Write What's in Front of You.
I am sitting at my desk.
A matted painting of a hummingbird poking its long beak into the core of a lipstick-red flower. It’s still in its plastic wrap, the watercolor that is. My husband and I bought it on our honeymoon in the Bahamas, as a souvenir, at a small picture shop in Marsh Harbor. I wanted to hang it by the window so its green would blend in with the tree that climbs up to our third floor apartment, its branches beating against the clear pane every time there is wind, a stir of Bahamian breeze just outside my window.
A wall sized tapestry, the hippie kind full of intricate flowers and elephants, teardrop-shaped symbols circling from the center like sunrays. It’s all red, maroon red and orange red, some grayish hints of blue to contrast with the yellow orange. I bought it with my college roommate at a store in Philly, on a weekend away from school, away from frat boys and keg stands, away from routine. A store full of incense and hand-knitted sweaters, flowing shimmers of scarves that we used to wrap around our necks, sometimes around our heads. I smell the candles from our college bedrooms, the stale weed smoke from our housemates bong, the white chocolate mochas I downed while reading hours and hours of Shakespeare and the Tao Te Ching at the coffee shop, Brew Haha.
Barack Obama’s eyes. The top of his head is floating behind my computer, a red and blue and navy image, laminated and loud with the words printed You Have The Right To Vote along the bottom. Just focusing on his eyes, I notice how they are dark and deep, heavy with past and future consciousness. I wish I could reach out my typing hand to his shoulder, and tell him everything was going to be okay.
A picture of me and my childhood best friends. We are just 15, faces tan with youth, eyes soft and unaware of the tears to come. Our arms embraced one another, grabbing with excitement for our first real homecoming dance. These hands do much more holding, through suicides and heartbreaks, depressions and death. To have our hair golden in the camera flash again, just like that, our pure lips stretched and our minds thinking only one thing: who will I dance with tonight?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Libba, the poetry and imagery is gorgeous in this...keep writing and stay with this. I like the idea of writing about things that we collect, which reminds us of who we are.
ReplyDeleteI love this: "I wish I could reach out my typing hand to his shoulder, and tell him everything was going to be okay." I feel this way too. What a big responsibility, one that George W. certainly didn't take very seriously which is what angers me most. (Not necessarily the policies--which I don't like--but the casual and entitled attitude with which they were enacted).
ReplyDeletei liked the last one the best, especially: "tan with youth, ...and unaware of the tears to come" such great lines. also liked "suicides and heartbreaks" --very rich material, this friendship and this cross section of your life. it made me want to know more, and seemed like a great place to start a story.
ReplyDeleteGreat descriptions. I sometimes like to look at my room and try to guess what a stranger would think of me just from my decorations and furniture. I think it can be very telling. I love the stories that go with each item, and I felt like you were juts hitting your stride in the last.
ReplyDelete