Molasses...

time should be more like

the black molasses

sitting in a jam jar

on my grandmother's window sill

try to pour it out

it comes slow and easy

as it moves you watch

dip your fingers in and put them to your lips

taste its sweetness

Night after night...

He remembered the first time he slept beside her. Heavy eyelids, voices trailing, her hand resting on his thigh.

The next night, lying in the dark, he felt a soft hand looking for the same spot it had been the night before. Once her hand was in place, he felt her body relax as she let out a sigh and fell asleep. And so this continued the night after that. And the night after that.

One night, as they were turning down the covers, he looked at her with a slight smile and asked, “Why do you put your hand on my leg every night before we go to sleep?” She answered, "Well, as long as I am touching you I know you are there, even if I’m somewhere else in my dreams." She paused for a moment. "I know how you love to travel, and when my dreams take me extraordinary places you have a better chance of coming along if we’re connected."

Skyline...

I look at the skyline and see skeletons of steel. Rows of windows—some illuminated, some dark. Walls of concrete reaching up toward the sky. Stones and the mortar that holds them in place.

You see squares stacked on top of one another. Differential equations scrawled on paper. Tangent lines just kissing the curves. The surrounding context that provides the backdrop.

I see the end.
You see the means.
And through you I see the beauty of the big picture.

Phantom limb...

"For the patients, long after the amputation is made, say they still feel pain in the amputated part. Of this they complain strongly, a thing worthy of wonder and almost incredible to people who have not experienced this. I believe this notion, the continuance of pain after loss, to be direct proof of the existence of the soul." –Ambroise Paré, 1551


I know you're out there somewhere living life—breathing in and out, laughing the kind of laugh that crinkles your eyes. I can’t hear your sounds, no matter how hard my ears strain. We no longer share the same spaces, though we share the same sky, and I often wonder where you fall under it. I try to visualize the distance, sticking pins in a map—blue for me, green for you—to mark the miles. Without you, I ache for what used to be. An itch that can't be scratched. A phantom limb.

If there was no you...

"If There Was No You"

When I see myself
I'm seeing you too
as long as I remember
and I'm feeling like I knew
that my jokes aren't funny
the truth isn't true
if there was no you.

If you were my boat in the deep blue sea
I'd probably sink you down.
I know I should have thanked you for carrying me
but for you I would happily drown.

Out on your way the darkest night the longest day
I know what to say to make you laugh.
And nothing you could do
could make me turn my back on you.
When you're looking for a fight,
I'm your man.
When you need a friend,
you got my hand.

And what I really mean
what I'm trying hard to say
is that I'm counting on you
and you got me too.
Our secrets aren't safe
I'm singing out of tune
if there was no you...
if there was no you.

Out on your way the darkest night the longest day
I know what to say to make you laugh.
And nothing you could do
could make me turn my back on you.
When you're looking for a fight,
I'm your man.
When you need a friend
you got my hand.
When you need a friend
you got my hand...
you got my hand.

Already gone...

I can’t be selfish when you look at me with those “kiss me” eyes.

Experience has taught me all roads lead downhill and end with a two-ton thud against a brick wall—wreckage unrecognizable.

It's a script I can recite by heart of a scene I've watched play out many times.
Same lines, different actors.

ME
(Center stage)

YOU
(Stage right by the door)
Explaining how we should have never gone down this path. Stringing together empty sentimentalities that leave me broken as you exit offstage.

(Exit stage right)

(Curtain)
THE END

So even though things could be as simple as your hand in mine on a long walk—it cannot be. Because you can’t be with me in the moment if in my mind you are already gone.

The cabin...

Last night we sat in the middle of a small room—maybe the living room of some tucked away cabin. The rug underneath us was threadbare and soft like my grandmother's quilts. The room was fairly dim, with evening-light angling in through bare windows, casting shadows across your face. And in this place, I was the listener. We sat facing each other, your delicate hands interlaced as you fidgeted a bit, preparing your words. The way you formed each syllable seemed so intimate, each phrase heavy with the gravity of two that used to love.

I felt calm in your presence, and I let each word settle under my skin. You explained your brain and its inner workings—how your head and heart duet. Your walls crumbled little by little until everything I longed to know was laid out in the center of the rug, vulnerable and beautiful.

And although, at the end of the night, I did not find your head resting on the pillow next to mine, our hearts had an understanding. I knew by the way you spoke, in genuine tones with gentle gestures. You knew by the way I looked at you, as if I could see all of our moments of laughter and love at once in your eyes. There was peace.

And as I opened the door for you, we smiled at one another, as travelers that met on a journey do when that journey has come to an end. A smile that can only be shared between two that have experienced joys and pitfalls side by side and lived to tell the tale. A smile that acknowledges time spent together and hopes it is enough to bind them thereafter.

I woke up as the door shut behind you, and I knew that my dreams and reality would not match up. All the way down to the lighting and the feeling of the rug beneath my feet.

Whispered words...

I whisper words, hoping the air will carry the vibrations of my sounds to your ears.

I've been looking...

"I've been looking for you for a long time," she said. "So, if you could just stay in one place until I find you, that would make things much easier."

Heartbeat…

I fell asleep with my head on your chest, and even though I've had a crick in my neck all day, I carry the sound of your beating heart in my ear and it drowns out everything else.

They seldom wore shoes on Sundays...

Most Sundays they spent a good portion of the day in bed. He read the paper. She told him about her upcoming week, taking a cat nap after her plans for Wednesday and waking up later to tell him about the weekend. Around 1 o’clock they made brunch—a colorful plate of strawberries and blueberries beside a stack of pancakes. She curled up on one end of the couch, her legs and feet covered with a blanket. He sat next to her, his legs sprawled out in front. They looked forward to these lazy Sundays all week—sometimes spent laughing at whatever movie he had in his queue, sometimes spent holding one another hovering the thin line between pillow talk and half-conscious murmurings as they slipped into a light sleep. As daylight turned to dusk, their stomachs reminded them of the hour and, for the first time that day, they put on shoes and walked three blocks to the corner café where they took a seat at their typical outdoor table and ordered the exact same thing they had ordered every Sunday night for the last eight months.

StoryPeople...

I try to imagine what they're thinking, she said, but I keep falling asleep. I'm probably going to have to move away soon.

Comfort zone...

She wanted to fly by the seat of her pants and go wherever the wind took her…until he told her they would lose a lot of their comforts. When he mentioned giving up cable, she thought maybe they were just fine right where they were.

The beginning...

I haven't seen you in 9 hours.
Actually, 9 hours and 18 minutes.
It feels like forever. Doesn’t it feel like forever?
Yes…it’s crazy. When we’re apart the minutes feel like hours, but when we’re together the hours feel like...milliseconds.

He could hear her smiling through the telephone.

I may have to cancel tonight. I just found out I have to work late—big deadline tomorrow.
Is there anything I can help you with? I'm a good proofreader and I make pretty decent coffee.
Aww, no…it’s okay. You’d be bored out of your mind. But I will see you tomorrow, right?
Well, of course you'll see me tomorrow. You better see me tomorrow.

They missed each other. With the kind of missing familiar to the beginning of relationships.

As he sat on the couch late that evening, thinking about her and flipping aimlessly through channels, he heard a faint knock at the door. Opening it, he found her there, smiling.

I couldn't fall asleep without seeing you.

And that night they slept on his narrow sofa, his heavy arm wrapped around her waist, the television’s glow casting shadows on the walls.

Transparent...

Every move she makes is transparent, but no one ever tells her. They know how happy it makes her, thinking she has everyone fooled. 

She knows...

She knows what she wants and she isn't about to waste her time apologizing for it.

Missing...

I’ve learned I am forgetful
without you here to
remind me
of the day to day things
like taking my pill every morning
getting enough sleep
or visiting the doctor when I should.

It’s been many weeks
since I remembered
to take the small
blue pill
that balances
chemical reactions
and levels inside.

At my next doctor’s visit
when they run their tests
placing my blood under a microscope
they will notice my routine has changed
and nothing is balanced—
that something is missing
right down to the composition of my cells

but only I know
what is really missing.

But trust me on the sunscreen...

This morning, as I got ready for work, I found myself marinating on several lines from the article below. You might recognize the little tidbits of advice from the 1999 hit single "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)" made popular by Baz Luhrmann. These "life lessons" have been ascribed to many people including Luhrmann and author Kurt Vonnegut, but they were actually written in 1997 by Mary Schmich, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, in an article entitled "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young."

Individuals can gain valuable insight from someone who is looking back at his/her own experiences—and that's just what this is. Enjoy!

Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd rather be rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for Graduates.

I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt. Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on.

Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

There's a tiny little heart I've enclosed like a little surprise...

If you like what you see, please visit my friend Lisa's blog for more drawings and general awesomeness.

Paradigm shift...

For so long, you were there.                          And I was here. 

Then I was there.                                          And you were here.   

And we could never seem to meet           

                                            in the middle.    

For Lindsey...

a friend getting married.

May you and Jason grow old together, sharing the same pillow.

“The Key to Love”

The key to love is understanding…
the ability to comprehend not only the spoken word,
but those unspoken gestures—
the little things that say so much by themselves.

The key to love is forgiveness…
to accept each other’s faults and pardon mistakes
without forgetting, but with remembering
what you learn from them.

The key to love is sharing…
facing your good fortunes as well as the bad, together;
both conquering problems, forever searching for ways
to intensify your happiness.

The key to love is giving…
without the thought of return,
but with the hope of just a simple smile,
and by giving in but never giving up.

The key to love is respect…
realizing that you are two separate people, with different ideas;
that you don’t belong to each other,
you belong with each other, and share a mutual bond.

The key to love is inside us all…
it takes time and patience to unlock all the ingredients
that will take you to its threshold;
it is the continual learning process that demands a lot of work,
but the rewards are more than worth the effort…
and that is the key to love.

Give me your hand...

Give me your hand, let's dance. 

We'll make up the steps as we go. 

As long as your hand's in mine, love, 

no one can tell us things we don't know. 

The rarity of falling stars...

The weatherman speaks of the rarity 

of stars falling from the sky, 

silver streaks on a black ceiling 

appearing and disappearing. 

Hours before sunrise, miles from the lights 

of the city, we stand in an open field

circling in place to see them 

fall, trailing their brightness. 

We drive home over gravel roads 

treading fallen stars underfoot, 

the pink hue of the sky marking the end of 

a night I will not live to see again. 

What if all things this beautiful, 

this marvelous, happen while we sleep? 

The lining of her shoes...

She spins the thin metal arrow of the broken compass. Wherever it lands, she will go—sure-footed, with her eye focused on the horizon. Tucked in the lining of her shoes are slips of paper with magic words, waiting for those quiet moments along the journey when she needs to stir things up.

Rereading C.S. Lewis...

An excerpt from The Four Loves. 

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." 

Appreciating the silence...

After my bath, I slipped on my nightgown and walked across the linoleum floors and old tattered carpets of our lake house. I was 6 or maybe 7. My mother sat in an over-stuffed reclining chair and my grandmother sat on the couch, both with a glass of wine. They talked and watched Saturday evening television, laughter filling the room. 

Not finding my grandfather in the living room, I went searching. I pressed my face against the glass of the front door and looked out into the night. I quietly opened the heavy door and pushed the old white screen door into the darkness, hoping to find him there.

The porch, with its AstroTurf flooring, was enclosed with a thin screen all the way around. As one of my feet touched the scratchy green I heard him rustle in the dark, his voice low and calm, "Shh...Missy, come over here beside me." I walked slowly, lightly and felt my way to the huge rocking chair sitting beside his. I crawled up into it and from that height—where my feet could not touch the ground—we would sit. Every once in a while his big, gentle hand covered mine and he'd say, "Do you see the deer? Can you hear     them?", and we would watch and listen in silence as the deer came up almost close enough to touch. 

I remember falling asleep sitting beside him on those hot summer nights and the way he moved in silence as he lifted me all at once into his arms and tucked me safely away in bed.

Before it breaks...

Before It Breaks by Brandi Carlile

Around here it’s the hardest time of year.
Waking up, the days are even gone.
Well, the collar on my coat
will help me kill off the cold.
Will the raindrops sting my eyes or keep them closed?

I’m feeling the pain
a little lonely
and my quietest friend
out in the moonlight
and I let you in.
Say it ain’t so,
say I’m happy again.

Say it’s over.
Say I’m dreaming.
Say I’m better than you left me.
Say you’re sorry.
I can take it.

Say you’ll wait.
Say you won’t.
Say you love me.
Say you don’t.
I can make my own mistakes.

Let it bend before it breaks.

I’m alright, don’t know how I seem to be.
I’m not swinging on the stars.
Don’t wanna wear them on my sleeves.
I went looking for a crossroads,
it happens every day.
And whichever way you turn,
I’m gonna turn the other way.

And say it’s over.
Say I’m dreaming.
Say I’m better than you left me.
Say you’re sorry.
I can take it.

Say you’ll wait.
Say you won’t.
Say you love me.
Say you don’t.
I can make my own mistakes.

Learn to let it bend before it breaks.

Say it’s over.
Say I’m dreaming.
Say I’m better than you left me.
Say you’re sorry.
I can take it.

Say you’ll wait.
Say you won’t.
Say you love me.
Say you don’t.
I can make my own mistakes.

Let it bend before it breaks.

The moon and me...

If the crescent moon asked me to come over and share milk and cookies before bed, I would. And I would sit in the small space before the curve, legs folded underneath, and I would listen to his tales of how long he and Earth have been friends and he would tell centuries-worth of stories spanning every continent that would make my problems seem so insignificant that when I finished my milk and he lowered my feet to land I would sleep soundly, for the first time in a long time, and in the morning my feet would touch bare floors without a care in the world. 

Calming the storm...

Mark 4:35-40

35 On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” 36 And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. 37 A great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. 38 Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care if we drown?” 39 And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and it was completely calm. 40 He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”

The company she keeps...

Sometimes she would fall asleep while reading. Her glasses sliding down her nose to the comforter and finally to the ground. The book, still open, tossed beside her as she shifted down further under the covers. The familiar, soothing words of the pages keeping watch over her through the night. The days were long, but she found comfort sleeping curled up beside an old friend.

The Velveteen Rabbit...

"What is real?" asked the Rabbit one day.

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse.  "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time. Not just to play with, but really loves you. Then you become real."

 

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are real, you don't mind being hurt."

 

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily or who have sharp edges or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Love is a battlefield...

Thousands of years ago, it was the same story. Boy met girl. Boy loved girl. Other boy loved girl. And those two boys waged a fight—a war of bronze weapons and passion that launched 1000 ships—as a symbol of their devotion. The outcome of the war was the decision. Which man won her love.

The Trojan horse sat outside the castle walls. Waiting to empty itself at the first sign of movement, ensuring a victorious outcome.

Modern day, it is the same story. Boy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Other boy loves girl. And those two boys wage a fight—a brawl of fists and passion that ignites the senses—as a symbol of their devotion. The outcome of the brawl is the decision. Which man wins her love.

His heart is that same Trojan horse, sitting outside her walls. Waiting to empty itself at the first sign of movement, despite the outcome.

Currently in love with this...

Brian Andreas...you are genius. And you make my heart happy.

I read once that the ancient Egyptians had

fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a 

hundred words for snow. I wish I had a 

thousand words for love, but all that 

comes to mind is the way you move against 

me while you sleep & there are no words 

for that.

She looked forward to weekends...

Saturday mornings were reserved for pillow talk, coffee and playing connect the dots with the freckles on his arms.

Arithmetic...

She took her thoughts (3+6+1+7)

and stood back to examine her feelings (12+17+2+8)  

stopping for a moment to consider her surroundings (8+4+16+9) 

and realized that, for now, she just didn't sum up to an even number. 

I feel it all...

To acknowledge our feelings. To confess to ourselves lessons learned. To stand in amazement of where we've been, where we're going and the growth we have witnessed. To let emotion wash over us and to respect the ebb and flow. This is to feel alive.

Maybe you could leave a light on...

Barely Out of Tuesday by Counting Crows

Woke up Tuesday morning staring at the ceiling
hoping for deliverance from the distances in you.
This room feels like an oven
somewhere south of nowhere, north of nothing.

I'm barely out of Tuesday
seen seven hours of Wednesday
and I guess got regrets.
Maybe you could leave a light on,
leave a light on for me.

Can you see her waiting there
down by the sea with a hat on,
with her eyes in there looking for me?
If you see me coming home turn me away.
Everybody tries to go back somewhere someday.

You kept me at a distance.
52 weeks later, you're still the same.
I'm standing in my basement
making my arrangements
and waiting for the telephone
to ring
to ring
to ring.

So I left for Minnesota
where the weather is getting colder
and people are changing.
Maybe you could leave a light on,
leave a light on for me.

Can you see her waiting there
down by the sea & have arrangements
made there for welcoming me?
If you see me coming home turn me away.
Everybody tries to go back somewhere someday.

And if all this distance ain't going to bring you to me
what's the point of all this patience?
It's not your nature, you just keep what you need.
And you got some pictures of me...

Woke up Wednesday morning
sometime Wednesday evening
hoping for a piece of something easy to believe.
When you live out on the border of everything and nothing,
there's nothing but waking and dreaming.

I'm barely out of Tuesday
there's no one to receive me
and nothing is changing.
Maybe you could leave a light on,
leave a light on for me.

Can you see her waiting there
down by the sea?
There's a light on but there's nobody waiting for me.
If you see me coming home turn me away.

Everybody tries to go back somewhere someday
Everybody tries to go back somewhere someday
Everybody tries to go back somewhere someday
Everybody tries to go back somewhere....

Mud Puddle Kiss, Slogging Through The Rain With Her...

by Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine

Here's an idea
Let's grab this life and wring its neck with joy
So that when it comes time to die
When we find we have no breath left
It is because we willingly strangled ourselves
With love
Fell down dead
And mostly happy

Searching...

Stopping to pick up every shiny thing she sees, hoping to find herself along the way.

Thunderstorm warning...

As she sat on the hood of her car, watching the storms build on the horizon, she listened to the thunder grumble like an old man who was just woken up from his afternoon nap. She wondered about the growing pinpoints of light behind the clouds—striking there and there, but not there—as if they were bolts of electricity wherever God's fingers touched across Earth's surface.

Things I learned this week...

1. Apostrophes are weird.
ex. T'morrow (What is the point?!)

2. It is possible for a man to tie his mustache in a knot.
ex."I can tie my mustache in a knot. Watch!"

3. Some people are way too into typography.
ex. "So, like...I am reaaaaalllly into typography. No, really. I will let you borrow a book on it. What's your favorite font? I have many favorites, but all of mine are sans-serif."

The games we play...

Playing an elaborate game of cat and mouse—all the while knowing that you are exhausted and she is pretending like she isn't even playing.

Gypsy dreams and Wall Street goals...

She tried to remember the days when she thought she could live on the open road—Led Zeppelin blaring out the windows, sunflower seeds and a pack of cloves on the seat next to her. That was before her suit-wearing 9 to 5 where, over her third cup of coffee, she read the paper in horror as the economy plummeted to the ground.

Daydream believer...

Elliot was 7 years old. And we all know it's hard enough being a little kid, but it's even harder being an intelligent little kid. He could easily answer any question in class and was often bored, which led him to daydreaming. All day long, from the back of the class, he looked out the window and watched the trees sway in the wind. He stared at the blackbird that perched on the sill and longed to be outside. He lived for recess, a time where he could sit in the grass or run and play. But even then he found himself alone.

Being on his own didn't really bother him; he lived in his mind most of the time anyway and he quite enjoyed it there. But, as time went by and the other children were playing with their friends, he grew lonely. Before he put himself to bed, Elliot would read stories of wizards and warlocks and dragons, and he dreamed of living in those times and having his very own dragon. He knew that if he had a dragon he would quickly have friends because everyone would like a boy that had a pet dragon.

So, every night in bed he shut his eyes tight and wished for a dragon. And day by day, nothing happened. Elliot knew he needed a potion.

Elliot was not doted upon like many children of his age. His parents worked and were always extremely busy with this dinner meeting or that business trip, so he knew how to take care of himself. Arriving home after school one day, and with his parents still at work, Elliot decided it was time to make his magical potion. He grabbed his wizard hat, a vital part of his halloween costume, and broke a stick off a tree outside. Waving the stick around, he began casting spells.

"Hazzeldy pazzeldy! Sis koom bah!"

He added all sorts of ingredients: carrot juice so the dragon would have really good vision; several flowers so he would always smell good; a bright green crayon so he knew what color to be; water so he knew how to swim; a book of matches so he could breathe fire; a sock to keep his tail warm; and wings off a toy airplane so he could fly. He said a few more words.

"Poof! Pow! Rickety rack!"

Elliot wiggled his nose and squinted his eyes, but nothing happened. Just then, there was a noise in the hallway and he knew his mother was home. Elliot ran as fast as he could to hide the potion in his closet. When he got back to the kitchen he tried to clean up, but his mother still saw the dirty counters and scolded him.

He excitedly tried to explain his project, but his mother told him he was a dreamer and it was just a silly idea. "Oh, Elliot. You cannot make a dragon. They simply don't exist." She was mad at him for making a mess after a long day at work and sent him to his room for the evening. It's harder for adults to believe. They rarely see the possibilities—only what is in front of them.

That night he lay in bed and with stifled tears he told himself that a wizard wouldn't cry. He shut his eyes tight and imagined a dragon—a big, green dragon who would be his best friend. And with visions of a dragon friend, like any little wizard should have, he fell asleep and traveled in his dreams to the land of wizards and warlocks.

In the middle of the night, an awful ruckus woke Elliot from his dreams—it was coming from his closet. A bit frightened and still half-asleep he stumbled to the closet door and paused. He could hear scuttling across the wooden floors. Scared, he cracked the door to see if he could catch a glimpse of the noisemaker. Behind the closet door stood a small dragon. Upon seeing Elliot, barefoot and sleepy, the dragon smiled and asked, "friend?"

From that day on, Elliot knew that when you wanted something badly enough, and if you believed with your whole heart, shutting your eyes tight with wishes, it could happen. So he knew a big secret adults had long forgotten—you must believe.

The end.

On his mind...

He knew there were a lot of things he would forget but
the length of her gray sweater
the smell of her neck as she turned her head
the way her hand held the stem of the martini glass
the height of her black boots—hint of purple on the straps
the curve of her thighs and
the way her hair swept across her forehead
barely touching the frames of her glasses
would never be one of them.

What the future holds...

With the time difference between them she often joked about her friend living in the future. "What's it like there?" she would ask. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it!" her friend replied, playing along. "There are robots zooming around everywhere and they are very friendly. Some people have pet dinosaurs, but only plant eaters like the Brontosaurus, and they slide down their long, long necks. And, of course, there are teleporters that can beam me to you immediately. Nothing is how it was." She smiled, lost in the make-believe like a young child captivated by his mother's bedtime tales. Wanting, so badly, to know what the future holds.