Burning House

Yohanna

I’ve never been a morning person. Everything that I do during my mornings is as much of a haze as the dew on the windshield of my car, until I have my coffee. My morning coffee acts as the windshield wipers of my day, clearing my mind so I can start fresh. This morning was just like the rest, but amidst my morning fog something happened that I will remember for the rest of my life.

Every year my parents and I take a 17 hour road trip down to the great southern state of Tennessee. My great grandparents live in a town called Pigeon Forge up in the mountains with a view that will make your breath halt in your chest. Across the street, the cows will wake you up in the morning, and the stars, glued to the canvas of the nebulous night, will put you to sleep through the sky lights.

My great grandparents aren’t getting any younger, but they still live as if they were in their thirties. My great grandmother is a nostalgic woman whose wisdom you can experience from the warmth of her laugh. My great grandfather is a quiet man with stories that keep you chuckling and a blossoming green thumb that’s seen more sun than the snow on the top of Mount Everest.

On this morning, my great grandfather, who had never tried to connect with me emotionally any more than hugs, gifted me the most antique and fragile guitar I had ever seen. He told me of how he wished he had learnt to play it, but how he knew that he wouldn’t have the time left in his life to pick it up. He confessed that the guitar was made by his father for his first spouse, Yohanna, and that she had died young and the guitar had been passed to him and then unto me. He gave it to me so I could learn to play, with hopes that someday, I would play it for him. 

My Super Secret Box

I’ve always been a firm believer in my dreams. My dreams can be foolish and I will still treat them as some may treat their horoscope, researching and relying upon them. My dreams give me the advice that I need to realize when my mind is crying out for change. After the umpteenth dream that I had about this boy, I knew I needed to make my change.

Falling in love has always been my forte. I’ve been in and out of love more times than I can count on one hand, and with only one of them did I stay in love. With this one boy I have more memories than I can recollect, but there are a vast amount that I can’t forget. I’ll never forget the first kiss, how childish we seemed in a corner, hiding from the rest of the world as he tried to set the tone of the mood he desired with the few songs he had downloaded to his cell phone. I’ll never forget the first slow dance, where we hugged and swayed in his empty kitchen to an acoustic song sung by some punk rock band that I eventually out grew like a used pair of pants. I’ll never forget breaking his heart, and the regret that I feel every time that I realize he doesn’t trust me.

I want to cure him like a patient in a busy hospital. Among all the hustle and bustle of our complex lives, sweeping by with the injured patients we meet sitting in the desk behind you, carrying a cardboard sign down the street, typing numbly at work, patients who will someday disappear. I want to cure him with an open heart surgery, insecure and intimidating, but necessary to continue our irrepressible endings. I want to spend my time, waiting for our end, with him, healing his wounds with every second of nurture and every gift of enjoyment we’re given. If he leaves me on the inhospitable medical table, I’ll see him in my dreams, and I’ll live in my mind with my endless memories of the elements within his heart.

The Hospital Bracelet

I tend to blend with my surroundings, now you see me, now you don’t. I don’t stand out, I never have. I’m not social, I’m not popular, I’ve never been recognized for a sparkling smile or for having exceptional humor, but I’m also not the girl that you’re under the impression that I am. I have the rebellion of our ordinary youth and I’m a punk at heart.

We were presented with the most snow we had gotten yet that winter. As I drove up into Windham with a car full of riotous teens like myself, the unflustered snow fell thickly onto the road. I drove vigilantly but sang as loudly as I could, pumped with the adrenaline of soon being in a small room with a big crowd.

Being front and center is the greatest accomplishment of going to a concert, that is an accomplishment I achieved. I screamed the lyrics I had practiced repeatedly into the microphone held in the hands of the singer of my favorite local band. In that moment I stood out from the majority. Then suddenly I was taken down, and everything went black. 

Moments later, the first thing I saw were the legs of those around me, jumping with the beat. There I was, blending in with the floor. I stood up and ran towards the door in the back of the room, which seemed further away now than it was when I entered. I clutched the center of my face with both hands as if it were about to fall off and pushed my way out of the room and into the night. The cool air struck me like a bat to a baseball, but I kept outward until I reached the snow, higher off of the ground now than it was when I parked my car. I grabbed a handful, and without trying, it formed a snow ball in my blazing hands, which then again moved toward the center of my face with the gelid snow, and in that moment, I blended in with the snow.

My Favorite Blanket

When most people are born, they are gifted a blanket or quilt to carry with them as they grow up. My gift was a stuffed dog which was in due course gifted away without my consent. I never slept with the animal, nor have I ever preferred dogs over any other animal, so I guess there were no hard feelings to its passing, but I lost the one object that seemed to contain the memories of my infant life.

One Christmas event several years later, my mother was gifted a blanket which would soon be stolen away by none other than myself. The blanket was pink like a rose quartz with Strawberry Shortcake, a character I had no personal experience with, on the front with her cat. The design was not significant to me, in fact I've never enjoyed the color pink either, but the blanket took a place in my life that I couldn't live without.

The velvety feel of the blanket rests over my comforter every night, It wraps me up when I doze on the couch and comforts me when I am ill or recovering. The cats love it as much as I. We have 4 cats and they would all curl up on my blanket if they got the chance, and I'm always open to sharing. 

From that day on I carried my blanket with me through year after year, more so than I ever had my stuffed dog. It may not have been present at my birth or my 5th birthday when I gained new interests in barbies and left it in storage for 10 more years, but it filled a gap and holds more memories than my infantile gift and gains more as I carry it through my life like the child I once was and will try to be until my I gift it to my child.

My Longboard

Car shows have always been one of my fathers favorite events, I inherited my love for anything that has 4 wheels from him. I've always been daddies little girl and he's shaped me into the car loving, thrill seeking, grease monkey that I am today. When I picked up long boarding he was hooked with his eyes. He wanted my longboard like he wants his christmas presents every year, he's a bigger child than I am most of the time.

That Sunday in August my father and I took his Forest Green Toyota T100 pick up truck, one of his multiple truck that I need to lift myself into down to the tourist infested streets of Old Orchard Beach to see a car show. We hadn't been to a car show in several years and it's so nice to spend time with my dad because I've always been daddies girl.

It was a warm day but the sky was gray with clouds to keep the humidity from impacting our day. After the show ended and the crowd cleared, we went back to his truck and pulled our longboards out of the bed. His board which was once mine, suited him in size. The bamboo board came up above his waist in length, which was nearly up to my chest. My new board comes measures up to about my thigh, not nearly as massive in length, and rides low to the ground. Being so close to the earth is not a riding style I was used to, and my father was not accustomed to his new board at all, though he had experience. 

For the first time that day, my father and I went for a ride. The breeze was perfect off the ocean and through my hair. I stumbled over my feet a handful of times before I became used to the distance between my board and the rigid, gray pavement, only slightly darker than the sky. My father skated better than he thought he would, which was a pleasant surprise, making himself and I an even match.

We made it until Ocean Park and skated back toward the now empty parking lot. I replaced my board in the truck of my dads truck and jumped into the passenger seat. I'm always going to be daddies little girl.