Again in this corner, this room
reminds me of before.
In this artificial light, the walls look yellow
the window to my right could hold the same scenery
I saw before.

The music in my ears was here
the differences an illusion
if I keep my head facing the screen

if I forget you aren’t in the other room

if I remember when my world was


Ode to My Drawer’s Drawers

Oh you, gentle drawer.
Caught with your pants down again, someone peering into your host
of hoard.

I’ve found the pile of photographs, each snippet of life
shaded with perfect light, or candid 5×7
waking the worst of sorrow and sleep and sweet painful singing

from me.

I’ve found the green notebook, giving life
of lingering wishes, and narrations of new
intimate declarations unpacked

in its spine.

Do you not see the undeveloped film? The wonders
in your cave?
Are the feelings found in the flurry of fever
at being discovered again?

Do not tempt me, gentle drawer,
Your wares are meant to be encased inside
Your ravages each their crystal showcase

unlocking my cry.

I’ve found her here, her jeweled necklace broken
at the clasp and unwearable

can’t materialize from your depths, dear drawer.

Let her rest.
Let her be.
Show how you can have pity on me

Oh you, gentle drawer.

I get a little bit bigger and then, I’m just the same as I was

I’ve been thinking today about how life is a large collection of stories. Circular moments of circumstance and the recall of those moments in memory bring us a range of emotions.

My grandmother sat at the kitchen table with me this morning, a place I was raised to believe always meant “story-time”, and told me about the moments she recalls that make her the happiest. Knowing I am her only granddaughter, and my brother her only grandson, I knew she was gearing up to talk about us. I have a collection of stories she has told me more times than I can count, and was expecting one of those again, told in glorious technicolor, as was the only way her mind worked.

I was not altogether wrong. She told me how she often thought of my brother and I when we were toddlers. How she would set me in the playroom in her house, surround me with books or markers or dolls, and I would play by myself for hours. Singing, talking to myself, and making creations only a grandmother could love.

My brother, by contrast, would always require a playmate. She said he would be fine if anyone was engaging him, but there was nothing he could do to entertain himself as long as me. I recall from my own memory that he enjoyed my company at times, but once I was old enough to want his toys, he became the bossy older brother I knew in my preteen years. 

I was surprised to learn this information about us both, as my brother now requires little to no attention to keep busy, while I often find myself lonely beyond repair without a playmate. Until I realized that when I am alone, creating, I need to be in solitude. Having others around distracts me, especially other creative minds. I have done a lot of work with other writers, and though I gain quite a lot of insight regarding scope and detail for my own works (and theirs), when actually creating, I need to be alone. And when focused, I can entertain my mind for hours.

My grandmother went on to say that she would also think about the roles I would play when engaging her at this age. I had a “general store” I would set up, pricing all my dolls and books, and charging my shoppers an arm and a leg to buy my merchandise. I would also setup my “classroom”, taking the morning to color pages in my coloring book and instructing my dolls and my brother’s G.I. Joes on the importance of staying in the lines and learning the alphabet. 

Finally, I would fall prey to a very common role to little girls my age – the tea party. I had a little blue case that held about ten teacups and saucers, and would set them all around the house. My justification, I was told, was that you never knew when you would be thirsty, so I would bring tea to everyone in the house, and then leave cups on the staircase, the piano, and the ledge by the window, places my family would often come and go. 

I am awash in the strange feeling that came over me after I was told these stories. I have spent considerable time working in stores, and have entertained the desire to open my own used bookstore/cafe. I have also been a teacher, failing miserably after only one year. But both dreams I have had apparently since my toddler years. I wonder if the tea parties could be totally allocated to a little girl’s dream to be hospitable, or if I will one day be serving tea and hiding nourishment in plain sight of those who need it.