looked at me and her hand flew around to grab mine. It almost touched before the headlights weren’t illuminating the side of our car anymore but were somewhere distant on the icy black road as we spun. My teddy bear flew in the air, mom jerked about, there was a pain in my chest of the seatbelt locking, my hair flying in my face, tears welling up from fear. The sheer panic of it all sent me into shock and I blacked out.
Then the scene plays again, but just the last part, just the look on my mothers face, my teddy flying in the air, my long brown hair whipping in front of my face, the pressure on my chest from the seatbelt and then the blacking out. It usually played over and over again until my mind couldn’t take it any more
I woke up, my sheets soaked with the terror that memories can bring. It’s odd how they can be vague and so far in the past when you are awake, details are fuzzy or your mind alters it slightly. But, when you are asleep, in the dream world where it is supposed to be fantasy the details are vivid, brilliantly choreographed in absolute time and shockingly stunning at just how real they can be. This dream world where the word “Dream” makes it sound like you are going to get to… well dream… when in fact all it does is take my worst terror and show it in front of my eyes, like I should be in an audience, disconnected, enjoying the epic scene, holding a bag of popcorn and relating to the character, not being her.
This only happens every so often now, the horrifying dreams of watching my mother die, watching the car only hit the front half crushing her instantly and leaving me unharmed.
I usually get up after my night terrors and go to my desk, look at a picture of my mom and me, I’ll pick it up and stare at it for minutes, maybe an hour and think of the good times we had together, but inevitably I always end up on how her voice sounded singing along to the Christmas carols, soft and sweet before her voice stopped all together, forever
I wince. My mind plays a close up of her bright brown eyes, shock, horror… love. I wasn’t scared, not that scared at least, I didn’t even know what was happening, but she did. It took me a long time to figure out that, that last look I saw in her eyes wasn’t her being scared about the car about to hit us, it was her being scared for me, which is why she looked at me. It was her last time she would get to look into my eyes with absolute love. That look is burned into my memory and I try to think of it as a look of love, no matter how much of the opposite of that it looked like at the time.
The clock blinked as I sat back down on my bed 5:30, too early to get ready for school and too late to spend an hour trying to go back to sleep. I sat on the edge of my bed and closed my eyes for a second, in a flash there was my mothers eyes and her screaming. Opening them as quickly as possible and trying to regulate my breathing. Ya, defiantly not back to bed. I thought.
I straightened the sheets, threw my pillow at the top of the bed and flicked my light on deciding what to wear that day.
The soft smell of coffee wafted into my room and I could tell my dad was up. Probably sitting at the table groggy eyed, rubbing them and yawning into his hands. I started to walk downstairs towards the inviting aroma, turning the corner there he was, my mental image just right. He had walked out and got the paper, it lied there in its twine, wrapped so snuggly around the pages and sitting there on the table. Reaching up into the cabinet and grabbing two mugs I said. “Morning dad.”
“Morning.” He mumbled I poured each of us a cup and sat down at the table to drink our coffee.
This was our morning ritual you see, we would sit and find ways to fill the silence. It wasn’t just the silence at the dinner table, the whole house seemed silent as if once upon a time there was laughter and running thru the halls. Once upon a time all the furniture was moved in the living room so my mother and father could waltz around for their anniversary because the babysitter cancelled last minute. Once upon a time, at this round table built for four there was only one empty seat and even though now I can say there are two empty seats, that would be lying. Even with me and my dad sitting here there are four empty seats or I looked up at him and saw him stare distantly at his coffee… at least three.
“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking that stuff. Shouldn’t you be drinking chocolate milk or something?”
“Dad, I ‘m fifteen, not five.”
“Still I don’t think-“
“Helps me focus at school alright, now let’s just drop it. Cream?”
“What.” He said all grumpy now
“Cream, do you want cream in your coffee?” I stood there by the fridge for a second and with the lack of response, I sat down and poured a little into my coffee watching it swirl. Probably the highlight of my day, the playful dance the cold cream does as it enters the rich dark brew. Then the swirl slowly ends and changes the almost black colored coffee to a now appealing tan, then you stir it and it becomes one color the dance has ended, a dance only you saw and one that will never happen the same way again.
My dad didn’t say much now days. He used to be youthful, joyful, the kind of dad that had pancakes ready for you in the morning before school. The kind that would sip his coffee then kiss his wife. He would sit down and start our day with a laugh, a big smile, some good feeling between all of us to where we would start our day and no matter what happened we would know we had that, just that, a family to come home to.
He looks old or his age. My dad was a lot older than my mom, right now he is forty four. His birthday is next month, and autumn birthday, a fiery Aries that now only sparked. Even at forty wrinkles were beginning to show, crows feet, laugh lines, yet he had the same thinning brown hair that he did seven years ago. He looked old, but only because he was so weary on the inside he looked tired, he just looked tired.
Silently he stared, breaking it only when he would lift his cup to his lips to sip. If he made eye contact with me it was only for a few seconds, then he would look away. It’s always that away, ever since the crash he barely makes eye contact, we just get thru the day. As I get older it seems like more and more he avoids it. We’ve lasted seven years, we can last a little more.
“You want the paper today?” He asked gesturing towards the New York Times.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll get my news from the gang around the water cooler.” My lame attempt to make him laugh, to get something, even just a twinge of the corner of his mouth, but I was never good with humor.
“It’s just going to go in the garbage.”
“Why don’t you read it?” I conjectured. His look on his face grew tight and wrinkled, angry and hurt. “Dad, you pay for it day after day yet you haven’t even undone the twine in eight years, ever since you-“
“Enough.” He said definitively
I continued, “Ever since mom died and you-“
“I said enough!” He stood up angry, no not angry frustrated. Took his sip of coffee and walked into the living room, bounding back in his brown recliner, in his slippers and bathrobe, which he would keep on just until before I came home from school. He liked to change right before I got home and pretend he got ready and did something during the day. Which, to be honest he does, he just works from home. He writes, well, what should I call them? Fluff pieces for the daily papers. He is so overqualified for the job that they let him basically find any story that someone may or may not stop to read in the daily papers and if they did stop to read it they may or may not tell a friend the interesting fact they read this morning.
He didn’t look back over as I sat at the kitchen table and only the tick of the clock echoed in our house, the passing of time, the sipping of coffee until I had to go to school. He never did deal with any feelings about mom very well when I brought her up, which was rarely, but still. He never really was a talker about it.
In fact, after she died I don’t know what this house would have turned into, or what he would have turned into if a nine year old girl hadn’t grown up into a full fledged adult and wasn’t the support pillar for him. Or the ten year old making him get a job after he lost his. Or the eleven year old that took care of herself while her dad slowly became less and less present in his own body, or the twelve, thirteen, fourteen year that slowly built him back up to at least experience the day, to at least lift his eyes from the ground sometimes.
There was a small clank as I put my mug in the sink, the sound of the faucet and running water as I washed it and another clank as I set it back in the sink. The only noises for what seemed like miles around me. “Well dad, I’m off to school. I’ll see ya when I get home.”
“Ya, ya, have a good day.” He mumbled trying to sound sincere or even loud enough for me to hear, which I may not even have heard if it wasn’t the exact same “ya, ya, have a good day,” everyday.
The doorknob to the side door of my house turned, it squeaked a little, the screen door squeaked a lot and they both slammed with equal measure. After that, there was life, there were the soft sound of birds and the rustling of the wind thru the trees and most of all the feeling of sunshine. I stood there on the step and looked up, closing my eyes and letting the sunshine soak into my skin, happy I’m alive when by such a slim chance I shouldn’t be. I let my arms out and just looked up, letting the sun, not the coffee, be the thing that wakes me up for the day. It was my moment where it is just me, where I don’t have to worry about school or dad or anything, my moment of satori, that’s the word I like to use, even if it doesn’t quite fit, it’s what it feels like. Just me, my arms wide open and the sun, free from time, just existing.
A door opened and shut stopping my moment. It was my next door neighbors. I put my arms down to my side and just stood there watching him walk down the driveway. The wind that blew thru the trees now ruffled his eye length brown hair just a little, his green eyes you could see from here as he looked over and gave a little wave before he jumped into his dad’s car and drove off for who knows how long.
I knew things about him, but I didn’t really know him anymore. We went to the same school but every since my mom died all I got was a little wave. He was quarterback for junior varsity, built like an Adonis and looks that only Aphrodite could have given him, my sophomore high school boyfriend, well not really but there is no harm in having a little dream right? If anyone knew the importance of being in reality and having a dream versus it’s opposite it was me, and he, Kevin Montopolis, next door neighbor and crush since I was eight.
I sighed and stepped off my front porch, the morning was over, sip, sun, ruffled hair and step, step, step… a repetitive pattern forming that would eventually get me to school. I walked the sidewalks under all the large trees keeping me in the shade most the way. Still it was step, step, step… a repetitive pattern that would get me to school, where it would be class, class, class, notes, notes, tests, tests, another pattern that would get me to college to a job when all the while I go thru these motions wondering really what life is for. Why I can’t get the question why did that driver not only take my mothers life, but destroy my fathers and push mine into an existence that can only be described as existential. Yah, an existential existence.
How can one car change so much, one second of misjudgment, well misjudgment among other things… but one moment in time change years upon years. If I was supposed to live, I prayed to whatever god existed out there, for I had no idea what I believed in, to please tell me the purpose of my life because right now all if feels like is I live so each morning I can stand on my front porch and soak up the sun on my face.
Then I thought to myself, maybe that’s it. Maybe that is the secret to life. I chuckled and started on my way.
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