Friday, January 2, 2015

sunrise, norah jones

Everything is white. It’s making me restless. The snow isn’t melting and sometimes at night it falls in big pieces and sticks to my hair and clothes and it’s everywhere, fluffy white everything, and it’s all really beautiful, and it all looks really beautiful, especially when the sun comes out the next day and you can see that it’s still white everywhere, pure and natural goodness covering everything. But it’s making me restless. It must be: the obligatory peacefulness that all white brings. Unifying the world into one giant entity draped in soft powdery nothing – hiding everything that individualizes us – your car, your garden, your hands, your face. Isn’t it lovely, she asks? The scars of the world hidden underneath a sheet of soft, white snow?

But I like the scars. I like the rough sidewalks, the uneven concrete, the T loves C scribbled in loud red graffiti. I like the dying flowers and the neighbor’s children’s shoes scattered in the front lawn. Now I can’t see anything. It’s just white, and it’s not melting, and I think I like change and I'd like to wake up to something new, but sometimes the snow and all of its staying power makes me wonder if a thing I should have actually let stay was you. 

Tuesday, November 4, 2014


She found it baffling that some people didn’t believe in her. Not offensive, just hard to understand. She was so sure that she would do great things, produce good work and move about the world with intention, surrounded by fulfilled and enriched people and things, that she was always stumped by those who told her, “You can’t.” She knew that she was flawed. She knew that she was riddled with imperfections, overcome with impatience and one thousand other brazen, unapologetic idiosyncrasies. But she was forceful and quick, smart and unique enough to counter the predictable and premature assumptions she knew you would make. She was a fighter, no doubt about it, and she would fight her way to the end, furious with those who said that she couldn’t, trusting in those who said that she could.

I got a note from her yesterday. “Do you still believe in me?” That’s all it said.

I have spent much of today wondering how to tell her that I don’t know. 

Thursday, October 9, 2014

little girl

Dear little girl,

You look really darling with your flowers and your sneakers. The bouquet is maybe too big for your little hands to hold onto, but that’s okay, it’s probably good practice for the rest of your life, where you will struggle to hold onto some big, heavy things. I can tell by your restless eyes that you are up to something – that your brain is always on, infinitely curious, constantly searching. As you get older, people might ask you what you are looking for. You don’t have to tell them. And you don’t have to know.

I can see that you will be beautiful. You are charming me already, and we only just met. I wonder about all of the men you will hurt as you dazzle your way through this world. And I wonder about all of the people you will offend, just by being you. I wish I could be there when you learn that sometimes your best is not good enough. I hated that lesson.

Little girl, you are smart and precocious. In ten years you will read Gone with the Wind and you might want to be a little bit like Scarlett O’Hara or Jo March from Little Women, but you won’t have any idea how. In twenty years, you’ll learn that you can actually be the leading lady of your own story – but you will have to write out all of the chapters. This is not always easy.

One last thing, little one. Be kind to those who love you. Be gracious for what you have, and decide if what you do not have is truly worth seeking.

You might find that all you really need are some flowers and a good pair of sneakers.


Tuesday, September 16, 2014


Here we are again. The universal quiet of an empty house. I feel a cool hint of fall through the window as summer begrudgingly stands down. In the midst of the drumming chaos, I sometimes forget how much I like the sound of rustling leaves outside, the hum of the insects, and yet the stillness, the softness, the stability. No creaky stairs tonight. No running water. Just white sheets and dim light, and a whining train somewhere nearby. I don't play any music. I think about the predictability of change and all of its relentless irony, which I am reminded of by the circle of rust that surrounds the shiny drain in the shower, or by the changing leaves of golden yellows – catching the sun-kissed city by surprise though the leaves are changing like they always do. We’re back, the yellows say. Knock knock, purr the deep reds. They weren’t here just a week or two before, so things are different – things have changed by definition – yet what about this seasonal pattern of predictability makes fall less of an exciting transformation and more the underwhelming product of short-lived routine?

Here we are again.

And I am locked inside the quiet. 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014


1. the orange sun through the curtains in the morning
2. fletchy's smile
3. songs like cherry wine
4. dad's laugh
5. pancakes
6. the kind man at the toll booth who I don't see anymore
7. christmastime
8. you + all that
9. the people around me in the beginning of august
10. this city, its heartbeat
11. nice soap

Thursday, August 14, 2014

you're not

There is nothing wrong with being somebody you're not. 

Who are you if you're not someone's pleasantly drawn up sketch, a perceived notion, an inevitable victim of the world's misimpression? 

Saturday, August 9, 2014


It’s early in the morning. We are driving somewhere. Father-daughter bliss, the way it was always supposed to be.
Ain’t no sunshine when she goes.
You know I love this song, you say. You look happy but feel sad when you say it.
I wonder about the time so many years ago when you were late picking me up from school. You are never late. I held hands with the principal and cried while I watched the boys throw rocks into the creek. I didn’t even know we had a creek, until then. When did we get a creek? I asked. Just a few more minutes, she said. He’ll be here soon.
You pulled up and my heart exploded in my chest. She was worried, she said with an embarrassed smile, like I was her kid.
“That’s my dad,” I said, looking her square in the eyes. "That's my dad." 
She smiled again, and so did you. Yours was different.
You held my hand as we walked to the car. I’ll never be late again, you said. I’ll never let you down again.
And you haven’t.
I wonder though, so many years later on this early morning when we are driving somewhere:
Have I?

And this house just ain’t no home, anytime she goes away.