pulled me
to him
as the music ripped
through our bodies.
I didn’t know his name.
He didn’t know mine.
And yet,
it was like
we’d known each other
forever.
My best friend, Claire,
was with me,
and she kept trying
to pull me away,
like she was afraid
for my life.
Silly girl.
Nothing to worry about.
If anything,
he sparked
a fire
inside of me,
making me want
to live
again.
the peace I need
I pulled up in my old Nova.
Claire got in
wearing a long, flowing purple skirt
and a silky, smooth black blouse.
She makes
all of her own
clothes.
Fashion
is her
passion.
I think she
should be a singer.
She’s the voice
to the music we make
at church.
Like hot cocoa
and a soft blanket
and fuzzy slippers,
warming you up
top to bottom.
Raspy and sweet
all at the
same time.
I used to envy her,
but then I decided
to just be thankful
for making
incredible music
together.
My music
was complete
because of Claire.
She got in
and threw a CD
in my lap.
“Your turn to listen.”
The church we go to,
Center for Spiritual Living,
makes CDs
of the sermons
and the music.
After I backed out,
I looked at Claire,
but my smile
didn’t want to come out
and play.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
She knows me
like a druggie knows
his best vein.
“They went to the hospital.
Early this morning.”
She gave a nod
of understanding.
I drove
in silence.
That is,
until she reached over
and popped the CD in the player
Blaze had installed for my birthday.
We listened to her sing
the words:
Pain in your heart.
You’re playing the part
of a human in need.
You beg and you plead
Wash it away.
Wash it away.
Give me the peace,
the peace I need.
I wrote that song.
Funny how
time goes on,
things change,
and yet,
some things stay
exactly the same.
me and God
It’s not that I’m
super-religious or anything.
In fact,
the Center for Spiritual Living
is not about religion.
Otherwise
it’d be called
the Center for Religious Living.
There’s a difference.
I like it because
there isn’t any
bullshit there.
They let me be
who I am,
and understand
that it’s all about
staying
connected
to the source.
I’ve been going
for as long
as I can remember.
It was my mom’s church.
She played the guitar and sang.
But she’d take me,
and I’d sit in the audience,
hypnotized
by her voice.
Magical.
She’s the reason
I’m in love
with music.
It’s one
of the many gifts
she gave me.
She probably
helped give me
my love for
God too,
even though I get
mad at him sometimes.
Kinda like my dad.
I get mad at him a lot.
Still, I can’t help
but love him too.
holes of the heart
After church
we went out
for doughnuts
and coffee.
Claire loves
chocolate coconut ones.
She likes to dip them
in her coffee,
and then coconut flakes
float on the top
like icicles
bobbing down
a muddy river.
I like the holes.
The little rejects
that aren’t
as alluring
but are just as
sweet.
“I’m sewing my dad’s bowling shirt this afternoon,”
Claire told me.
“A bowling shirt?”
She shrugged. “He joined a league.
His team wants cool shirts.
I said I’d make him one.
If they like it, I’ll make them for the whole team.”
“Claire.
A bowling shirt?
What’s next?
A fishing vest?”
She reached over
and took one of my
powdered-sugar
doughnut holes.
“Shut up.
It’s cool. I swear.
I’ll show you.”
Claire didn’t put
the entire hole
into her mouth.
She took a bite,
and her lips
were suddenly white,
like she kissed
a snowman
and he kissed her back.
I pictured this girl
with white lips
sewing bowling shirts,
and it made me laugh.
She grabbed another hole
and dabbed it on my cheeks.
I squealed and started
to do the same,
when my phone rang.
We froze,
doughnut holes
midair.
It rang.
And rang.
“Maybe it’s Blaze,” she said.
I glanced at the number.
I shook my head.
I stuffed the doughnut hole in my mouth.
The phone kept ringing.
Claire gave me a look.
“I’m eating!” I mumbled.
Finally
the ringing
stopped
and I noticed
my heart felt heavy,
like the holes
were stuck
right
there.
Holes in my heart.
Yeah.
That was about right.
what to do?
As I drove Claire home,
she talked,
trying to get my brain
to think about other things.
It didn’t work.
“Want to come in?”
she asked when I pulled in the driveway.
I shook my head.
“Come on.
Don’t you want to see the bowling shirt?”
I smiled.
“Sorry, Claire,” I said.
“Forgive me?”
She reached over for a hug.
I liked her answer.
“Go see Blaze,” she said.
“Don’t go home and just sit there.”
She’s smart,
that girl.
“And check your messages,” she said as she got out.
Okay.
Maybe
too smart.
the good stuff
and pointed to the garage,
which meant
that’s where he was.
She doesn’t like me.
Blaze keeps telling me I’m imagining it.
I say I’m right.
When I learned she’s a tattoo artist,
I wanted her to give me one.
She’s given Blaze seven.
I wanted a little heart
on my chest
like Janis Joplin
supposedly had.
Dad would never know.
Still, she wouldn’t do it.
She used my age as an excuse.
Whatever.
She doesn’t talk to me.
Never says, “Hi, Ali, how are you?”
Or “Ali, want to stay for dinner tonight?”
Or “Ali, I hear you’re going to be a sister.”
Nothing.
Like that day.
No talking.
Just pointing.
Blaze was banging
on his drum set,
the music from the stereo
blasting so loud,
I wondered
if he could hear
himself play.
I stood there,
him oblivious
to anything
but the music.
I love to watch him play.
Muscles urging.
Passion surging.
Anger purging.
So. Powerful.
When the song ended,
I walked over,
and from behind,
I slipped my arms
around his tattoo-covered chest,
leaned down,
and kissed his neck.
He took my hand
and with a hundred kisses,
walked his lips
up my arm.
“Surprise,” I whispered in his ear.
He stood up,
turned around,
and then
the world disappeared
as I was swept up
and away
into the world
of Blaze.
Muscles urging.
Passion surging.
Anger purging.
So. Amazing.
almost the perfect day
I got my guitar.
We played.
We kissed.
We danced.
We kissed.
We talked.
We kissed.
We sang.
We kissed.
I almost forgot
everything else.
Almost.
the best
Finally
I told him.
“I think I’m a sister today.”
“You think?”
“Dad called.
I didn’t answer.”
He looked at me
with his
chocolate brown eyes
and it’s like
his love
radiated through me
so strongly,
I started
to sweat.
“Want me to listen for you?” he asked.
That is why I have
more love
than my heart
can possibly hold
for Blaze.
He is
better than warm fall colors,
better than beautiful music,
better than doughnuts and coffee.
At that moment,
I couldn’t think of one single thing
better
than Blaze.
oh, so gently
We went to his room.
He listened to the message.
When he was done,
he kissed me softly,
with such tenderness,
it almost brought me
to tears.
Then he wrapped
his strong arms
around me
and whispered in my ear,
“Her name is Ivy.
And she has the best big sister ever.”
before, after, and somewhere in-between
Blaze and his mom
were going out to dinner
with Blaze’s older brother and his brother’s wife.
I wanted to go too.
But Ginger didn’t invite me.
It was hard to for me to leave,
because I knew
it’d be a while
before I’d see Blaze again.
We don’t go to the same school,
and I’m so jealous of the girls
who kiss their boyfriends
before every class.
Lucky girls.
So, after we said good-bye,
I headed home,
thinking it would just be
me and Cobain
eating mac ’n’ cheese.
But Dad was there.
He looked happier
than I’d ever
seen him.
“I thought you could come to the hospital,” he said.
“We can all spend the evening together.
You can meet your baby sister.
She’s adorable, Al.”
Perfect.
The kid wasn’t even a day old
and the one big, happy family thing
had already begun.
“I have homework, Dad.
I can’t.”
He tried to convince me
I could skip it,
or bring it with me,
or do it in the morning before school,
but I played the part of
concerned student,
and finally
he let up.
“You want something to eat?” he asked me,
and suddenly
it was like it was before.
Before she came along.
“Yeah.
I’m hungry.”
I had visions of us
at the counter,
making dinner
together.
We’d boil the noodles
and mix up the sauce,
throwing in a little bit of this
and a whole lot of that.
And then we’d sit down
at the table
together.
Just me
and him.
I thought, Maybe he’ll ask about school.
Maybe he’ll ask about my music.
Maybe he’ll ask about Blaze.
He reached for his wallet.
“Why don’t you have a pizza delivered?
I have to get back to the hospital.”
He handed me a twenty.
“We’ll be home tomorrow.”
And then he left,
taking any hunger
I might have had
right along with him.
the long version
When I came home
from school that day
so long ago,
Mom told me to sit down
and she’d get me some
milk and cookies.
She was a morning kindergarten teacher
and was always there
when I came home.
But she was also an artist,
and in the afternoons
she’d usually be in her studio,
painting.
At that time,
she’d been busy
painting pictures
for the owners of
a bed and breakfast
who wanted an
Alice in Wonderland room.
Mom loved the project because
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
was her all-time
favorite book.
She even named me
after Alice.
The snickerdoodles,
fresh from the oven,
were warm
and comforting,
just like
a mother’s love.
She sat and
watched me eat
while I babbled on
about this thing
and that thing.
When I saw
a single,
lonely tear
escape
before she could
reach up
and catch it,
I stopped talking,
suddenly aware
of how the cookies
were made
to soften the blow
of whatever
was coming next.
I don’t remember
much of anything
after she said
the words
“pancreatic cancer,”