Sorry Mrs. Leek That I'm Turning This In In The Most Inconvenient Fashion

There are a million ways to say ‘I love you’. In long hugs where the stronger of the two is gently tracing the silhouette of spheres between Rocky Mountain Ribs and a Smoky Mountain Spine. It’s found in late night talks, when sleepiness builds over eyes like a layer of dust, but lemon scented tears made of the cheap furniture polish that mom bought, mixed with blinking and rubbing with the rags made of dad’s old, white, cotton shirts keeps the film at bay. Where warm cups of coffee, one black as night, one creamer with a dollop of coffee warmed back up in the microwave that sat next to the old creaky refrigerator that dad swore for so long to replace, are placed inches apart, when the heat of the hardened clay turns wood white, and gentle reminders of coasters are given. It’s said in naps during the commercials of late Tuesday nights favored show, the glow of the television reminds me of a bright full moon that casts forty-five degree angles, making our similar features of thin lips, arched brows, and Grecian noses sharper, bonier than before. It’s at the lake that is surrounded by red clay, where two white buckets are flipped over to be seats, and when sitting finally happens the restless quietness that comes with the excited anticipation of the white bobber being pulled under the glassy surface. The silent words that are spoken when dad worked every second that wasn’t spent with my sister or I, so that we could afford those braces or guitar lessons or cheerleader shoes. It was said one last time when the red and blue lights came to a stop, when long rectangular lights blurred over my head, when I was left in a room that smelled like chemicals alone, to sit in disbelief as the kind nurse with mouse brown hair stroked my shoulder and tried to comfort me.

I became a fish gasping for air, dropped into a pool filled with the emptiness that would now stare at me from the crack of the white French doors, that have no key hole but are locked up by chains of hurt. My gills would try to filter the memories that rapidly become muddled, a mix of dreams and reality, and I’m left realizing that it’s now a countdown to when I’m out of oxygen, when your voice no longer reaches my ears, when my mind no longer clearly recalls your face, when you fade from the current pictures, when you seem to be nothing but an angelic grail.

What if Ursula finds me, in my Ariel-like state, unhappy with where I am, and makes a bargain as risky as the one she struck with the redheaded mermaid. Stay stuck forever, like the gum that made it’s way into my nine-year old bangs. Stuck in time, in the point of my life where I felt happiness. If I choose, would I be choosing one dad over another? How can one choose between men so beautiful? Both filled with wisdom, both an endless chasm that has a river of boiling love to flow through their heart. It’s like I’m standing in a doorway, one side leads to my past, the other side leads to my future. I’m tottering back and forth underneath the wooden jam. But I’m not ready to shut the door and stay on one side forever, instead I firmly plant my feet, half of me in my past, the other in my future.