Splendid Habits

We have a routine. This boy and I. A routine for just about everything. When we make love we start with slow kisses, lip kisses, neck kisses, thick sucking kisses. Then he performs light stomach kisses, and below stomach kisses. When we are both spent we lie there, naked, in dirty sheets; it’s the one time I don’t care about lying in dirty sheets.

When we want ice cream we want it at the same time. Chocolate ice cream, with lots of chocolate bits in it. I don’t believe him when he says he wants the same kind I do, but I like that he pretends to anyway. He usually lets me choose, but when it’s his turn he picks something he knows I’ll like, too. We sit in front of the TV eating right out of the carton, a paper towel wrapped around the outside so our fingers don’t go cold. We gorge ourselves on brownie chunks and gooey twirls of fudge; we lick our lips and devour our icy treat.

When we sleep I am always on his left and he is always to my right. He curls his body around mine when I want him to and keeps his distance when I want the space. I do the same for him. When I get up in the night to pee I have to scoot to the end of the bed because my side is against the wall. I stumble around blindly, searching for the moccasin style slippers I bought for him two Christmases ago. I feel like I’m being quiet. When I’m done I scoot back up the same way I came, and curve my body into the shape of a crescent moon. He hooks his top arm around my waste and pulls me into his nook; he breathes warm breaths into the place behind my ear.

The Yard Pool

It was April, and the copious amounts of spring rain had transformed our bowl shaped side yard into a muddy swimming pool. The pool came every year like clockwork; it started as a stretch of waterlogged grass in early March and slowly gained inches when the ground couldn’t hold anymore. My brother and I trudged knee-deep through the water, the brown prickly moss tickling our bare toes.

My father watched us from the porch, a dampened cigarette held effortlessly between his lips. He walked slowly down the porch steps and across our gravel driveway; the gray rocks crunched beneath his brown suede loafers. “Do you kids want to go play in that big mud puddle on the corner?” he asked. My brother and I looked up at him, confused. We weren’t supposed to play in mud. Even in our play clothes we weren’t supposed to play in mud. My father didn’t wait for a response. “Come on, let’s go.”

We trailed behind him along the outskirts of our yard pool and across the street to the mud puddle. We stood hesitantly on the edge, certain that this was some sort of joke. “What are you waiting for?” my father said. I hiked my gray cotton shorts up a bit higher and waded hesitantly through the brown sludge. My brother followed in after me. Before long we were having the time of our lives splashing and rolling in the forbidden mud. Cars drove by and honked at us because they thought we looked funny. Then my mother drove by and honked over and over again because she didn’t think we looked funny. My father had us follow him back to the house where the yelling started up again. I licked my thumb and hastily rubbed a dirt smudge off my brother’s chin before going inside.

Something about Love

I am sitting on the edge of a truck bed with both legs dangling over the side. It is only early March but the morning sun is unseasonably warm, and it skips over the silky waves of Oyster River. I watch as seagulls circle purposefully overhead. After a few moments, one of them plunges headfirst towards the water – closing more than fifty feet in mere seconds – and emerges with an unsuspecting fish wedged in its beak. I am amused by this game of cat and mouse, but I tire of watching after a while.

I close my eyes, the sun warm on my face, and collapse against Gregg’s shoulder. He smiles at me and tucks an unruly piece of hair behind my left ear and then untucks it, remembering that I only tuck hair behind my right ear out of sheer habit. I laugh at this little bit of remembering and pull his face towards mine; I kiss the curved space between his eyebrows. Gregg readjusts the acoustic guitar that he is learning to play and begins to strum notes that I do not know the names of.

I glance down at my old sneakers, sweatpants, and the pilled black fleece that I am wearing. I remember that I have not washed my face or hair since yesterday; but I don’t care. The music is freeing. It reverberates off the water and fills the surrounding air with an easy upbeat rhythm. I do not know what to call these sounds, but I know they feel good in my ears.

My Brother and Me

“Broski,” I say, stretching my arms out toward my brother. He is reluctant to return my hug, the act feels strained and foreign in this house, but after a few moments his shoulders slump and he crumples against my small frame. It is a long-awaited release, one he did not even know he needed. His shoulders are broad and muscular now, so different from the scrawny build that plagued him as a child. As he hugs me tighter I have to lift onto my tiptoes; he is four inches taller than I am, a fact that never ceases to surprise me. “I missed you,” he says. His voice is so low that it is nearly lost in the bulky hood of my gray sweatshirt. I am the only one who hears it.
It has been only fourteen days since we last saw each other but right now it seems like much longer. My brother is 18 years old; his boldness makes me jealous and his hard exterior makes me ache. But in this moment, as we hold each other in the narrow entryway of the house where we grew up, we both find comfort– even if only in the knowledge that we are not alone.

Holdings

All last night the weatherman on the news talked about snow. Nine to twelve inches of snow. Enough snow to maybe, possibly, necessitate a snow day. As I raise the dingy white shade in my bedroom I am disappointed to see the same un-snow covered courtyard as the day before. As all hope for a day of freedom dissipates from my body I will my tired soul into action; I brush my teeth, wash my face, and make my unruly sleep-ridden hair somewhat presentable. I pull on a pair of too-tight jeans, a man’s white T-shirt, my trusty gray cardigan, and some warm boots. I grab my bag and winter jacket before clambering down six flights of stairs and out into the cold February air.

As I walk I notice the heaviness of the atmosphere, feel its pressure weighing down on my shoulders. The sky is a whitish gray and seems to quiver with the mass of fluffy precipitation lying just beyond its borders. I am surprised when the flakes start falling to the ground in groups of twos, then threes, then fours. I had half-expected expected the sky to burst beneath the pressure, releasing billions of the tiny flakes in one big pour. But that isn’t what happens. Minutes pass and still the flakes fall slowly and gracefully towards the earth. They cling to my jacket, my eyelashes, the yellow bangs swept carefully away from my face. It seems as though the sky won’t break, but will keep on holding – at least for a while longer – as will I.

Starting over

If you've checked out some of my older posts, I won't blame you if you're a bit confused. The majority of those posts were assignments related to a news writing class I took during my junior year of college. A lot of the so-called "articles" you see are pretty far-fetched, but they were good practice for learning the basics of reporting and how to write under time constraints. A lot has changed in both my professional and personal lives since my last post; I now know for certain that I prefer a more creative approach to writing as opposed to hard news, and I've also learned that I don't know myself nearly as well as I thought I did. So I've decided that this blog is now going to serve a new purpose; I find that the more I write, the more I get to know myself, and that's what I plan to do here. Just write. And maybe, just maybe, I'll discover little pieces of myself along the way.

Breaking News Update

AMITY, MA--Mere hours after Amity beaches reopened and a nurse shark was captured and identified as the predator, Amity's James Parks, 30, became this week's third shark attack victim.

Parks was knocked into the water when his small rowboat was attacked in the pond next to the beach at about 1:30 p.m. today. According to a press release from Chief of Police Martin P. Brody, "Most of his remains have not been found."

Officials report that beaches will remained closed until further noticed and urge residents to exercise extreme caution.