What To Do?

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore."- Neil Gaiman

Onward.

Two For One Special

The first one...

I was walking around a city at night...it looked like SoHo, Lower Manhattan. Tall, brick buildings everywhere lit by rows of white Christmas lights. I walked by a few cafes where couples and friends sat with their glasses of wine and coffee cups...they looked like a scene from a movie. The air felt cold, crisp...like that week after Thanksgiving up in the Northeast. Sirens started blaring, and the wind picked up. People started shouting about a tornado headed our way...and I lost my grip on your hand. The sea of people running down the street, as if they could outrun whatever was coming our way, trapped me against an alley and I just saw the back of your head as you ran the direction they were headed. I called your name, screamed it...but there was just darkness and when I opened my eyes again...we were in a forest. We left a nice hotel for a walk. You, my parents, my aunt, a few friends. We stumbled upon a big lake, that had a violent whirlpool in the middle that spread almost to its edges. We tip toed around the edge of the water, careful not to get any deeper than our calves. The sirens started blaring again, and I remember thinking "What's going on with the world? Storms everywhere...Where can we go?" In my musings, I noticed I was the only one that had made it to the hotel. By then, they were evacuating all the guests into the basement. I shouted your name...always yours first. Nothing. I called out for my parents, aunt...any one of our friends. No one I knew was in the group of people. I feared the worst...that I had run off and left everyone I loved behind. I ran back out and instead of a tornado, I ran into a blizzard that had dumped 4 feet of snow all around me. In some places I took a step and was up to my neck, digging myself out to keep running. I called everyone's name. Just the howling wind answered. As I was about to turn around and head back to the hotel, I took a step and broke through ice...slush...and felt an incredible force pushing me away from some trees and into a clearing. The whirlpool. I started swimming as hard as I could, but I kept getting pulled under...the edge of the lake looked farther...and I just let go.

The second one...

I was laying in bed, in a tiny apartment on top of a hill. I just remember the breeze coming through the window, playing with pale yellow curtains. There was a knock on the door and a little girl dropped off some plush toys for me. They looked used and some where broken. She didn't say a word, just put them all at my feet and took off running. I put them all on my bed, and got dressed in a black, laced up dress. I walked down cobblestone streets into town, and met up with other people that were also dressed up. We all headed up into a coliseum, dressed in our finest, but with a somber feeling...scared. In the middle of a coliseum there were torches lit surrounding a pool of black water. In between each torch there were throne like chairs with shackles where the feet would go and spikes where the wrists were to be tied onto the chair. I saw everyone ease into the pool, methodically undressing and wearing only a white robes. Everyone acted like it was a single's mixer...I didn't recognize anyone...so I limited myself to watching what everyone was doing. Couples found each other right away. Boys were boys, picking on some girls. I was terrified...the place was too quiet...only our voices echoed. The water was too dark...I couldn't reach the bottom. We were all the same age...it was unnerving. A tall, tanned guy with curly hair down to his shoulders swam and held on to the edge of the pool next to me. We both looked at people, in silence and he whispered "So want to kiss?" I shook my head, looking up at him confused as to why a complete stranger would ask that. He said "You have to pick someone...or you'll be killed. People that aren't picked or end up with someone are killed off..." My heart started beating fast and my eyes searched the whole coliseum, pool...surroundings for your face. You were there, I felt it. The way I know you're never far off. I couldn't see you. Still, I took a gamble and said "I'm with someone here, he'll come forward when the time comes." The guy shook his head and swam off to find someone else. Just then a horn signal blared and I saw everyone jumping out of the pool and picking a chair. Girl, boy, girl, boy...that's how we sat. Then, a man came out wearing a black robe. Strong. Tattooed with markings. Teeth that were sharp...shaven down to look like fangs. He had a cynical smile, eyeing us all one by one. He walked past me, grabbed my chin and let out a small chuckle. My stomach balled up. First he asked for everyone that already had a partner beforehand or had found someone that wanted to be with for good, to get up, grab their hand and leave the room. Out of almost 100 of us there...only 17 of us were left. 17 of us that hadn't been picked, or hadn't picked someone else. The man in the black robe asked the guy to my left to pick someone. The young man refused, said the woman he loved wasn't in the crowd and he was faithful only to her. The man in the robe let out a dry laugh and said "Everyone, pay attention, our friend here says he doesn't want anyone here..." in a mocking voice. Some of the people left laughed nervously and in a fraction of a second, I saw the young man being kicked into the black pool. Except he had been lit on fire and the water did nothing to turn it off. I ran to the edge of the pool, screaming at him to sink in the water to see if that helped, telling him to swim towards me so I could pull him out and help. But his blood-curling screams drowned my own and soon he was just floating in the water, still on fire. The man grabbed me by my shoulder and it burned, his fingertips were fire. He shoved me back on my chair and said it was my turn. I looked around desperately, and still couldn't find your face...I was running out of time. The guy to my right grabbed my hand and plead, "Please. Pick me. I'll love you and be good to you. We can be happy. Please. Hurry. I don't want to see you burn." I looked at him...handsome, bright blue eyes, pale skin and black hair slicked back. He meant it. He was beautiful, and looked like he had a sweet heart...and he was pleading for me to kiss him and choose him. To save us both. I looked back at the man in the back robe again, his grin fixed in place and dead eyes drilling into mine. Then out of the corner of my eye, standing behind him, I saw you. I felt my chest burst in relief and happiness. I turned to the young man to my right and said "I'm sorry. I pick him. He's mine. I'm his. I love him. I pick him." The young man looked broken and said "Please. Are you sure? Are you really sure?" I looked back at you again, and you had an unreadable smile on...almost arrogant. I fought away the feeling in my stomach...warning me to think it through. "Yes. I pick him." The man in black said "Once you pick, you cannot change. That is your final choice. It doesn't matter if your love is not returned...you cannot go back and pick anyone else. Are you sure?" I nodded, let out my breath and shrunk back in my chair. The man moved out of the way and turned to you, behind him. He asked you, who was your choice. You pointed at her, next to you. She gave me a smirk, then turned to kiss you deeply. You both kissed, and I don't remember much but saying No...screaming it...over and over. You both walked in front of me, hand in hand, and the rest of the people in the room were full blown laughing at me and calling me names. Stupid. Naive. Burn. Stupid...I had been blind. I couldn't turn around. I made my choice. You had made yours. I saw you both walk away, kissing and I kept screaming your name. But you didn't look back at me once, almost like you couldn't hear my voice. All of a sudden it was like I was watching you guys walk away but from wherever you were headed. Both your faces. I could also see myself screaming your name in the background, on my knees, as my clothes was being torn off and the man in black lifted a sword to bring down to my neck. The last time I screamed your name, I saw a flicker of life come to your eyes and you wake up from a daze...shaking your head and recognizing my voice...finally...and horror showing in your face as you turned around only to find the door being closed behind you. It was too late.

Two nightmares a night is becoming the norm...and they all tell the same story...I'm waiting for the sun to start shining again. It has to. Maybe.

I Tried.

I lit a candle and watched it burn down to nothingness. I listened. I tried. I fought. I cried. I laughed. I hugged. I loved. I simply, waited. Now, I bow out.

It's Cold...

A friend texted a couple of days ago and said "I wish you'd write more on your blog. I love reading your words." I told her I had nothing to say, really...

But the truth is, I have too much to say and no strength to. There is a constant threat looming over me...I'm already withdrawing again from everyone. I know what comes next. It's happened before...

When I first moved to the US, it was almost too much for me to survive. Yet, I did. I was a freshman in HS, it was December and my mother was really sick. She had several complications from a routine surgery and coupled with her severe anemia, her blood levels dropped to the point that the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for her. They gave me those news at the hospital on a Thursday after school. I looked at her...she looked so full of life yet...tired? I wanted to break everything in sight or crawl on her lap and cry. I had lost my grandmother not that long before...why was this happening to me? I went to school the next day, no one knew anything and I didn't want to talk anything about it. It was Friday. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy, island day. I spent the day laying under a tree in the schoolyard, sharing headphones with a friend as he talked about Dragonball Z. Dad picked me up after school and told me on the way home we were leaving for Pennsylvania that night. To pack light, because we were going to Allentown to stay with his sister while we tried to save Mom.

I arrived at Newark, NJ...Saturday at around 3 a.m. Mom being pushed on a wheelchair, and two feet of snow on the ground outside. I've hadn't seen snow since I was 4. I couldn't even experience the giddiness a person gets when they first play in the snow...I ran to my aunt's van, still wearing my flip flops and light tee shirt I left with from Puerto Rico. We sped off in the night. That's when I first felt that pang of homesickness that would never go away. Even in the middle of a dark night, nothing felt like home outside. Nothing felt like home inside the van either. Silence, tension, uncertainty. The next couple of weeks, I struggled to adjust in more ways than any person, at any age, should. The relationship between my parents and my aunt was strained, and we were constantly reminded we were there as a favor. No compassion. No warmth. This wasn't the aunt I remembered from my childhood. Maybe the US changes people, I thought. But we ate when told to, bathed when told to. Everything on a schedule, on the dot. Everything rationed and portioned, even though my dad got a job immediately and was buying the groceries for the whole household with enough food to spare. Daily visits to doctors, me sitting in waiting rooms by myself. I was kept out of everything. Dr. Matta's office became my hang out 4 times a week. A 14 year old, reading Highlights magazine for children and making friends with the little kids that came for pediatric visits to the doctor that shared the office.

Two weeks after arriving, just before New Year's, my parents come out of the doctor appointment and into the waiting room. Dad pays the copay, and helps Mom put on her coat and we walk in the usual zombie haze to our little beat up Horizon hatchback. I cram in the back seat, all 5' 9" of me, and sit sideways, shivering and wondering if it ever gets warm in PA. The silence in the car tells me that once again, a bomb is about to be dropped on me...and immediately my stomach churns...nausea. "We are staying here longer than we thought, Yari. Mom's treatment is going to take months. Probably until April. So we're going to have to enroll you in school...", my Dad said. Panic. Panic. Cold. Panic. I wanted to dart out of the car and run. Run away. I can't stay here. Not that long. I need to go home. To my family. To my house. My bed. My life. They wait for me to process the news, and I look up and notice Mom is staring at me from the side, rear view mirror, studying my face. She looks so much better already...and she looks apologetic. So sorry that she is the reason this is happening to us. How can I let her think she's a burden? No. She comes first. How could I have felt so selfish for a couple of minutes? I'll just go back home in the summer. I can do this. I force a smile and say "I want to go buy new notebooks then...", and the mood in the car immediately relaxes. That same afternoon I am sitting in the counselor's office, going over my classes and already they're trying to bump me to an English as a Second Language class. I calmly explain I'm fully bilingual, I can manage just fine in regular classes. He looks reluctant, and decides to bump me back a grade because "Puerto Rican schools are slower than US schools...You're probably in elementary school math and science." I feel my anger rising. I feel judged. I feel labeled without even given a chance. So, I tell him I'm in advanced English, Math and Science and have a 4.0 average. Just give me a chance. He sighs and does so, arrogantly. I'm given an ID and a locker number. I'm given books and I begin classes in two weeks.

By New Year's we have our own apartment and I spend my days dreading the upcoming school semester. I write a lot of letters (no computer...no emails...) to my best friends in PR and I get so many replies back...asking when I'm coming home, if I like it, that the teachers were so sad that I was gone, that my chair was empty, that my house looked so sad with no one living in it, that my dogs were given away to the pound, etc. With each letter and bits of news, I felt a part of me die. One of my best friends, Rebecca, happened to be visiting her family in Patterson, NJ for New Year's...and just like that she had someone bring her to my house in PA to stay the weekend. For 3 days, I was alive. When I opened the door to my apartment and saw her face, I just hugged her and cried until we were both spent. It felt nice to be missed...remembered...loved. We saw the ball drop in Time Square on the little tv in my room, and huddled in my bed under several blankets with a tiny heater keeping us going. She left on a Monday, and another piece of my heart crumbled right along with her departure.

School started. I had no friends. The news from home, my old school, my family...became too much to carry...so I stopped writing letters and answering them. I stopped calling my friends. I started avoiding their calls. The letters slowed down...stopped. The phone never rang anymore...and I was walking 17 blocks in frozen temperatures to school in the mornings. Ate lunch alone, took notes in class, looked at my feet when I walked the halls, got bumped into and was pretty much non-existent. By the time April came by, I didn't even bother asking my Dad if we were going back home. He was so happy with his new social worker job and a newer car. "I'll never go back to PR to bust my back for money." Mom got better, so at least I had that. She tried talking to me, but I just spent most of my time in the room reading old books I'd find at yard sales or listening to music. Days, weeks would go by without me talking to anyone or opening my mouth to say anything but Yes, No, Excuse me, Please and Thank you. I even refused to call my grandfather, the light of my life, to see how he was. I couldn't stand to hear anyone's voice. I hated myself for being far away. I hated my dad for leaving us here. I hated life. I withdrew. I shut down. I disappeared. The only thoughts I had the remaining time I lived in PA was "It's cold..." Everything else, I forgot.

To this day, anytime something starts hurting me or when I'm feeling homesick...when I hear news from home or my friends try to reach out to me because they miss me, I just retract...hide...because I cannot handle the pain in my chest and stomach of having so much to say...but no point of saying it.

Tonight, I'm homesick for more than just home. Tonight I'm lonely, for more than just company and friends. Tonight I feel the pull of that quite, safe cave where no one can hear from me and I can be away from the world. The peace. The detachment. The throwing in of the proverbial towel. My white flag is ready to fly desperately through the air. Surrender. Leave me be.

Tonight, it's cold. I miss you.

Pride

Pride. Such a double-edged sword. We know when we are right, so it's understandable to want to defend our point at any cost...any cost. Do we ever sit down and calculate the cost of being right? Are we but products of a life in which any self love and sense of pride have been beaten out of us? Now that we have a chance to have our voices heard, our feelings exposed to someone who gives a damn about them...are we more preoccupied with having the control we were never able to achieve with anyone else?

What happens when pride is overrun by pettiness...selfishness? Part of getting the last word in a confrontation is being aware of the price you're paying for getting your way. You may just be making somebody pay for someone else's mistakes. Maybe someone else mistreated you...and what are you doing now, if not making this new person pay for other issues that lie somewhere out of your relationship with them? This is how you're repaying a brand new start, an opportunity...by becoming the very thing you loathed about others and how they treated you. That's how you're treating them. So, great, you won the battle. But you lost the war.

The point is that, sometimes, it is more than just pride or winning, even if you are on the correct side of an exchange. Everyone has a breaking point...that last straw that makes them realize that maybe they have been naive. That they too can be proud if they choose to, and they can cease to apologize or take the blame. No one wins. Pride wins. So, maybe Pride can sit with you and provide you with dinner company. Pride can tuck you to bed. Pride can fill the silence. You can love your Pride, but the Pride will only love itself. Rather expensive price to pay to prove a point that never existed, wouldn't you say? If you swallow your pride for those who aren't worth it or even thank you for doing so...why can't you do the same for the ones who need you and treat you with love and like you're worth something? Those who want to be in your life because, well, they just want to...not because they need things from you?

What's worth saving, when it's all said and done? We all will lay in the bed we made for ourselves. How do you want that bed to be?

"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine." ~ Elizabeth Bennet, Pride & Prejudice - Austen

Open [Hearted] Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

It is 2:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, January 24th. The year is irrelevant, since years float by like the fragment of a leaf being carried away swiftly in the turbulent current of an ageless mountain spring. I hope that, no matter where you are when you read this, you are happy and in relative peace with yourself. Life is short, many say...but have you really opened your eyes to see what this means? It means second chances only come once. It means every day is a clean slate...sure...we carry some things from the previous day with us or previous months...but technically, as soon as you open your eyes when you wake...that new day is completely in your hands. How will you choose to live those next unique 24 hours?

Me? I just got done giving my fishies a much needed bath. I spoke to each of them, as I they waited impatiently in their little measuring cup while I washed their bowl. Like you would talk to a child that won't sit still through dinner...so you promise them dessert or a reward if they just wait. A 27 year old woman, talking to her fish at 2 o'clock in the morning, while the rest of the world seemingly sleeps. Alas, the reason for this letter is not to dissect the many ways I am dysfunctional in a society that embraces even the most absurd of behaviors. No...

I write because, lately, there are words that have taken new meaning or perhaps regained new life. Love. Loss. Need. Lonely. Us. Promises. Dreams. Life. In a myriad of love songs created or poems written about the beauty of our surroundings...I never once felt that burning grip around my chest, tugging it down towards the pit of my stomach...longing. Not once did any word read compare to the bottomless abyss I found when looking in your eyes as you spoke of a long lost memory...your hands moving fast, accompanying the description you carefully laid before me. I write because I should be sleeping, but when I close my eyes...all I see, hear, feel...remember...is your beauty, your freedom, your words. Is this reason enough for a letter?

How else can I explain that when I think of you, my mind is overcome in an aurora borealis of heartbeats? That while you are off sailing seas of possibilities in a dream land where anything is possible...I am laying sideways on a cramped couch, with my toe uncovered and frozen, but with a huge grin on my face (albeit heaviness of the heart) thinking of when I'll get that jolt of life ... that breath of air again?

Time is all there is. Time both crawls by and speeds past us in a blink. But certain things, although evolving in many ways, keep their core. My heart remains untouched. My words may look the same, but imagine me reading this to you in a place where only we belong...and you'll see the words are non-existant...or not important...

But, for tonight, they had to find their way out into the universe. They cannot be contained or diminished. The fight will continue and the rewards will be worth every single thing that shows up along the way.

Life is short...But let's make it long.

Counting my heartbeats...or the ticking of Love's clock,

Yari

Goodnight, Stimpy (Uncle Edwin's Story)

I scrambled out of my parents' beat up Mazda hatchback, slamming the door forcefully behind me. Mom's voice broke through the squeaking of the window of the car, making its way down slowly.

"Don't go to bed late and don't eat with your eyes, Yaritza!" She looked up at the grimy apartment and yelled, "EDWIN! EDWIN! Open the door! La nena is coming up!...EDWIN!"

By then I was climbing up the dirty tile stairs up to my uncle's latest apartment. The fifth one in the last 3 months. Tugging on the straps of my overstuffed backpack, I tripped on the final step...just as my uncle opened the door, saying "Be careful, Frijolita". I dusted my knees off, and gave him a hug. Dad honked as they drove away, with my uncle waving them off and grabbing the backpack off my back. I stepped into the hermetically sealed flat, looking at my home for the next few days like some sort of dusty museum of the random. I ran to the balcony and stood on the ledge looking down at the cars passing by the narrow street below, one flip flop falling off my foot as I balanced myself. "Yari! Are you crazy!?", I heard my uncle yell after me as he threw my bag on a corner of the couch and hurried to grab me by the waist, pulling you down from the ledge. I looked up and smiled as he put his giant hooded jacket on me, zipping me up while gnawing his lip...concentrated.

"We're going to grab dinner, pimpollita." Pimpollita means, literally, little bump or boil. I never knew why he called me that. "But tío, it's hot out, I don't need a jacket." "Yari, it's almost nightfall and we're walking a mile to the Chinese food place. I don't want you getting sick when it gets colder at night." So, out the door we marched along...in the 'cool' Puerto Rican eve. By cool, I mean low 70's and me sweating my tiny behind off the whole way to the restaurant for take out and back to the apartment. The whole walk went by with my uncle gripping my hand tight, till both our palms were uncomfortably sweaty...dragging me along the narrow streets downtown. He'd walk quickly, half muttering words to himself or making small noises with his mouth, popping his lips, sniffling his nose like he had allergies, gripping my hand tighter every few steps and tugging his shirt collar over and over. Once back in the apartment, we'd sit quietly on an old dinning room set for two in his poorly-lit kitchen. I'd look over at the sink while we ate, and count the coffee mugs waiting to be washed.

“Tío…”, I’d pipe up from my side of the tiny table. “Hmm..?”, he’d acknowledge without looking up from his plate, gripping a balled up napkin on his left hand, almost like one would hold a rosary while saying silent prayers over and over. “When’s the last time you did the dishes?”, I’d ask carefully, trying to not make him feel judged. He looked up and methodicallyuncrumpled the napkin he had been clinging to, wiped his mouth over and over and pushed whatever ball of food he was chewing on at the moment to his right cheek while he answered. “Those are from today. I felt like drinking coffee. Just used a clean mug every time”, he said looking into my eyes and winking at me. I smiled, thinking he looked like a chipmunk holding his food in one side of his mouth, cheek puffed up. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with my feet dangling from my chair, toes slightly scraping the cool marble floor.

As soon as we were done, he’d grab our take out boxes and throw them in the trash. I watched, waiting for the routine. My uncle was a living routine. At least that’s what I thought…Uncle Edwin sure acts funny sometimes.

The trashcan was already empty before he put our take out boxes in it. Two small boxes in a completely empty trash bag. He’d reach under the sink and pull out the air freshener, bug killer spray and a new bag. He’d spray the freshener inside our trash, over and over. Sweep, spray…sweep, spray. Cover the freshener, check on the lid, check on the lid, smell the bag, uncover the freshener and spray again, cover the freshener, check on the lid, tug on the lid and put the freshener on the counter. Pull the bag out of the trash can, tie it once…twice…three times…tug on the knot…tie it once more, shake the bag, tip the bag, check for leaks, inspect the floor around the trash bag. Grab the bug spray, spray the bag, cough, Yari coughs, spray the bag, ask Yari to cover her nose with her shirt, cough, shake the bag, spray the bag, spray the trash can, ask Yariif she’s ok, cough, spray the bag. Put the bag on the tip of his shoes, so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and cover the bug spray. Tug on the lid, check the lid, check on the lid, uncover the spray, cover it again to make sure it clicks, again…check on the lid, tug on the lid, check on the freshener one more time, check the bug spray again, put both under the sink and announce he was taking the trash to the dumpster across the street.

I ran to the bedroom window, which let you see the stairs and the alleyway he had to cross to throw the trash. I was to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happened…in this quiet part of town with no traffic or pedestrians. He walked down the stairs, stopped halfway and checked his pocket for his keys and looked back at the door. He climbed back up to the door, tried the key out to make sure it would open it, then locked it again. I felt him jiggling the handle a few times then try the key once more. Opened the door, closed it. Locked it. Walked down the stairs, checked the pocket for keys. Moved the keys from back pocket to front pocket and sighed, calling out my name “Yari…don’t open the door for anyone, oiste? I’ll be right there.” “Okay, I’m watching you. There’s no cars coming, hurry up so we can play Risk”, I yelled back. He shushed me, and headed down the rest of the steps, continuously checking his pockets and pulling the keys. He jogged to the dumpster and threw the bag in, closed the lid. He turned around, walked a few steps…then went back to the dumpster and rattled the lid. He then opened it and looked inside, then slammed the lid. Walked away, looked back...and I could tell he was struggling against his need to go back another time to make sure the trash was inside the dumpster, where he left it. I watched him dart up the stairs and lock the door a few times once he was back inside.

By now, his ritual had taken up most of our night...I looked up at the clock on his grimy wall and it was already 9:15 p.m. I sighed, and waited for him to say the words that would bring our night to an end...a long, drawn out end. "Charito, I'm gonna get the restroom ready so you can shower and we can go to bed. Go get your clothes ready. Your bag is on the top bunk bed". Yes, my 34 year old uncle slept on bunk beds. Anyways, I ran off and while I was gathering my pajamas, I heard the unmistakable sound of a chancla smacking against the bathroom wall or floor...killing a roach. I cringed and waited for him to get the shower going. He came out and told me to hurry up before I used up all the hot water. I went in and gave the bathroom a quick inspection, making sure the deceased was still squashed on the floor and hadn't reanimated to seek vengeance when I was mid-shower. After my shower, I got into my Batman pajamas (yes, they were boy pajamas, don't judge) and climbed to the top bunk to untangle my mane of curls. Through my curls I looked at my uncle do his thing...again.

He looked for his clothes. Stared in the mirror. Took out his contacts. Looked at the mirror for a long time. Opened the drawers, remembering he already had the clothes, closing the drawers. Looking in the mirror. Securing the contact lenses case over and over. Sniffling his nose even though he didn't have allergies. Excessive blinking. Licked his lips, bit his lips, cleared his throat. Look out the window. Look in the mirror. Check his drawers for clothes, look at the bottom bunk and seeing clothes there. Sitting on floor and taking off his sneakers and socks, placing them perfectly against the wall. Sniffling his nose. Biting his lip. Clearing his throat...looking up at me "I'll be right back, frijolita". Once in the restroom, I knew it would be at least an hour before he came out...so I laid in the top bunk, staring at the ceiling that ended up being entirely too close. I scanned the edges of the ceiling for spiderwebs...or worse...spiders. Nothing. Cars zooming by. His throat clearing. The shower going. Clock ticking. Cars zooming. Silence. The banging of him dropping the soap. The sound of him throwing said soap away and opening a new one. Clearing his throat. Mumbling. An hour later, the door opening and the smell of Irish Springs flooding the hallway, into the room.

He was dressed in jeans, a Lacoste polo and a belt. It made no sense to me...any of it. He was going to bed...so why dress up? But it was my uncle Edwin...who always had something "off" about him. We were taught to just accept it. It is who he is and he never harmed anyone by being himself. Either way, he stood in front of the mirror...nose sniffling, clearing his throat and grabbed the hair brush. I counted...he had a pattern, of course. He'd hold his forehead skin while he brushed his hair roughly 15 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then put gel, then brush it roughly 20 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then comb it to the front...then to the side...then to the other side...then his fingers through it...then his bangs...then comb it back...then brush...(you get it). After 15 minutes of hair brushing, he'd put clean socks and his sneakers back on. Why? Why? Don't ask Yari, just watch. He looked in the mirror...and at my reflection from the corner of the mirror and make a funny face. I giggled, eyelids heavy...exhausted from watching him. How did he do this every day? How did he ever get anything done? He fixed his polo collar, tucked in his shirt and fixed his jeans to cover the top of his sneakers...and pulled his jeans up and spent 10 more minutes rolling up and pulling down his socks until they 'felt right'. Then jeans back down, over his sneakers, then brush his hair...look in the mirror and gnaw his lip. Finally...Lord...finally, he crawled into the bottom bunk bed and turned on his cd player with T-Rex or The Beatles on. I smiled, tapping my toe on the wall to the beat..and waited for it.

He would yawn in an exaggerated way, clear his throat loudly and say, in a goofy voice "Goodnight, Ren". I grinned in the dark and, in the same voice, said "Goodnight, Stimpy".

...If you've followed me this far on this post, I commend you. It exhausted me to think of his ritual, and utterly drained me to type it. But, hang on. There's a point to the back story, and its this:

When I was a bit older, I went on a trip to visit my family in Pennsylvania, and my uncle Edwin came with us. If you haven't guessed by now, he has severe OCD and slight schizophrenia. Manic depression. Name every possible mental health issue, and he probably has it. He hadn't traveled outside his hometown, since he moved back there from NY when he was 7. He only left his house for work or a quick errand. He never slept away from his house. So, needless to say, this trip to PA had him more on edge than usual...but with much persuasion from my grandmother, my father and other aunts...we managed to get him on board.

We were scheduled to stay for 2 weeks at my aunt's house in Allentown, PA. It was my parents, my grandmother (dad's side), my uncle Edwin and yours truly. We arrived on a Tuesday evening, around 10 p.m. and after the typical 'catching up', everyone trickled to their rooms for some sleep. I was sharing an empty bedroom (my aunt had just moved in, didn't have furniture) with my uncle. We were in sleeping bags and a tiny heater in the corner...it was winter. I woke up at around midnight, to quiet crying. When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped a few times when I saw my uncle, knees cradled against his chest and leaning his back against the wall...mumbling to himself and kind of crying. "Edwin...", I whispered. He looked over at me...but didn't really see me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever experienced. I didn't know if he had snapped...what do I do? I'm 10.

I slowly slid out of my sleeping bag, and walked out of the room. I got my Dad, who was incensed that Edwin (whom he teasingly called "Sassy") couldn't just be normal and let us have a decent night's sleep.

"Leave him alone, Carlos. Be soft with him...", my aunt whispered as she walked behind him to go help defuse the situation.

Dad barged into the room, I was leaning against the hallway wall outside. "Sassy. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep unless I'm in my bunk beds. I can't sleep. I want to go home. Take me home. I don't want to be here. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds...", my uncle cried over and over.

"Edwin, you freaking idiot, you don't need your bunk beds to sleep. And why are you sleeping in your jeans and sneakers? How are you supposed to relax with all that clothes on? Who the hell do you think you're going to meet at night that you're dressed like that?", Dad barked. "Millie, are you seeing this? He still sleeps with his shoes on. This is Mom's fault. She never made him take them off as a kid. Edwin! Stop crying!"

"Carlos, don't be so rough with him! If he wants to sleep dressed like that let him!", my aunt Millie yelled.

"Don't call me Sassy in front of the nena, Carlos!", my uncle Edwin whined back...referring to me.

"I will call you Sassy. Because you're a Sassy little girl. Pansy. Why can't you just go to sleep? I'm not taking you home. You're here for two weeks. Get used to it! Shut up and go to sleep, Sassy girl", Dad snarled.

"Don't call me that!", Edwin yelled. "Carlos! Leave him alone!...Edwin do you want to sleep on my bed? Is that better?", my aunt said softly. Edwin started mumbling about his bunk beds over and over and over. Non stop. Rocking back and forth.

"What's wrong with Edwin...?", my grandmother's voice came from down the hall.

"Nothing! He's being a baby. This is your fault, Mom. Look at him! You let him do whatever and indulged his weird habits and look at him now!", Dad yelled.

"Carlos! You're worse than he is making this scene! You're supposed to calm him down!", my aunt yelled.

"Well does anyone need coffee and a sandwich? I'm already up and in the kitchen making one for me...Edwin, quieres cafe?", grandma screamed from the kitchen. "Yari, here have a sandwich and coffee..."

"Mom!!! Stop feeding her all the time! It's 1 o'clock in the morning and you're giving her coffee!", Dad said while coming out to the hallway...face red...eyes agitated..."Yari! Don't you dare eat that sandwich this late at night! Your Mom's gonna kill me for giving you food all the time! Mom! MOM stop making sandwiches!"

"Carlos, please lower your voice I'm getting a migraine...", my aunt whispered.

"I'm leaving. I can't sleep here. I want my bunk beds. Carlos take me to the airport right now!", cried my uncle from the doorway.

And in the sea of finger pointing, resentment and coffee...I spoke up.

"Edwin, do you want to sleep on the couch? I'll lay on the floor next to you and it'll feel like bunk beds. You'll be higher and I'll be lower, right next to you...", I asked carefully.

Edwin paused for a second...and smiled. "Okay, frijolita. But be careful that I don't squash you".

So...the crowd dispersed...and I brought my sleeping bag to the living room floor, next to the couch. My uncle settled on the couch. The lights turned off. The apartment got quiet. He twist, he kicked, he turned, he sighed...The digital clock in the living room now read 2 a.m. He twist, he kicked...he was having a hard time. I reached my hand up and rubbed his forearm and said "Goodnight, Stimpy". He sighed and I could almost hear him smiling..."Goodnight, Ren". Sleep.

The next morning my grandmother, aunt and parents left to go sight seeing. Edwin, the hermit, refused to go...so I stayed with him. All day...

My family got back to the apartment at around 4 p.m. that afternoon...my dad slowly opening the front door into the living room.

"Oh..my...EDWIN! WHAT DID YOU DO?!", Dad yelled.

"Oooooh myyyy GOD. Edwin...are you insane?! THIS IS MY LIVING ROOM! Oh my God Oh My God my head...Oh My GOD!", my aunt said...a pained expression on her face...grabbing her head.

"What's wrong?! Is Edwin ok?? What's wrong?!", asked my grandma, still outside and unable to look into the living room.

"YES, MOM, Edwin is FINE. Look! Look at what he did!", Dad screamed. "Are you freaking crazy, Sassy?? You bought a BUNK BED? You bought a bunk bed and set it up in a living room?? Of someone else's house?? Edwin what were you thinking?!"

"Ay Dios mio, Edwin but where did you get a bunk bed?? How did you set it up! Yari! Why didn't you stop him from buying it!?", my aunt sighed.

"I'm going to make coffee...I can't handle this right now...", my grandmother sighed, making her way to the kitchen and taking in the scene:

Edwin and I, sitting on the top bunk. Both of us in pajamas and eating a huge bowl of Cheerios...watching cartoons...

My aunt walked away. My dad stared at us, shaking his head..."Yari, eating a huge bowl of cereal? Your Mom's going to kill you...or me. God dammit, Sassy."

...It's 3:13 a.m. Goodnight, Stimpy.

Come Pick Me Up

I feel lost, alone…like a kid that was left behind in an amusement park. The rides are fun, they are a distraction…but at some point you want to find the person you came with so they can hold your hand and guide you back home. Does he try walking back home? Why didn’t anyone notice he was gone…not in the car on the way back? Did they mean to leave him there?

There are glimpses of how things could be. Could. I hate that word. I hate maybe, could, wish. Saying something could be ok or better, means you have no faith at all in it every coming to fruition. It’s admitting all you’re doing is sitting and waiting for things to magically happen, and if they don’t, you won’t fight to at least get the ball moving or move forward. You accept what is and remain stagnant.

I feel like…I’m chastised for not daring to dream, for being sad, for feeling normal things anyone feels…For feeling real emotions and staring them in the face, trying to work my way through them. Then I turn around and push the negativity aside, and dare to hope…only to be told “Well don’t go hoping too much, this is real life, not a youngster’s dream. Could. Perhaps”. So what is it? Do you want me to hope and try to be happy? Or do you want me to be a realist and live my life in the box I’ve been in my whole life? Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Don’t be sad. Don’t be happy. What am I supposed to be?

It’s a bit disheartening when people who are supposed to be by your side, encourage you to chase after something, are the first ones to cut your wings before you take off. As a friend, it is their duty to tell you of some details you may be ignoring on your quest for something new. Understood. But to look at the situation and point out how it’s bound to fail because it doesn’t follow some sort of pre-manufactured recipe for success is of help to no one. If we all followed the same rules and lived our lives according to what worked best for someone else…wouldn’t that pretty much guarantee we are bound to be unhappy forever? You like oranges. Oranges make you feel safe. Oranges work for you. Oranges make your life complete. Guess what? If I ate oranges as much as you did, or put all my trust in them, I’d be dead. Literally. I’m diabetic. Can’t have oranges all the time. Half a banana is what keeps me alive and is good for me. You hate bananas? What a predicament.

Silly example? I know. But sometimes I would like for just a bit of support from others…at least if they love me. Life isn’t scripted. Life isn’t perfect. There are no white picket fences. Beauty fades. Money fades. Some people have goals that include big names, titles…grandeur. Recognition. Good for them. That makes them happy. That’s not my cup of tea. I want to, well, live. I want to walk outside and not be thinking “I hope someone notices I’m wearing this or I can afford that. I hope I get a pat on the back for being a big shot and rubbing elbows with important people”. I want a peaceful life, where I can be passionate about what matters to me. Love. Family. Freedom. Music. Art. None of those things pay the bills…but all of those things are what make up what I value most, have always valued most in my life. The bills will be there. Work will be there. I have no desire to be known for wearing a power suit. I want to be remembered when I’m gone, for loving whole-heartedly. For giving my hand when needed. For contributing peace, equality, basic rights to this world. If I ever have a child, I want the kid to grow up knowing what matters most. What we take to the grave. We don’t take possessions. We take memories, life triumphs, loving moments. We take life with us. I want her to remember me for being there with her, dancing in the living room and being silly on random afternoons. I want her to always carry with her the I love you’s I told her through the day. To take my voice with her, and hopefully my advice. To remember my eyes and how hard I tried to pass on to her the good memories that were passed on to me. Not that I was busy making a name of myself so I could afford to give her material things, missing key moments in her life. Quality of life. Everyone talks about it, but does anyone really know what makes their life worth living? Even if you have to work hard to keep your family afloat in these tough times, those few minutes a day you take to actually LIVE your life, share yourself with others…we always remember that. Always. I had an outstanding childhood. We were dirt poor, I seldom had new toys, and my first cell phone was at 18 with my own money…and I can truly say I LOVED my childhood. Because my parents were my best friends and I never lacked memories. They were free. They were good. They will never fade. Which is why I share them with you, friends. Because they were too beautiful for me to keep for myself.

I want to walk out the door every morning, knowing I am about to change someone’s life that day. In a tiny, insignificant way…or in a larger scale. I want to share myself.

Someone come pick me up, will ya? The park is closing…they’re turning off the rides and it’s getting dark. I’m hungry. I’m cold. My feet hurt. I just want to go Home.

15 Years

Nana,

I didn’t forget this year. Today it’s been 15 years since you passed away. As is my own tradition, I am writing you how I am currently taking this day. Last year…last year I forgot. I woke up and felt so sad, but didn’t realize why until Mom reminded me of the date…and I felt so much shame. How could I have forgotten? What kind of a mindless existence was I trapped in that I let something like you slip from my thoughts? The year before? The year before was agonizing. I wrote you this little gem http://thesqueakyhamsterwheel.blogspot.com/2009/12/december-6-1997.html and cried until my chest felt dead…maybe that’s why I forgot last year…because I felt dead. This year…oh this year…I have so much to tell you.

I didn’t forget this year. Actually, this year I’ve spoken about you and every single memory I can come up with kind of non-stop. There were moments I had with you, that I hadn’t thought of since even before you died. You were so wonderful, abuela. I was so, so lucky to have you long enough that you’re part of the core of what makes me, Me. Fifteen years…gone by in the blink of an eye. That post from two years ago…I am so far away from that place…from those thoughts. From that confused state of anger and resentment. I was trapped, Nana. Prisoner of a past I could not let go of, tied to a life that was a lie to who I truly am…I wasn’t living. I hated thinking of you, of the rest of the family back home, of my past. I despised reliving the decisions I made without thinking of the consequences. Most of all, I was so ashamed of who I had become. A stranger to family and friends…a shadowed reflection in the mirror…my eyes barely recognizable. I felt old. I felt weary. I felt so, so alone in a world with 7 billion other beating hearts in it…mine was deaf, blind, mute…weary.

I am sorry for living my life that way for so long, Nana. For being afraid of trying anything that would make others disappointed or sad in me…when they didn’t even take a step back to consider that, maybe, I wasn’t happy at all. Please sit down for a second, and let me catch you up on what’s happened since my last letter…

I just finished my first semester in college. I can feel your smile as I typed that. I think I did pretty good, too. I was working full time and went at night. It was hard, to keep my focus…my brain isn’t what it used to be. Better late than never, right? I’m already enrolled for next semester. Three classes this time…I wish I could be telling you this over the phone. Um. Anyways. I moved out of my parents’ house, again. Now I have a tiny one bedroom apartment overlooking an empty field. It’s small, but warm…and I get to see the most amazing sunsets every afternoon when I get home from work and stand on the balcony. I have new people in my life that have just…brought me back to life. They’re the ones bringing the Yari you knew back to working conditions. I’m painting again. It had been 10 years since I picked up a paintbrush. I’m playing guitar and writing new music…easily been 5 years since I did that. I’m working more on my photography. So much more. Daily. The thing is, the world looks so different now, Nana. The sunsets are no longer the end of a day…a blue sky peeking through some trees is no longer just a Tuesday afternoon…everything is beauty and life. Grandma, everything is Love. I dream almost every night now. The nightmares…so very few of them. Remember I was having those recurring nightmares, every other day since I was 7? I haven’t had one in almost 6 months. I’m off my anti-depressants. I haven’t cut in 3 months. I’ve been patient and kind with Dad. I think I forgave him, finally. I’ve been talking poetry and art with Mom again. The other day we went for a drive, just them two and I, and we sang in the car. Remember the old songs? I was always singing every time we went for a drive? We sang them…together, laughing and…you were on my mind so much that night. My best friend, he knows…what you mean to me. He knows how much all these small changes are adding up to bigger things in my future. Most of all, he understands. Everything. All the things that made me a weird kid, I don’t have to explain them to him. It’s unspoken. Even in silence, we see the world the same way…and he’s pushed me to get out of the wallowing and self-pity…he’s pushed me to take risks and chase after the 200 thoughts that drift out of my head and into the wind…To make things happen. And. They are happening. I am smiling.

Fifteen years and I can only say this: My heart aches in a different way. I now miss you because I cannot share with you all the good in my life. My loves. My secrets. My freedom. I miss your voice. I miss your eyes. I miss your support. But I no longer feel empty when I think of you…because I am becoming who you always knew I would be. I am making it up as fast as I can…

I love you with all my heart. Fifteen years…but…I am here to tell you, I’m 12 again. Those 15 years have slowly been erased…and I’m starting it over. This time, with you right here with me. You have never been gone.

P.S. You would LOVE my new coffee maker.

Let Me Count The Ways

I love you more than...

My oversized flannel shirt, after my night time shower.

My uncle's schizophrenia.

The opening theme song to The Office.

A slice of cheesecake from my favorite Brooklyn joint.

My mother's OCD.

That email from my bank on Thursdays at 3 am, saying my paycheck has been direct deposited.

My grandmother's voice, as she sang in the kitchen at the break of dawn...and the sound of metal spoons stirring in ceramic mugs.

The smell of wet dirt and the cool, misty wind that announce the coming of rain.

Slowly finger picking my guitar strings from Am to C...and the knowledge that a song can start at any moment.

An original chicken sandwich from Burger King, add cheese and tomatoes.

My father's sentimentalism.

Watching the sun rise over Arizona, slowly flooding the desert in a golden haze. Every formation illuminated. Every cactus given a 'Good Morning'.

The sound of my grandfather's keys as he opened the gate to the front porch after a long day at work...the faint rustling of a paper bag on his left hand...which promised fresh pastries.

My aunt's random text messages wishing me the best of luck in all I do and reminding me how much she loves me...how proud she is of me.

Sleeping.

Taking pictures of my feet...everywhere I go.

Monopoly.

The way my dog Blue runs laps around the house when I get home.

My childhood memories.

The first Coke Zero in the morning.

The feeling of my feet sinking in the sand and having the ocean in front of me.

Sitting under a tree, on a cement picnic table in the middle of nowhere, on a breezy spring morning.

More than the things that once seemed to be the only reasons I could ever smile during a lifetime.

More than you will ever know. More than I can even understand myself, sometimes.

More than yesterday...but never more than tomorrow.

More than more.

The universe, it knows.