Hypocrite

When a man hits you, my darling

Leave.

Don’t think about the money

You’re smart enough to make some on your own.

Don’t think about the love

Because what’s dead and cold is dead and cold

And there are more charming fish in the sea, 

So don’t settle for a low-life sushi.

Don’t think about the house, your clothes, the washing and drying machines

Materials will not make a family.

But think about your children, my darling.

Think about them in the way that I so often forget to think about you

And Brother

Think about who they will grow up to be

Think about how they will view love

And relationships

Think about it

Think about what you’re teaching your daughter to bare if you stay

To let a man hit her

To control her

To make her feel like she’ll never have another

Think about it, my darling, think about how your daugter would feel

having to cover up the bruises.

Think about it

Think about what you’re teaching your son to do if you stay

To control his women by force

To allow himself to be so frustrated

So self contemptful

So scared that he would take it out on another person’s body

Think about it, my darling, think about what your son would do

to a girl who never learned to leave.

Think about their children, my darling

Can you bare to be just another branch of the tree

Who wouldn’t leave?

I am sorry, my darling,

That I could never lead by example

That I chose a man who acted like a two year old

Who threw tantrums without knowing his own strength

And always aimed for the head.

I am so sorry, my darling,

That I am just another branch on the tree,

But I hope

That you realize that you are strong enough

To be the root

Of those who know how to leave.

Negative Four Hundred and Fifty-Nine Degrees Fahrenheit.

because, y'know, nothing can really mean everything.
you say there's nothing on that desk.

perhaps a stray scrap of paper,
maybe a thin piece of pencil lead,
or even an eraser shaving.
but nothing, essentially.

nothing is always everything.

that stray scrap of paper was from a larger piece of paper,
perhaps a piece of a love letter.
and that epitomal heartache one must always feel.
a teacher with their own story.
you got your paper from the store.
and the store got it from a processing plant,
and the processing plant got it from good ol' nature.
and a single molecule of carbon dioxide being absorbed by that tree.
and 7 billion others breathing that single molecule.
and nothing comes back to everything.

that extraneous piece of lead.
maybe that mechanical pencil was clicked with vehement intensity one too many times.
struggling to put down those three oh so complex words,
'I love you'.
and the last time you saw this heartthrob they turned away snobbishly,
the first time they turned in the same fashion,
and nothing has changed but you still feel the same.
and oh how it hurts.
every twinge of pain,
every needle of suffering,
every. single. twisted. word.
carving caverns into your brain,
oversimplifying the simple,
and nothing comes back to everything.

even those eraser shavings.
puny elongated strips of rubber.
rubbing away any pain,
any harm,
any hope.
and we say bye bye to those three words,
because you're a teenager.
you don't know what love is.
you probably can't even define it.
you're ridiculous.
you know it too.
you're wrong.
and those eraser shavings just prove it.
prove how reasonable you are.
prove that you know what is best.
and nothing comes back everything.

because nothing means everything.
I know what everything is.
I know what nothing is.
and I know how to differentiate the two.

so now you know to trust me when I say I feel absolutely nothing for you.

blood and faith in two different places.

"you want to know the truth? i don't trust her."

"oh no, you can't say that about your family!"

"i'm telling you, i don't trust her. i mean, i can trust her with the important things, like secrets and feelings. but money? no. make her do errands? no. i can't trust her to do anything i want her to do, and that bothers me."

"but that's how a lot of people are."

"i know. most other people act that way, i don't care. they can do whatever. they can do whatever they want to as long as it doesn't encroach on me. but she's family. because she's family, i hold her to my own moral standards. is that too much to expect? i know i'm not morally perfect, and whatever flaws i have, i cannot hold against her. but you know what she doesn't do that i do? she doesn't keep her word. she's not outright dishonest exactly, but when you lend her money, you have to badger her about it. otherwise, she money never makes its way back to you. and every time she goes out with her girlfriends, she tells you she'll be back at a certain time and always comes home late saying 'oh, i figured i only had to have left by then,' even though she definitely knew you told her you needed her home by that time. they're just little things like that, nothing huge, but all the same, they reflect her lack of integrity. and i don't know if it's naïve of me or what, but i do hold to my word. when i say i'll do something, i'll do it, and it really bothers me when other people don't do the same. i'm not talking about the empty polite offers people make all the time to be social, like 'oh, i'll call you later,' because both parties know it's not going to happen. i'm talking about actual promises where you're counting on the other person to really follow through. and if someone can't do that, i can't be close to that person. i won't stop relations or anything drastic, but i won't like them as much."

"but you can't just shut all these people out just because they don't do what you want them to do."

"i know, business is business. i realize that. but her? i'm just saying, i don't care that she's family; if she ever comes running to me because her lack of integrity gets her into any trouble, i am not going to give her any financial favors. moral support, sure. we can talk it out, discuss ideas. but i can't trust her with any real affairs."

"are you really sure about that?"

"i told you, if she doesn't have integrity, i can't trust her."

"you have no heart."

"you're right, maybe i don't."

Waiting

September 2, 1862

The sun shone hot above the sleepy town of Naperville, slowly withering the crops in the fields and drying out the puddles from last night’s storm. Mary sat on her porch in her lightest summer gown, listening to the cicadas’ buzzing tremolo and mending a pair of her husband’s socks. The heat was so intense it made waves on the horizon reflecting off the windows of the houses; even the horses in the streets seemed to beg for relief, too hot even to flick their tails to ward off flies. Mary barely noticed the heat, nor did she register the motion of the needle in her steady hands. Her mind was preoccupied: she was waiting for a letter.

Her son Robert had been gone for six months now, drafted to fight in the war against the rebels in the South. The mail trains came infrequently and the soldiers often had no time for letters, but Robert wrote to his mother as often as he could. Mary missed him dearly; he was her youngest child and her only son, just seventeen years old when the army came through town. Her other three daughters had each married farmers from neighboring towns, and although they came to visit as often as they could, it was nearing harvest time and there was work to be done at home. Now it was just Mary and her husband living in the old home by the river, maintaining their dairy farm and waiting for news about the war.

Mary did not know that her last letter from Robert sat on a table by the fireplace. She did not know she had read that letter many times already, and replied to it in depth. She knew nothing of the battle at Bull Run earlier that week, nothing of the Confederate bullet that had wounded her son, nothing of the surgeon that could not save him. Soon an officer would arrive by train with a flag and a grave face, informing Mary that she had joined the ranks of mothers who had lost a child to the war. Soon Mary would be surrounded by grieving friends and relatives reminding her that the President had said this war would not be without its sacrifices. Now, however, Mary sat on her porch in the late summer heat blissfully unaware of the dark events to come. She sat peacefully, contentedly, mending her husband’s sock and listening to the ever-present buzz of cicadas, waiting for a letter.

rachel.

rachel was the kind of girl who wanted only to know your favorite color and when your birthday was. when you asked, she told you she was twenty-seven, but it was impossible to tell. there was a certain sweet, childlike look in her countenance as she smiled at the world. amy, the teacher who had passed her to me just before leaving for college, had told me this student had down syndrome, but i hadn't expected this, not having worked with kids like her much before. then again, i had no idea what to expect.


ostensibly, each violin lesson commenced with scales, segued into a flashcard session, and ended with playing songs from her collection of music books. somewhere in between, a review of her practice log added up her total minutes spent practicing during the last week, and sometimes we would supplement the music with a CD of accompaniment tracks, if the book included one. for me, though, the true start of each lesson was from the moment i entered her house, unfailingly amazed by her perpetual smile upon seeing me. early on, i discovered that the best way to measure the time gone by were the questions and the stories. between unpacking my violin and tuning the strings, she would ask about how school was treating me, tell me where she was going for vacation soon. scales meant get-to-know-you questions, the kind that incite groans from most high school students but felt perfect here.


"what's your favorite color?"
"i don't know. blue, i guess. what's yours?"
"i really, really love pink. and purple. those are my favorite colors."
"yeah, those are great colors. that's really awesome! you ready to try the e major scale?"


by the time we reviewed her practice log, she was ready for more personal inquiries. "do you have a boyfriend?"
"i do have a boyfriend," i replied while adding up the total minutes she had practiced. as i told her his name and how he played in the orchestra like i did, i could feel her smile even as my eyes remained trained on the paper before me. switching the focus of the conversation back to her, i asked, "rachel, you said you have a boyfriend. what's his name?" eagerly, her lips spilled over with kyle, how they met in the seventh grade, how he did so many favors for her and her family. listening to her came too easily; i wished talking was the same. every thought i shared with her was spoken with a heartbeat's hesitation. i handed her the completed practice log and her new, empty one for next week. "ready for the next part of the lesson?"


during the flashcard session, it was my turn to ask questions. "here, what's this note?" i laid down a card with a single note printed onto the staff, the fifth or sixth of many. she considered it for a moment, decided on an answer. "is it C?" she looked at me. 
"yeah, you got it! that note is C!"
she giggled, eyes brightening. "C for christie, and that's you!" 
"it is indeed! here, what's the next card?"
"it's A."
i smiled at her. "that's right!"
"that's funny, A is for amy! A is for amy, C is for christie...it's like all my teachers have a note letter for their name." she paused. "i miss amy. but now i'm happy with you."


rachel had an entire tote bag of songbooks from which we played after exhausting the theory material for the day--there was a book for wicked, another full of the beatles' tunes, one devoted to music composed by john williams, and countless more filled with songs from various other movies and musicals. her favorite songs, though, were the love songs. "because we're both in lo-ove," she would coo. and i'd just smile to compensate for not knowing what to say, because i never went around proclaiming that i was in love. i didn't even know if i could honestly say that i loved my boyfriend, only that i was deeply attracted to him. all that i knew was that i was just old enough to know that i didn't have a definition for love yet. but rachel, this childlike girl who was eleven years my senior, was young enough to know that definitions didn't matter. she trusted in her happiness, and that was enough for her.


amy had advised me not only to be a teacher to rachel, but to be her friend as well. "well, rachel, it's time for me to go."
"aw man, not already! please stay."
"oh, i really want to. but i can't. my mom's waiting for me at home."
and as i packed my violin into its case, almost ready to return to junior year homework and family plans, i caught a twinge of regret tugging beneath my stomach, because oddly enough, i truly was sorry to leave. i hadn't expected myself to feel that way--not this soon, either. this was only our second lesson together. "but i'll see you again next week, right?"
"yes, next week! bye, christie!"


until next week, rachel. until next week.