an accent thick as oil

after i left school today, i stopped by a nearby forest preserve that i have been meaning to explore. it was gorgeous-undoubtedly my new favorite place. the trees were plentiful, and at its center was a huge meadow, completely surrounded in a thick of trees. 

i took my sun magazine and my newly acquired strawberry swisher sweets and sat on a picnic table that overlooked the open grassy space. in the summer of 2005, i smoked flavored cigars constantly. however, after i lit matches from my matchbook, one, two, three, four, five tries until i got it lit, i quickly realized that fruity cigars do not taste nearly as good when you're alone. the summer of cigars was filled with good friends, camp, sweat, tears, and campfires by which we smoked. alone in thatcher woods, it tasted like fire and ridiculousness. 

i wasn't sitting there four minutes until the field was infested with little soccer players who seemed barely old enough to be potty trained. i welcomed the company as i smoked on my stogie with wrinkled face. 

all of a sudden, i heard it: a man's voice with a british accent so thick i was convinced his words spilt to the ground. i looked up to see an amazingly handsome 20-something who was coaching the team nearest me. i tried to avert my eyes and continue to read, but i couldn't even fake indifference towards his presence. i quickly put out the cigar, guessing that it probably didn't look too "lady-like," and i watched as he conducted his little soccer players. i wished i could put every word he said into my pocket to listen to later. "run!" "defend!" "goal!" oh, he was dreamy. 

i entertained ways to get his attention. i was praying for a stray ball to come hit me upside the head, the injury knocking me unconscious and necessitating mouth-to-mouth. but the ball never came.

getting chilled, i eventually left my british beauty and went home. but i have all intentions of attending soccer practice next week, sans the cigar. 

brain mish mash

thoughts:

sitting in my chair

eating animal crackers (is that non-vegan?!)

i get to the bottom where 

only the limbs of 

cats, elephants, and rhinos

remain

i've been wanting to run away

but then i realize the thing i want to escape

will still be there:

me

it's amazing to me that

the indifference of one person

can throw off your whole world

and make you feel so small

i'm trying to invent a way

to remove the brain

and trade it in

for one that doesn't think so much

about all the wrong things

i am excited for 

summer, heat, and concerts

a tan that awakens my freckles

and drinking cold wine on a hot deck

sometimes music

is the only thing that makes sense

and so i sing it loudly

in hopes of making it come true

a memorial day post

-part i-

it started with a birkenstock clog.

i was organizing the shoes in my closet, matching the mates and putting them into two different blue milk crates based on the season in which i wear them: summer shoes on top and winter shoes on bottom. but the mate to the birkenstock was missing.

i carefully balanced on one foot as i leaned into the depths of my tiny closet, teetering on the bridge of skin that lays between the arch and the toes. i looked behind the pizza costume and the family picture that i have never hung, and then, while looking for my clog, i saw it: my grandpa's favorite jacket.

i yanked the jacket off the floor, embarrassed that i had not noticed its departure from the green plastic hanger on the rod above. i inspected it for dust, worried that it had been on the floor long enough to collect the filth that seems to penetrate my room. i was happy to see that the navy jacket with red, white, and blue stripes was unscathed.

shortly after my grandpa died, i sheepishly asked my grandma if i could have a piece of his clothing. i settled on the jacket over his dress shirts, as so many of my memories were of him in that nylon jacket. after he was moved to the nursing home, they wrote his last name on the tag; "Hicock" is what they wrote in thick, permanent marker. I have always hoped that the misspelling of his real last name, "Hicok," was an innocent mistake and not an inside, sexual joke between the nurses.

i took the jacket to my bed, held it to my nose, and inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow. since he died in 2006, i could always smell him when i smelled the jacket. but for the first time, my scent had replaced his. my eyes instantly filled with tears as i realized that memories were truly now all i had.

-part ii-

sitting around the kitchen table watching the birds feed on her three bird feeders, my grandma and i made small talk as we usually did. from the weather to the news, we casually discussed the world and all its problems.

the conversation then turned to death, as it more frequently does as years go on.

"lyndsay," my grandma said. "i just wish that, when you reach a certain age, there is a line drawn, and when you reach that age, you are just gone."

"don't say that!" i exclaimd, always uncomfortable and easily upset when my grandma hints at her death.

she then goes on to explain, in few or more words, that after a certain point, there is not much to live for anymore. the days get long, your thoughts get deeper, and all you want is to have it all be over.

what she doesn't know is, selfishly, how very much i need her here.

-part iii-

i've avoided going to the cemetery since he died three years ago. with enough excuses, you can avoid pretty much anything. but this year i ran out of excuses.

we had three cemeteries to visit, and the order in which we were visiting them was unknown to me. the first cemetery was home to my great aunt and uncle. as we stepped out of the van, i began to dread what was to come. the lump in my throat started to swell, and the tears were knocking at the back of my eyes. as we saw the headstones of other family members, i suddenly panicked at the cemetery yet to be visited. i pinched my left pointer finger as hard as i could, more willing to feel pain than show my sadness to my parents and grandma.

we then got back in the van and headed to cemetery #2. much to my delight, it was not yet where my grandpa was buried. "can i say i'm sick and demand we go home?" i wondered. "i bet i could walk home," my mind thought. but my thoughts were interrupted as we headed back to the van to head to the last, dreaded cemetery.

when we entered, i did not even recognize the cemetery; so much so, in fact, that i honestly did not think it was his cemetery. we then came to his grave, and i realized that i had blocked all detail from that day out of my mind. to my surprise, i did not feel sad or weepy; i felt calm. we decorated his headstone, and i kept reminding myself that he was not there. his body was there. but he, his spirit, the part that mattered, was not there. displacing myself and my thoughts seemed like the best thing to do.

after taking some pictures, swatting some mosquitoes, and exploring the neighboring headstones, my mom, dad, grandma, and i got into the van and left. while the trip was easier for me than i had expected, i couldn't help but wonder how my grandma, tenacious and strong, felt. as we drove away, i couldn't help but notice a big part of my grandma's heart being left on the ground by his headstone.