Poem: Untitled.

I wrote this the other day in a few minutes...It's rough, and will need some work. But I thought I'd post it for now....

No covers to be found, a body of white

Lying beside me with dew-dampened skin

Reflecting moonlight. No sound to be heard but your breaths.

Radiant breaths that dampen your lips, and I long to kiss,

But I hesitate for want of not waking you.

You sigh in your wonderland, rhythm of two loves:

Yours and mine, mingling in the dark;

What I wouldn’t give to freeze us in this moment.

As your mind drifts off into dreams unknown to me,

I watch your fluttering eyelashes:

Crows on the tinted horizon, silhouetted in motion,

Sliver of white, the moon breaking through the dark

Like God’s eternal thumbnail gracing the sky.

I know when you open those eyes in the morning,

I will see the green of the grass in which we have lain,

The tint of the water of the lake we’ve swam,

The cool blue night in your ocean-eyes…

But for now, now it’s time to fade out like stars,

Our flames burning to their extinction

Into sleep, into eternity, forever.

She stood staring at his doorknocker, debating what would happen if she left. She remembered her neighbor, who left from work early to buy flowers for his wife just because; he ended up being crushed in his vehicle by an eighteen-wheeler whose driver had fallen asleep. She was pretty sure his wife would have preferred him staying late.
Figuring fate had a reason for placing her at 452 North Brook Apartments on that fall night when the air was still crisp, she raised her hand to knock: the first hit to the door was barely audible even to her ears, so she steadied her trembling hand, lifted the heavy knocker to it's full height, and let it drop. She should have been terrified, the unknown lying behind the thick door, but she wasn't. She knew who would answer.
She heard a low growl behind the door, but she didn't bat an eye; she'd grown up with dogs, been bitten by dogs, slept curled up around dogs. Tonight wouldn't be any different, she supposed. She could feel her heart beating madly in her throat, giving her the sensation she would throw up all over the "Welcome" mat which sat bristly against her bare feet. She could not remember where her shoes were. When no head appeared at the window and the door did not open, she sat down on the cement block outside of the apartment, her back against the chill steel door. Sobs racked her lungs, begging to be spilled, and yet she maintained composure. Feeling pain in her mouth and metallic taste on her tongue, she put a hand to her lip. Only then did she realize she had punctured her lip through and through with her cuspid. Even though it was late fall, she did not shiver in her sundress. She couldn't remember why she had worn it, but she knew there was a reason.
The door pulled away from her back, even it not wanting to touch her as she sat curled over herself.
"Eva?" His voice washed over her, and she could feel her groin muscles tense. Feeling her mouth filling with blood, she spit onto the ground and wiped away the trail of spittle resting on her chin.
"I don't know why I'm here," she said, her back still facing away from the door as she rocked herself into a false calm: it was the best hello she could muster.
"Come on," he said, and she heard his sigh softly hit her ear drums, mingled with the jingle of his keys: his apartment key, his car key, his gym membership id, the fleur-de-lis he had purchased, her car key... Her car key glinted in the moonlight. She saw the backward glance he cast into the dark room, the longing look up the stairs, and she knew, she knew in that moment how the twilight sparkled in his eyes without even seeing, and she saw the deadness in them when his eyes met hers. The twilight was his everything. She was his nothing.

Love's Lingering Fingertips: A Sister's Story.

Love’s Lingering Fingertips: A Sister’s Story

“Due to you I now see myself in a positive view
I see myself conquering mountains and calming winds
I see myself exploring the ocean as if I had fins
I’m beginning to slip so make your grip a little tighter
With your hand in mine I know I can be a fighter
With your hand in mine my future always looks a little brighter"

- Hand in Hand

These words are forever etched in Dana Richmond’s mind. It has been almost three years since her sister’s death, but her younger sister never strays far from her thoughts. “I never thought that she would pass away,” Richmond says, thinking about her sister’s published poem “Hand to Hand”. “She was only fifteen when she died, but she accomplished so much in that time.”

Lauren Richmond was diagnosed with a chordoma brain tumor at the age of ten, a very rare disease which only strikes three hundred people in the United States. Richmond watched her sister go through brain surgeries, chemotherapy, and occupational therapy. “She never complained, and at the hospitals with all the kids, she never saw herself as sick; she always wanted to help the other kids,” Richmond states, citing that if her sister received a new stuffed animal, she would always give it to another child in the hospital. “She had such a big heart.”

“I was thirteen when she was diagnosed…and I had full faith in the doctors,” Richmond says. “I understood that the situation was serious and I understood her diagnosis,” which was not a good prognosis, but Dana continued to believe in the strength of her sister. “I watched her work with her occupational therapist, and therapy really helped her through her recovery and into remission.”

Dana left to attend Elizabethtown College in the fall of 2008, but her sister had a relapse. “She became sick again a week after I left for school... I went home every weekend to spend time with her. I wish I would have realized sooner that the treatment wasn’t going to work.” Lauren Richmond passed away on December 20^th, 2008 after a five year battle with brain cancer.

In seeing her sister undergo numerous treatments for her brain tumor, Richmond knew she wanted to explore a field in healthcare. “At first I thought I wanted to pursue physical therapy, but I found that physical therapy is very straightforward [in its procedures].” Richmond stated that if two people tear their ACLs, the physical therapist will treat both people very similarly.

Occupational therapy is quite different. “Occupational therapy is more about creativity,” Richmond stated. “What might work for one patient might not work for another, so you always have to be thinking on your feet.” According to Dana, her sister played a large part in her decision to research degrees in occupational therapy. “I full-heartedly believe Lauren’s occupational therapist helped her live longer; her therapist was always so friendly, and I knew from that experience that I wanted to explore the field more.”

In pursuit of discovering more information about occupational therapy, Richmond attended an open house at Scranton University which is known for its occupational therapy department. “I just remember the professors’ passion when they talked about the subject, and I knew in listening I wanted to be a part of it.”

Richmond also explored Misericordia University’s occupational therapy program. “All of my applications [for college] were in by October,” Richmond stated, laughing. “My mom really pushed me to get ahead on everything.” Although Richmond is currently enrolled at Elizabethtown, the college wasn’t always at the top of Dana’s list. “E-town came in the running late in the game. I heard about how good the occupational therapy program was through my high school counselor.” When Richmond visited the private liberal-arts college, she was sold. “Everyone was friendly at E-town. At Misericordia, no offense to them, they just an air of arrogance. E-town isn’t like that.”

Although Richmond was convinced occupational therapy was the right track for her before she got to college, once she hit the classroom, doubt crept in a little. “As a first year, you take OT 111, the introductory occupational therapy course along with biology. That first semester is a big jump, and some people sink, others swim. At first I thought, ‘Oh my God, what was I thinking?’, but I soon came to love the class and the arts and crafts we designed as treatments for patients.” Richmond says the course load was a shock to her, but in looking back on it, her first year was easy in comparison to her courses now. “You need to walk before you can run,” Richmond says, smiling.

Occupational therapy at Elizabethtown, Richmond stated, is different than most other universities; at Elizabethtown, the department is a five year Master’s degree. “In order to remain in the program, you have to keep a 3.0 GPA and do field placements your last three years.”

Currently, Richmond is working with elderly patients at a hospital in Camp Hill. “I love working with the patients. Most of them are there for orthopedic care for hip replacements or other surgeries… I hope to leave my handprint on someone in my life. To touch people like my sister did in such a short period of time, I would be lucky to touch people like that.” In the future, Richmond aspires to help her patients get back to functioning at the state they were before an accident or an illness. “[In being an occupational therapist], I am “able [to] do what [I] love…and that means the world to people.”

Over the summer, Richmond is taking her occupational therapy experience abroad. “I’m going to Vietnam for three weeks with Dr. McFarland. I’m really looking forward to helping in the orphanages.” Richmond has always dreamed of traveling, but she lives her life enjoying each day as it comes.

“I learned from Lauren to live each day to its fullest. I love quotes,” Richmond says with a smile as she talks about the abundance of quotations hanging in her bedroom. “I live by the quote ‘A person might not remember what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel’… [Lauren] made me feel loved,” which is a feeling Richmond will never forget. Richmond attributes her goals of striving to be an occupational therapist to her sister’s determination to accomplish so much in the short time she lived. “She always pushed me to do better.”

Hanging from Richmond’s neck is a silver necklace with a small pendent dangling from the thin, elegant chain. “Not a day goes by that I do not think of [Lauren]… I wear [this] necklace every day, and it is her fingerprint [on the pendent].” While Dana and Lauren can no longer walk hand in hand, every day the two sisters walk together, heart to heart.

Love, love is a verb, love is a doing word.

Money is not the only thing equivalent to time. When you see a happy couple together that appear to be in their fifties or sixties, what do you notice? I know I see the woman's smile, the way her sun reflects in her hair as she strolls the park arm-in-arm with her lover, the way the husband gazes at her, completely engrossed in her, oblivious to the hundreds of people around them: two people content to feed the ducks and spend away the day together.

Love is time. Time is love. These two simple phrases probably could save numerous people aggravation and grief if they only knew that they equaled each other.

Think of a time you were in the grocery store. Just recently, I saw a mother chatting away on her Blackberry hands-free device while she pushed her cart. Dangling from the edges of the rails were two children, about five and seven in age, a boy and girl.
"No, I already told you, Stephen, we have to make the deal tomorrow. We wait one more day and they'll pull the offer off the table," I heard her say, her voice piquing slightly. Her kids pounced in cat-like fashion from the sides of the cart, their hands clinging frantically to Fruit Loops, Milky Ways, and PopTarts; anything that they could get their paws on, they would bring to the cart, screaming, "Mom, I want this!" When she didn't respond, it became, "I WANT THISSSS!!!!!!"
Unable to speak over the high pitched wails from her offspring, the women said frantically, "Fine!" and returned to her conversation as her children poured copious amounts of junk into her cart.

I watched, somewhat in shock, a bit of me in disgust. And although it was but a glimpse of their life and it was only for a few seconds, it was the opportune example to use. (Let me preface this with, I can't imagine being a parent attempting to juggle everything, and I know sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. ). This mother, so preoccupied with her job, apparently her top priority based off of the scene in the grocery store, attempted to fill the void of spending time with her children by buying them anything they wanted - by the time she and the munchkins reached the cash register, on child pulled a sled and the other had a teddy bear in one hand while eating a King Kit-Kat bar. Perhaps she spent plenty of time with her kids at home, I would not know. But I know parents who don't...

All I could picture was these two children growing up, the little girl becoming upset when her husband, who supposedly loves her, only gets her a half-carat sapphire ring when she really wanted the two carat diamond ring. And the boy, he would buy his wife everything she ever wanted, take her on his business trips, and yet not spend an ounce of time with her...


Time is love. Love is time. Please, if you love someone, whether it is your children, your spouse, your boyfriend, your parents, or even your dog, spend time with them. "I love you" only goes so far. Love is not only a noun, but a verb. And the best way to make someone feel love is to show it, even through small acts of time. Those moments you spend lying on the couch, laughing away rainy Sundays, or the time you spend walking the duck pond hand-in-hand, those are the moments that mean the most. Yes, those flowers you buy her or that new television you get him is nice and probably greatly appreciated, but time... time cannot be bought, and that is what makes it the most precious, valuable gift one could ever receive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson put it beautifully..."The only true gift is a portion of yourself."

Get out there and love someone.

memoirs of a muddy sunday.

“Grandpa, watch!” I called, twirling around in my hand-me-down galoshes, barely able to keep my balance in the puddle of murky rainwater that had dribbled off the spouting this Sunday. I watched as Grandpa peeked his head around the wisteria vine, assuring me of my beautiful although uneducated dancing abilities while he sipped on the leftover morning coffee that smelled stale. He settled back down in his chair, propping his worn New Balance sneakers on the small stand in front of him. I glanced down at my polka-dotted boots that were submerged in the mud made from the morning shower as I used them as plungers in attempt to dig my way to China; my older brother had graced me with his wisdom that this feat was possible. My eye caught the rosebush, silently budding with pleasure because it was finally spring; outstretching my fingers, I lightly touched the dewy pink blossoms that were creamy on my fingertips and carefully avoided the small thorns that gnashed out with bared teeth.

Although my grandparent’s yard was small because it was in town, everything seemed so large the summer before my fifth birthday. Twelve child strides took me to the base of the Bradford Pear tree where the crocus poked up through the moist ground, rejoicing in colors of ochre, azure, and maize. I bent my lithe frame in half in order to inspect the tiny flowers more closely. Sighing impatiently as I stood up, I galloped up the sidewalk to the porch where Grandpa sat. No matter the weather, Grandpa always wore the same attire when outside: an old, paint-covered t-shirt complete with small holes from snagging on things like the chain link fence and his khakis worn thin around the knees and left back pocket where his wallet had carved its place. Sometimes in the summer, if it were to get hot, Grandpa would remove his shirt, allowing his sweat to evaporate as the sun beat its rays onto his broad, tan shoulders.

Just as I approached him, Grandpa lowered his head, gazing out over his rimmed glasses to address me: “I do believe someone seems a bit anxious this morning. Are you that excited to get to work already?”

I grinned, feeling my dimples pop as I nodded enthusiastically, feeling my brain rattle in my skull. Grandpa worked his way out of his worn, woven chair. With my childlike energy overflowing, I bolted down the steps to the dilapidated shed in the backyard to assemble our tools. In Grandpa’s shed, everything had a place; the thin-handled paintbrush that he would give me hung from a nail placed to the left of the chipped aluminum door, and the small jar of red beet seeds came from the shelf above the doorway. If one were to stand on a step stool, I could guarantee that there would be a perfect circle of non-dusty shelf from where the jar came; despite the heaps of equipment and seeds packed into this small storage shed, everything had such a distinct place. Mom wished Dad could be more like Grandpa, at least that was what I heard her say when she could not find the right wrenches or screws in our messy garage.

I waited restlessly for Grandpa to open the locked door. Although most girls would have been terrified of the spiders and ants that lurked in the dim corners of the old shed, my mind was too preoccupied on gardening to even acknowledge their existence. Grandpa gathered the shovel and the rake while I slipped the string from the paintbrush over my skinny wrist and wrapped my tiny hands around the jar to carry it across the cement sidewalk to the bare plot of ground.

Noticing how clumsy I was in my galoshes, Grandpa had me sit down so he could tug the boots from my feet. I wiggled my toes that were finally free from their cage. Pulling me to my feet, Grandpa grabbed his rake and briskly removed the clumps of hard ground from the surface. After he finished, I picked up my paintbrush and moved onto the packed dirt path that he had made in the garden.

“All right kiddo, you know what to do,” he said, turning the corner of his mouth up as my feet squelched in the satin-like dirt. I took the handle of the paintbrush, gently poked it into the ground about two inches and then placed another hole about three inches from the last. After a few minutes, I had two rows of open-mouthed holes waiting to be filled. Grandpa picked up the tiny jar filled with what looked like grape nuts. Opening the lid, he shook a few clumps of red beet seeds into my palm. The ground, which was still moist from the morning shower, congealed to my feet and hands, leaving my skin smelling fresh. As I continued planting, Grandpa unhooked the garden shears from his belt loop as he walked over to the rosebush. Curious, I made my way over to him, past the wisteria vine that was brimming with purple clusters. I watched as Grandpa snipped away the dead branches from the previous year.

“You have to be careful when you cut away parts,” Grandpa said, his hands inspecting the branches closely. “You wouldn’t want to cut yourself with the shears or thorns, but your biggest worry would be Grandma tanning your hide for hurting her precious roses.” Grandpa chuckled, continuing his work.

When we finished our work, Grandpa and I made our way up to where Grandma sat in her cream linen capris. Although she had run all of her errands the previous day, her face was still beautifully manicured with light blush of sparkling pink which matched the rose petals that would bloom in the next few weeks. Her hair, platinum in color, reflected the sun’s rays that sneaked under the overhang like water. Seeing my dirty limbs, her eyes subtly rolled as she chuckled to herself, using the chair’s armrests as braces to help her stand. She made her way down the cement steps to fetch the hose from the flowerbed to wash the mud from my hands and feet. As I waited for Grandma to finish screwing on the nozzle, I danced freely, no longer having the heavy boots restricting me. In between my pirouettes and leaps, Grandma was able to sneak up behind me to spray my legs. The water was startlingly cold against my flushed skin, which sent me into fits of giggles and screams that made both Grandma and Grandpa laugh.

Once Grandma was satisfied with my legs being bare of anything but water drops, she handed me an old pack of cards that smelled of tobacco and mint tea. Undoubtedly, they were stored in the breadbox that contained everything but bread, like grandma’s Tic-Tacs and menthol cigarettes. I scurried over to Grandpa’s feet to sit on the cool patio in front of him to play solitaire. Unable to shuffle the cards, I placed them on the cement in preparation to scatter them. Before I had the chance to fling the cards in disarray, Grandpa leaned forward and placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Want me to do that for you?”

I leaned my head backward to look at him and handed him the deck; his fingers, although racked with arthritis, bent nimbly to send the cards into a bridge as each stack nestled in between each other. Grandpa shuffled the deck a few times then handed it back to me. As I returned to my game, I heard Grandpa’s newspaper shift as he returned to his reading, or so I had thought. Had I gazed over my shoulder, I would have seen him watching me closely, a mild smile dancing on his lips.

***

As I stood on the patio gazing at the spot where I had sat cross-legged in my bare feet and ragged t-shirt at four years old, my eyes welled with memories of all the days I had spent at my grandparents’ house over the last seventeen years. Shadows of recollections moved through my mind as I gazed out over the yard, now bare and lifeless, having not been touched in a few months. My eyes fell on the garden where I had learned to appreciate the life of even small things; the tree that had once seemed so large and impossible to climb, and yet I had done it to prove to my brother I could; the patio where I painted, played cards, and read the days away, longing to be anywhere but this small town.

“You okay, sis?” A heavy arm lay across my shoulders, punching through my thoughts as I smelled my brother’s cologne.

I sniffed in the brisk air and replied, “Yeah, I’m good” with a slight smile that dissipated quickly.

“Okay, well, we’re about ready to head out. Mom has the car packed with everything she’s taking.”

I heard the storm door slam behind me as I pulled the garden shears from my coat pocket. The wooden handles felt worn in my bare palms, and my fingers lightly swept over the carved initials PH. I sighed deeply as I slowly trod down the steps to the rosebush that stood next to the wisteria vine, now brown and brittle. I inspected the close-to-budding bush before taking a large section in between the shearer’s blades and clenching down.

As I walked to the car, I carried the shears and the rose cutting carefully as if they would break under the slightest pressure.

“What do you have?” my brother asked as he opened the car door for me, glancing uncertainly at the objects in my possession.

“Grandma and Grandpa,” I responded softly, settling into the backseat as I turned to gaze at my grandparents’ yard as we drove away.

I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say?

As any artist knows, sometimes your creative well just runs dry...and although I'm on break and my brain should be full of ideas, I have really been struggling for topics probably because I sleep my life away. But yesterday I was talking with a dear friend about the movie "Seven Pounds", which I have not seen (I'm so behind the times, it's depressing how many flicks I haven't watched yet); he got this movie confused with "21 grams" (surprisingly, another one that I have not seen, joke intended). Long story short, our conversation lead to how the body at death loses approximately 3/4 of an ounce immediately, which is 21 grams, hence the name of the movie, which is attributed to the soul leaving the body. Of course, after hearing this, I was extremely intrigued; I'm not religious in the sense of the normal use of the word, but the idea of the soul has always fascinated me.

After I got home, I did a bit of research to find that a Dr. Duncan MacDougall of Massachusetts performed six experiments in 1907 on persons who had terminal illnesses such as tuberculosis and diabetes. Out of these six, only one showed significant weight loss at the time of death: .75 ounces immediately at the time of expiration. Although he replicated this experiment with fifteen canines, no weight loss occurred at the time of death.

A professor at Duke University also debated performing this experiment, but there is not enough backing financially or personally to help initiate his project.

Last night, after my friend and I discussed the 21 grams, we went to Panera to brainstorm ideas for the book I would like to write. Let me tell you, I love writing, but brainstorming is hard work. Being the coffee addict that I am, after I finished my first cup in two minutes, I went back for more (thank you Panera, for feeding my habit). After I filled my mug and I was walking back to the booth, I saw an older couple holding hands over their table in their booth, smiling and talking. And yes, as cliche as it might be, it reminded me of the phrase from Wedding Crashers that Owen Wilson uses on some chick: "True love is your soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another." (Gotta admit, had this not been used in a movie that is all about 'wam, bams, thank you ma'ams', I would have totally fallen for this, but anywaysssss...) As corny as it may sound, these people, had they been married even as late as their mid thirties, they had been married for at least 20+ years and were still very much in love (at least last night in Panera they were). I love couples like this; the kind of couples that look at each other in a room full of crowded people and only see each other.

For me, couples like that are proof that humans have souls; it's something in their eyes that is present when they look at each other, or when they speak about their significant other. The person listening, if listening intensely enough can hear their love, not through the content they are speaking, but something in the person's voice. I read a writing prompt the other day on Wisdomology.com which asked its reader, "What does it mean to you to allow another person to fully love you?"

I thought so long and hard about this question, I surely should have an answer by now. And yet, alas, I do not. Perhaps that is how it should be: true love cannot be spoken, put into words, or analyzed, at least for me it can't, but that is what makes loving someone beautiful. As a writer, you're expected to be able to take your feelings and convey them through words, just as a painter would be able to put brushes to canvas and create something that perhaps represents how he or she is feeling. Maybe one day I will know what words to string together to describe how I have felt the past four months, but I won't be disappointed if I never find the right words. Perhaps only people who hold hands over Panera Bread's booth tables know.

If you're at all interested in how much a hypothetical soul would weigh, I recommend going to this website: http://www.lostmag.com/issue1/soulsweight.php.

untitled.

He is following me. I noticed him about fifteen minutes ago entering the store after I had parked my Subaru in Walmart's parking lot. Meandering in and out of aisles at a relaxed pace, I did not really notice him visually, but I could feel his presence lurking behind my steps. Every now and then, he would come the opposite way down the aisle, and as our carts almost were past each other, our eyes would lock, and he'd give me that slight all-knowing smirk. I could not help but to grin in secretive delight.
Jordan and I do this a lot. Maybe it's the underlying actor in both of us, but we purposely ignore each other while we're shopping, pretending we are complete strangers in this giant abyss of groceries. Amid the Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup and Lipton's iced tea mix, Jordan and I share glances and smiles as the people around us are oblivious to our mischief.
Sometimes we'll cause a scene. Well, perhaps I should say I sometimes cause a scene. One time, when Jordan had forgotten to empty the garbage, even though I'd asked him three or four times to do so during the course of the day, I lost it. I told him I was going shopping, grabbed my keys, and stormed out of the house. Of course, because of the type of man he is (an amazing one), he followed me there to try and talk to me on the stage of our performance. I believe, in this instance, Jordan underestimated me; perhaps he thought a public location would be the best place to approach me, only to swiftly grab me and kiss me, to tell me he'd emptied the garbage before he followed me and that he would never, ever let it happen again.
What he did not consider was the fact that I was in my element; the gray concrete floor of Walmart was my stage, and that night my role was the Crazy Bitch. When I saw him coming down the bread aisle (which I'm sure all of you know is one of the busiest damn aisles in the entire store, and that day was no exception), I immediately could tell he was also playing a part. I read his face: prince charming finally there to claim his prize. Sorry Jordan, not happening today. My stubbornness kicked in, even though I knew that him forgetting to empty the garbage was really not that big of a deal.
I snatched a loaf of rye bread off of the shelf, the kind with the crunchy crust and hid it along my right side. While people shopped all around me, I made my way down through the aisle, palms getting sweaty from my anticipated plan, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead at the Deli sign. Jordan, who was staged as an innocent bystander pondering whether to purchase whole wheat or twelve grain, gauged when my cart would be passing, and purposely took a step back into it to bump me off course, to alter our fates.
"I- I am s-so sorry, miss," he stammered. Great, he's pulling out the stuttering accent as well. God, I'm going to look like a bitch when I do this.
Before he could continue his premeditated lines, I swung the loaf of bread by my side into the side of his head, and continued to beat him with it. Jordan threw his hands up in anticipation of the blows, but never said my name; he realized, deep down, this had beating had reason, but right now, it was a performance.
After a few blows, I suddenly realized that every eye was on me, now holding a very battered loaf aloft in my right hand. Somehow managing to keep a straight face, I gently placed my weapon back in his rightful place, leaned into Jordan and whispered, "Maybe that will teach you to take out the garbage when I ask." With this, I left the aisle and abandoned my cart, nearly empty. As I walked toward the exit, I could feel several pairs of eyes on me, and suddenly a pair of hands. Oh my God, someone called security. I'm going to be arrested for beating someone with a loaf of bread. Could that be a felony?
Suddenly I realized the person who was dragging me out of the store was laughing, and I turned my head to see Jordan linking his arm with mine. Standing in the parking lot of the supercenter, we dissolved into laughter at what had just occurred. He pulled me in close, our breaths fogging in the winter air and said, "That was so funny, I think I may forget the trash everyday now on." And with that, we both got in our respective cars, only to drive home and well...make up.
Three years later, and we were still going strong with our shopping performances. I'm not entirely sure what sparked this odd phenomena, but what fed it to continue were the looks on people's faces. Jordan and I both knew that we had to be the topic of numerous dinner conversations.
Today, I actually shopped for the purchase of shopping, which I told Jordan I was doing after work. I honestly was not anticipating him to follow me there, and one might laugh, but when I saw him at the opposite end of the condiments aisle, my heart jumped a bit in my chest. Jordan and I have been together now for five years and just recently got engaged. I could not think of another person I would want to spend my life with. Anytime our eyes catch each other, there is a palpable fire present. Even in the grocery store, when Jordan 'accidentally' brushes my arm, and smiles that smile that shows all of his dimples, the one where people can't help but notice what they think is love at first sight, my heart beats slightly more rapidly. People think we are crazy when we tell our tales, but I don't mind. To me, we're just reminding everyone that love can be around any corner, even between the bread and the condiments.

"Hunny, if you tap your nails anymore on that countertop, they are going to snap off."
Christine looked up into the eyes of the bartender, Georgia, a fitting name because she spoke with a deep Southern drawl even though she lived in Massachusetts. She was a motherly type and had been since the day Christine had came to this bar six years ago.
"I'm sorry." She lifted her glass, a lowball filled with vodka tonic and said, "Another, please?"
Georgia laughed. "You sure you don't want something a bit stronger than that? Your nerves are firing so fast, they're electrocuting me, dammit. "
The bartender gingerly took Christine's glass and started to mix her another. Christine faced away from the bar, skimming for a face she recognized in the crowded room, begging for a pair of dark blue eyes to light up the way they had the first time she saw them.
"How late is he?" Georgia inquired, placing Christine's freshly mixed vodka tonic in her hands, then rested her elbows on the bar so as to look Christine directly in the face.
Christine lowered her glass after a long sip and said, "Only twenty minutes."
Georgia looked her over with a penetrating gaze.
"Ok, ok, you got me: forty-five minutes." Christine sighed and took another long drink from her glass.
Georgia laughed and straightened up, grasping for a bar towel to wipe her dewy hands. She faced Christine and said in a serious tone, "Well hunny, if he only had the power to predict what you were going to wear tonight, he would have been here a longggg time ago. God only knows what's underneath those duds."
Christine openly laughed into the air and looked into the bar's mirror: Reflected behind the bottles of Absolute, Patron, and Ketel One was her likeness, staring her back in the face. She even had to admit, acknowledging with a slight upturn of the mouth, that she did clean up well. Smoldering eyes, complete with smudged eyeliner and metallic powder eyeshadow. Otherwise, a natural look completed her face; a light powder to conceal what she dubbed her 'good wrinkles': laughlines, and a tart lipgloss to reflect the bar's dimly lit atmosphere.
Then there were her clothes: stiletto pumps with her classic Banana Republic jeans, a tiny tear in the back pocket. She'd been stupid enough to play backyard football in them the year prior, and unfortunately for her, she'd been tackled by a brier bush. Paired with a tucked in cream-colored blouse and a simple black belt, she felt extremely radiant that night. She wondered how much had to do with the clothing and how much had to do with whom she was supposed to be meeting.
She snatched her near-empty glass from the counter, and spun around on her stool, looking at her phone to see that another twenty minutes had gone by since she had last checked. Staring at it wistfully, she willed it to ring, for him to call and say something came up and he wasn't coming. She knew she'd been silly to hope for him to show. They'd only had one other date, if you could call running into a random person at a nightclub and then spending the night dancing and talking an official date. Being young and finding someone special was hard, but being in mid-thirties and finding that someone was much more difficult.
"Hey hunny, maybe you should stop staring at that goddamn contraption of yours for two seconds."
Christine followed Georgia's eyes across the room to where the door had just opened, snowflakes drifting in on the new bar-goer. He swiftly brushed the stray flakes off of his deep brown hair and looked up. An electrifying shock crept its way through her chest outward to the tips of her fingers.
"Knew it was him," Georgia chuckled, as if she had felt it, too.

five people.

Objective: pick 5 people in your life. write something to them, but leave their name out of it. go.

1. You're who I'd like to call my best friend, and yet if you knew everything about me, you'd probably never speak to me again. So, who are we kidding? I wear a mask around you, and honestly, I don't mind. It's nice to step out of my skin for a while around you, when I have to be cautious of my movements and actions. We have such different views on life; what makes me happy would make you cringe, and vice-versa. And yet we have some of the best laughs together. I love you for that and your simplicity. You're so grounded, very realistic. Change terrifies you. We can go months without talking and when we meet again, it's like we never lost touch. I love that about you. I just wish you would love me if you knew me in my entirety.

2. In a few short months, we have become so close, and it's no wonder why. You're so intelligent...attractive, funny, good-natured. Talking to you is so easy, it's almost scary. We both have admitted how much we have in common, which is unusual for certain reasons. I enjoy time spent with you. My only qualm is that I could have more. One day, I will take you to coffee, and I know we will have an amazing conversation, like we always do. Thank you for being there when I've needed you.

3. It's so funny how much of an importance you were a few months ago. God, I would have done anything, pathetic anything, for you. You were my first love. And my first heartbreak. I regret nothing. I wouldn't trade our memories for the world. It's so funny...6 months ago, it felt like I was literally, at one point, not going to ever get out of bed. And now...I'm happy, functioning fully, probably even better than when I was with you. It wasn't that I missed you. It was that I missed a relationship. Honestly, I am not bitter. I know now it wouldn't have worked. I really do hope one day it isn't awkward for you to talk to me. I miss your friendship. I say this without jealousy, or bitterness; I really, honest to God, hope you are happy.

4. A part of me hates you. A part of me would kill to call you right now. And I hate myself for that. Being bitter makes it easier to deal with, I suppose. I knew who I was before you came along, or at least I thought I did. But in a way, thank you for making me realize I am not put together. I needed to not be in control for once in my life. I guess right now I just need time to cool off and get over the finger-pointing, not only at you, but at myself as well. Time heals all wounds, even this partially self-inflicted one. I just wish I could deal with it with as much grace as you are...

5. Truly, you are like a sister. I love when you come into this house. Seriously, everyone loves you in this family. Whether we're talking or playing games, you know exactly how to make me smile and laugh. I couldn't ask for a better sis. And I have a feeling, the memories and times spent together are only going to become more amazing :) Love you <3