thanksgiving

the color of the inside of my house is yellow. in every photograph, and in every memory, the color is yellow. it's the warmest feeling i have. it's the home of my mother. and my father. brother and me. i can listen to the way the stairs creek as someone is coming down the steps and know who they are. my father is fast. my brother is solid. my mother is light and slow. that is the sound of my family walking down our steps. we've yelled too. and cried and screamed. we've gone on cooking strikes, we've stormed away, we've all left the dinner table angry. on the wonder years, kevin says that some battles are fought for love.

my dad gives me advice on our walk. he suggests we walk past the house on north euclid that we lived in until i was four. we complain about the sound of the 71A driving past our duplex. we find the window of my old bedroom. my dad retells the story of the time there was a cicada bug stuck outside of my window and it made me so scared i couldn't sleep the whole summer.

my brother and i make fun of ourselves for not being married, or having kids, or having real jobs.

at dinner, i whisper to my mother, out of everyone i know - you are the only person who i'd want to be my mom.
she whispers in my ear, darling, out of everyone i know - you are the only person i know who i'd want to be my daughter.

soft and warm continuining, tapping on my roofs and walls

last night the taxi driver told us the secret to life. and for just a few hours we believed him. winter is coming. i know it. so i hang on every last minute of sunshine and warmth. drinking it up. trying to catch it, hold it, soak it up. i feel mighty. powerful. like i could ignite the whole world on fire with my touch.

never would have hitchhiked to birmingham if it hadn't been for love

the sun was blindingly bright. i walked with my eyes half open, or half closed, depending on how you look at it. i thought about mr. fred who used to always say, it is what it is. his big black leather jacket, his black cap cocked to the side, his always fresh timberlands, and his southern accent that he brought with him when he got on the bus from missouri to pittsburgh. i remembered the winter coat he'd bought me from the goodwill when i was starting a new job. i thought that even if all of these dreams disperse into nothing but energy and beauty that waking up on a saturday morning could be the greatest thing i've ever done.

show me how to love in the darkest dark

the jars soaked up the sunlight. soaked up the warm fall day. i thought maybe if winter is hard, i could open the jars up.

little waves, our bodies break

i was dreaming of hallways. twisted between sheets and tangled in my dreams, my body changes positions. my eyes open. i look out of my bedroom windows, my eyes are starting to focus and i see the brightest blue sky outside waiting for me. as i rise from my bed, the sun through colored glass bottles shines on my white skin. i wash my face, brush my teeth, and get dressed. i open the door, and walk down a small dark alley, to the street. i step out from the darkness of the walkway, and the sun hits my face and eyes like a force stronger than any man, and hits me with warmth and life. i feel like a warrior. or a hunter. in the jungle of concrete and brick, there is beauty here too. a red tree is really quite magical. i stand at the bottom of the tree. my feet are cushioned by the earth. soon the tree's veins start to flow through my body. the red blood of the tree pumps inside of me. the woman of the tree becomes the woman inside of me. i am like this tree. i am not like man. but like nature. that's the life of a woman. my mom says "don't say the word blessing." she prefers to call today a gift.