Groceries

Everything goes out of style at one point or another. Classics are a relative classification. Sure, some things come back into style,  but that only proves my point. They have to go out of style to come back.

You weren’t ready to get married, but really, who is ready for marriage. And a few years later, you weren’t ready to become a parent, and you had to manage that. Things unravel over time, and that will inevitably bring some pain.

In the winter before the kid turned twelve, you were so entwined and enmeshed that you were strung out too tightly. And so when you went out of style, metaphorically speaking, to your family, it hurt like hell.

You were at the grocery store picking out peaches. Peaches in the winter were more expensive. Also, they tasted like crunchy tasteless apples. You couldn’t afford the peaches, but why not just this once.

And you felt like you were always about to cry, but you didn’t. And then as you reached for a peach and plucked it of its slanted display, the whole lot of them went tumbling out onto the floor.

You were too tired to try and pick them all up; still, you should have.

But everything falls apart. That is the very nature of our universe. Entropy. Chaos. And we are looking for the order and the patterns within the swirling madness.

Fica

I don’t know what to say. Somehow, I feel a little cold, but at the same time, my skin is hot to the touch- perhaps it is fever. I want to tell you to stay. But I don’t want you to stay for me, so I try not to sway your decision. I am standing on a street corner beneath a lamppost and I cannot quite call my feet to move.

Orange tree

Blunder through the pre-dawn escape, you wince as the floor creaks and gingerly close the door behind you. The sun is kind; it stays in wait behind a soft cloud. There is an orange tree, simple and unadorned beside the mailbox, almost leaning against a wooden fence. Little ants crawl over the fence and scatter as you unlatch the door and slip out that final enclosure. Sorry, you whisper. And before you think too much, you walk. Walk wherever. And in the future, you will not remember the house or whoever was inside, you will not remember the tree or the fence or the ants, just the scent of orange blossoms.

Golden waves

You could tell I was broken from the beginning. I held my too-long sleeves over my hands and rubbed my mouth dry. Tears glimmered in my eyes at the drop of a hat. There were days I spun wildly, a golden ecstatic bliss peaking in waves before they crashed hard, leaving dull gray nothings. Somehow, you chose me anyway. You needed to convince me I was good enough, and you were willing to try. I was willing to resist. Why did I deserve any attention like that? We were willing to fight. Those were turbulent watery fights, where your words would splash around me and suffocate me, but I always lashed back with a stinging cold. And it would calm with time, and I would smile again. And I would smirk with bemusement at the world, and you would laugh. And the golden would come back softly.

Rejection letter

They always seem so promising at first: the friendly greeting, the postmark, your name printed in neat black letters. Then the crushing disappointment when your brain processes those dreadful words.

I am sorry to inform you…

So succinct and impersonal. And the worst part is, no matter how high you were reaching, you had an inkling that you would be accepted, a little fantasy about opening the letter to a fanfare and tears of joy.

But there are no tears of joy.

Living the writer’s life, you should be desensitized to rejection. After all, you have been told countless times that you should revise and try harder and you’re not quite good enough. However, it’s still hard to be rejected.

Maybe you’ll shrug it off, or maybe you’ll squeeze your fists really tight and take a deep breath to keep from punching something/someone. Whatever.

In the end, a rejection is just a rejection. I’m not going to tell you that it won’t determine the rest of your life because it very well might. But everything that may seem minute or insignificant plays a part as well, and it’s up to you to make the next moment better.