Category: 100 Words

Day 35: Shoebox

I helped my daughter clean out her bedroom closet today.

We cooed over old Halloween costumes and counted seven crocheted baby blankets. I found a pair of angel wings, the kind made of wire and white pantyhose. She put them on, along with the gold mortarboard she wore for her graduation from kindergarten. Our dog ate some feathers from a pink boa, and I cleaned out purses with goldfish crackers hidden in their pockets.

I opened a small orange box, and inside was a pair of leather infant shoes. “I’m keeping those,” she said, and put them on her bookshelf.

Day 34: Forgiveness

For my college degree, I had to take Studio Art classes. My Life Drawing professor gave us explicit instructions to never throw failed art works away. “Even if it’s terrible. Even if it’s experimental, and failed horribly. I need to see all of your work. I’ll be kind,” she said.

Of course, I didn’t do what she asked.

Self-portrait, in the garbage. Awful action pose using cross-hatching, tossed away.

For some reason, words work differently. I don’t throw away what doesn’t work, or what’s been abandoned, or what’s been crossed out in confusion. It’s easier, with words, to be kind.

Day 33: Freestyle

We learned to swim together at the community pool, the summer before first grade. I mostly remember the polka-dot suit I wore. It had ruffles, and I thought it was something a princess would wear.

We swam in high school together, too. It wasn’t about suits anymore; it was about split times, conditioning, and drives with our hair still wet, one hand on the wheel and the other hand in hers.

Now our swimming happens only in my dreams. We race strong, the time no matter. When she wins, I twist a lock of her wet hair around my finger.

Day 32: Promised 2/?

We promised. Actually looked into each other’s eyes and swore it.

We’d keep our hands off. No more kissing.

It was fine, for a while. He volunteered to post watch with Stan, the new guy; I switched to days so we’d be on opposite ends of the field.

Thing is, that means we cross paths at oh-six hundred, when I’m waking up and he’s heading in. My chest feels hot. I turn and he’s there, rumpled and smelling of grass and moonlight. I stop myself from reaching out for his hand as he brushes by. I don’t forget our promise.

Day 31: Promised 1/?

We made each other a promise. We tied ribbons around our fingers and swore it.

We vowed we would never kiss again.

Though how can I resist, when the rose blooms so high in her cheeks? Surely she doesn’t blush from the exertion of pulling my corset ties, as that was nigh on an hour ago. She has since dressed me, buttoning my dress, smoothing my stockings, lacing my shoes.

Jewels are saved for last. She brings the necklace the viscount gifted me. He’ll be waiting, pacing among the guests.

“Let him wait,” I whisper, pushing it from her hands.

Day 30: Bedroom

If that’s you, in a different bedroom,
In a city with different night-sounds,
If that’s you, glaring sightless until the
Ceiling creates the footbridge,
If that’s you I hear, heels clicking on stone,
Or wood, or iron, or slipping over muddy turf,
If that’s you, tasting the drop of
Whiskey left in my glass, licking the sharp feather
Of desire on my shoulder,
If that’s you, with snow on your lip
And word-pearls in your pocket,
Then I’ll let it be;
My cat will leap over your reckless ghost,
Believing he was tricked,
And land soundless on the bedroom floor.

Day 29: Alive

I spent some time today watching a movie about a man whose plane had crashed in the Arctic. He was alone for days, then rescued the co-pilot of a search helicopter who was injured and hardly regained consciousness.

It was, for me, a horror movie.

Instead of a hatchet killer, the horror was the specter of profound human fragility. To emerge from the plane shell, clumsy and frail as a just-hatched bird, the sun never setting, wind never abating. There’s frostbite and bears. Dwindling fuel. Each frozen step (or the alone-ness) asking, “how badly do you want to stay alive?”

Day 28: Portrait

I can play it cool when I’m handing Kai the Blizzard he ordered through the takeout window, or when I’m secretly checking him out from across our Biology lab. But being paired up with him for the portrait unit for our Art elective isn’t the same.

It’s because I’m allowed to look at him. Really look. Study the shape of his eyebrows, memorize the slant of his neck, count the freckles that are only visible close up. And he has to sit still, quiet, and let me.

I wish my hand would quit shaking. I wish a lot of things.

Day 27: Language Barrier

Living with a teen-aged girl feels like an immersion foreign language class. Words are introduced through normal conversation and soon, through repetition and context, one catches on to their meaning and usage. “Salty” is a word I particularly enjoy; my husband is good at using “ratchet” and “savage” unironically.

“Main character” is a term that’s harder to parse. On car trip, while listening to an atmospheric playlist: “This is main character vibes.” A cute, cool girl waiting in the parking lot: “She’s the main character.” I get it, but don’t. Confidence? Groundedness? I catch a whiff, but then it’s gone.

Day 26: Glossy (ALT)

The library in winter smells like our front hall closet,
leather shoes and coats that have dried from rain.
But the magazines in their shiny plastic covers
Crackle like summer with pink lipstick,
Electric blue cars, and sideways glances.
The one I want is as heavy as granny’s Sears Catalog.
I take it to the corner table near Large Print,
Under my arm the way uncles carry bibles.
I flip, study, dog-ear. Every shoulder,
Every neck, every matte mouth and merciless incisor,
Every wool, fur, and drape comforts me.
I’ll choose one to fold, like a ticket,
Into my pocket.