Nonfiction

You know when you’re little and your family always did that thing that made everyone happy and now you look back and it’s like where has all this gone? I have so many memories and moments that I think of every once and a while and it’s like wow.

God, it’s finally spring. I can feel my face burning as I read out on the patio this morning. I wish that spring meant something other than an unfounded, unsubstantiated brightness that threatens oblivion and a terrible headache.

My childhood was PBS Kids on weekends and rainbow goldfish for snacks. It was books and reading, warmth and love.

It’s a clear day. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And we are driving down the highway. The journey is marked by spastic bursts of conversation and a chunkily categorized landscape. I press my nose to the glass and point.

A little bit about me
 

BIG NEWS EVERYBODY!

 

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I got word from the admin, that my poem, Old Warehouse, is possible for publication, in this week's Addi Indi Paper!

One time I was with my friend, Henry, and we were in his car heading towards his house to have a sleepover. He told me to guess which way we go to get to his home.

Ive had this recurring dream for years. I'll tell you about it. I was walking on some random island by myself and worring about my best friend, she had been gone for days and she never told me she was going anywhere.

You never think about windows when you have the option to go outside. But lately, windows are all some people have. This pandemic has everyone trapped, and inside each window is a different view.

 

It was 65 degrees in April 
Warm enough for bare arms, exposed shoulders. 
I wear heavy snow pants, and a tank top to defend against the heat. 
Goggles and helmet.

 

I like the mornings, the sun just starting to crest over the mountains. The way the sun rays peek through trees and dance on the motionless lake. I love the way the sun gently rocks me awake in the morning and the taste of the first drops of sun.