when it rains, a story

WHEN IT RAINS, WE POUR- $2 Pints, says the blue and white square sign outside The Mix. They haven’t been able to put up that sign in a while, I think. I can’t think of the last time it has rained.

I impulsively go inside and order a beer from the sweaty shirtless bear cub with the sparkly navel ring. My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I see Rebecca has sent me a text. In the ‘stro. Wanna grab a drink? I text back, @ the mix but not for long, and space out as the little image of the envelope carts my message away. A digital carrier pigeon.

I return my phone to my pocket and watch a plaid and skinny jean-clad Jameson drinker with intentionally ironic Where’s Waldo glasses make his shot, hitting the three into the corner pocket, then high five his mountain man friend. Who high fives anymore?

The phone vibrates again, and I see that it is Jillian inviting me to a house party in the Haight. I don’t text back. The trickily drops have gained momentum outside, and I wish I could just teleport myself to my bed with the blankets pulled up watching Season 2 of Nip/Tuck on my laptop while drinking tea.

I see Rebecca out front fighting with her umbrella, trying to get it to close without touching its wet, red petals. She looks beautiful, wearing a clay blue vintage dress, marigold ribbed tights, and brown boots with gold buttons adorning the exterior sides. She always wears dresses. I don’t know anyone else who always wears dresses.

I take a long drink, trying to make it appear like I am more ready to leave than I actually am. I don’t want to be here with her or there with Jillian. I don’t want to tell her, them, that, though. My desire not to explain myself outweighs my desire to bolt home, so I correct my hiding-in-the-corner posture, rummage through my gallery of facial expressions, find a smile, put it on, and wave her over.

nourishment

Grilled cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off. My grandfather’s specialty made with white bread, (the only kind I knew there was back then) and bubbling yellow American cheese, (gently peeled from the individually wrapped coat of plastic) slightly burned on the outside, (just the way I liked it.) Consuming the masterpiece of carbohydrates, dairy, and grease slowly, examining each bite for teeth impressions, and eating around the ends in a spiral-like fashion, so that my final bite of cheesy goodness would be the exact center of the sandwich, the heart, the core.

I would enjoy my lunch on the screened-in back porch of my childhood home, the thin royal blue weathered carpeting, the wooden drawer that housed my expansive rock collection, the old worn-out sofa, which doubled as the base for a fort. That tired and patched sofa marked the gathering space where my Poppy and I would spend many evenings sitting and listening to nature’s chorus: identifying bird calls, eavesdropping on the conversations of insects and frogs.

Often, when it got dark, I would descend into our backyard and take to capturing lightning bugs, holding them captive in a jelly jar just long enough to survey their personalities and give them suitable first and middle names.

It would then be time to carefully release them back into the wild, mindful that they might be parents needing to tuck their children into bed or coerce into completing their homework. Careful not to harm a single bug, I would use my index finger to gently coax them out of the jar, returning the creatures, as much as possible, to the same location I had found them, as to minimize their disorientation so they could once again be free.

These gentle-hearted gestures were both intrinsic notions and absorbed teachings instilled in me from the nature-loving qualities of my grandfather, the man who helped me understand my role in the world by teaching me about the things in nature I could change and those I could not.

al dente, a story

“Don’t you think it’s weird that your brother’s getting married?” Kyle drops the green linguine into the oversized pot.

“I think it’s weird that someone’s willing to marry him,” is my reply.

“Don’t you think you should do that over a plate?” he asks, calling me out on grating the cheese directly onto the counter.

“The counter’s clean. I wiped it myself,” I say, making a mental note to order take-out next time.

“No, I mean, isn’t it weird that he’s getting married first?”

I put the orange block down by the sink and gesture with the dairy-pierced grater, clogged cheese working its way out and onto the floor.

“As in, I’m older so I have to get married first, even though I’m not seeing anyone and I have no idea if I even want to get married, if I even subscribe to that institution? Modern day Taming of the Shrew, huh? Like I’m stuck holding the Old Maid card?”

“Hey, I was just asking. I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I just feel like if my little sister got married before I did, it might bother me.”

He looks down at the pasta and stirs for no reason.

“It bothers me that people think it should bother me,” I say, searching the spice rack for garlic powder.

“I just don’t understand,” he says, not at full volume, “why you’re so angry all the time.”

a taste of summer

I know that we're supposed to be welcoming spring, but, to be honest, I could really just bypass it this year and go straight to summer. I am craving warm weather like a pregnant lady craves pickles. I am longing for sundresses, picnics, urban hikes, and late night trips to Mitchell's for some purple ube or thai iced tea ice cream. I want to temporarily retire my coats and long sleeves, sneak into a pool somewhere, watch people go down the giant slip 'n slide they set up in the park, check out the free outdoor movies, build a giant sand castle at Baker Beach, rent a row boat at Stow Lake, go to a Giant's game, indulge in a cold summer ale.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to wish away what we have. I am grateful for spring- the rebirth and all. Trouble is, it still feels like winter. I am still wearing my footie pajamas and sleeping in the TV room because my own room feels like a little slice of Antarctica. In fact, the polar bears and penguins that have taken up residency there, just today, asked if I had some scarves they might borrow.

I am very aware that I have quite a while until summer, especially a San Francisco summer, since they like to arrive fashionably late, but there's nothing wrong with wishing. Nothing wrong with planning day trips to the Musee Mecanique after watching small children brave the chilly Pacific and organizing bonfires at Ocean Beach across from the windmill. Nothing wrong with envisioning spritzers on the sidewalk of a cafe, visualizing myself waking up and heading over to Dolores Park in order to fall asleep blanketed by the sun. Nothing wrong with imagining the weight of a runaway tennis ball in my hand before tossing it back over the fence.

shop, a poem

You are like a little kid
When we go to the grocery store
You ask me if we can get this thing
Or that
It is usually
Sugar-saturated
And housed in a colorful box
With block letters
I laugh
And tell you
You can have anything you want
And
Having gained my approval
You drop the box of non-nutritiousness
Into the cart
And take off
To get caught up on
Something shiny

camping, a story

“Babe,” she calls me out amidst my beer and dominoes pow-wow. I look up from my sweating bottle and colored tiles.

“When was the last time you’ve had a shower?”

I tell her with my eyes that it has been a while.

“Run yourself under some water, you dirt ball,” she playfully punches me and feigns disgust.

I begrudgingly turn in my tiles so my fellow players can resume their game in my absence, abandon the giant rock that has become my chair, and begin collecting my travel size toiletries and towel.

She follows me inside the hot green tent and zips us in, the camping equivalent of shutting the door.

She reaches her hand onto my back and begins gently massaging my tired, sleeping-on-the-ground-for-the-past-two-nights shoulders. I relish in her soft but firm touch and keep my body turned to encourage her to continue.

“I’m having a lot of fun being here with you,” she tells me.

I turn around so I can see her amazing almond eyes. “Me too.”

Then, she’s kissing me, and we could be anywhere. I forget about the beautiful, rustic ‘scape outside, the mile-high so-green trees and dashing squirrels and birdcalls and our friends in fold-out chairs and the chicken dogs we’re going to roast later over crackling embers. I can only feel her.

I love the way she kisses, each time she brings her ecstatic lips to mine, there’s a different sensation. She never kisses quite the same way. Who knew there were so many ways a person could kiss you? It’s like each one was specifically hand-crafted for me, every time.

I lose her lips for a moment wondering if she gets bored with my kisses. I don’t think I’m as creative as she is. I tend to follow her lead a lot. Every now and then, my tongue will explore hers inventively reaching for a new place at an altered pace, trying to do my part in our connected, hot dance. She doesn’t allow me to continue down my familiar path of insecurity for too long because she calls me back with her hand on the back of my neck, then further commands my attention by sliding her other hand down the front of my denim cut-offs.

We keep kissing and touching in the shadowy dark tent as the still shining sun smiles as my mind is relieved of its duties and my body takes over allowing me to only feel.

another spring day, a story

I’ve driven into Spring, but I don’t remember Winter. I’ve been met with still nights that would be romantic if I had someone for them to be romantic with, clear skies, familiar stars forming the same constellations they had the year I was born and every year following. I’m immersed in pastel printed dresses, gold strappy sandals in all the store windows, resurrected flowers. Yes, Spring is here, loud and clear. But, I have to say, it feels a little forced.

I watch her frail body twitch like a volcano, nearing an eruption. Her stomach looks like it is caving in on itself.

“I’m not suicidal,” she says. “But I’m terrified to be left alone with myself like this.”

What can I say? I’m terrified too.

“Please,” she says, reaching her bony arm toward me. “Don’t leave until you absolutely have to.”

So, I stay. I watch her restless sleep. I stare out the window at the life outside, the blossoming, the thriving, the growth, the lemon sky, the obviousness of the season, the things that make me feel so happy to be so alive.

She sits up because she’s uncomfortable lying down, then stands because she’s uncomfortable sitting.

“I’m not really a fighter,” she says with her back to me so she doesn’t have to gauge my response.

“I know,” I tell her.

“Like if I were in one of those The-Universe-is-coming-to-an-end movies, I wouldn’t fight. I’d just let it happen. I don’t want to be a hero.”

She’s exhausted from talking. She climbs back into bed knocking something off the nightstand.

I go over to pick it up. Outside, I see the sun preparing to pass the baton to the moon. Another Spring day is winding down.