a light awaiting me

I walked down the hallway toward AP English class. One more hour to go before lunch, then Spanish and track practice and the academic day would be done. This hinge point to my schedule was somewhat hard to bear. I had already thought too hard through three classes after getting up too early and having way too little nourishment for breakfast. Now I got to look forward to pondering Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness while ignoring the many similarities it bore to my own disillusionment with the world and "the horror, the horror" of becoming a jaded young adult.

Before I entered into the discussion of the darkness however, I noticed a light awaiting me. His name was Ken Taketani. We met through a friend of a friend and honestly I can't say I ever really knew him. We had no class together. We didn't sit share the same lunch table. I doubt he ever asked me anything beyond, "How are you today?" But he was what I looked forward to each day before noon. The way his face would light up in the hallway when he'd see me, as he was exiting class and I was entering. He was everything I needed in that moment.

Ken would wrap his arms around me and hold me there in the hallway, as if we weren’t surrounded by students shuffling off to class. I'd giggle at his thrilled response to my presence, then I'd press his thin fit adolescent body against mine. I felt so special and content in that moment. It didn't matter all the things I didn't know about him or all the things he didn’t ask about me. He liked art and he played water polo and he delighted in me. I was pretty, I accepted what he gave me, and I delighted in him. Everything else was trivial.

That was the satisfaction of my 16 year old self. To be the person that lit up someone's face, to be held for a brief and meaningful moment, to be treated as the most significant person in the crowded high school hallway...those were the things that spun my world around back then. Sometimes I still long for that thrill of emotion. Marriage is secure and comfortable and dependable for the most part. Still, every now and then, I'd like to relive the spark of that moment. As void of commitment as the relationship between me and Ken was, it was incredibly meaningful at the time.

Look at me.

“Come on, you can do it. Look at me.” Bill Ott sat next to me, looking into my eyes, watching me flitter my glance all around the room and catch his gaze, just to bounce off it again. It was a simple youth camp exercise: just look your partner in the eye without saying anything. But I couldn’t do it. At age 13 I was completely incapable of holding a person’s gaze.
What was wrong with me? Why was I so incapable of allowing someone to look at me? I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to curl up inside myself and peer out from a safe place. Security was everything to me. It seemed my whole childhood was about sinking into my jacket, pulling the hood over my head, wishing I could cram into small spaces and exist unnoticed. But then it often felt I was on the outside looking in.
Other people seemed to be enjoying life while I was a mere spectator. How could those people be so carefree? Didn’t they consider what other people thought of them? Didn’t they obsess over how they were being perceived by society? By their family? By their friends? By the eyes that seemed to be watching even when they were completely alone?
“Look at me,” Bill whispered with a smile. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was a tall odd 19 year old in a black leather bomber jacket and lace up boots, but I knew he didn’t judge me. He was cool, but not intimidating. His face was welcoming, even in the shadows. But…I was completely incapable. I had trained myself not to be seen, despite longing to be noticed. I had occupied myself with studying the people all around me, but lost all ability to willingly be seen by another soul.

October

My dearest October
I’m finally sober
I’ve put away my lover, and how are you?

This time a year ago
I burned all my Polos
Saw Staind and Creed without you.

I’ve heard those songs
Far too long
Nearly a thousand days since April 02.

Two years gone by
Fearing goodbye
Wondering why nothing seems true.

Dead leaves fall
The holidays call
You seem to be donning a different hue.

The waning of summer
Ends my dreamy slumber
I’m awake and ready for something new

Like at homecoming dances
I took my chances
There was some exploring I had to do.

So you’re turning a fresh chapter
And this one comes after…
What was the last one that’s now through?

Silversun Pickups
I woke up and made up
A new plan for living that swiftly grew.

But the forums are dull
I’ve posted my all
Booze or Ben & Gerry’s? to SSPU

It all started with what’s-his-name.
What? Don’t play this game.
I needed his nudging to get me through.

So what will the next be?
I want you happy.
I don’t know yet, but I want that too.

Station VI: Veronica Lily

The Stations of the Cross have always fascinated me. They are disturbing and yet comforting somehow. The Son of God, in human flesh like ours, enduring severe physical pain willingly, knowingly, for the sake of our souls. But more than that, taking on the emotional burden of the sins of the world. It is astounding to consider.
Over the past two years, I have particularly pondered Station VI: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus. I prefer to imagine that this woman was so moved with compassion for Our Lord that she ran to Him regardless of the guards and chastisers surrounding Him. I see her rushing to the fallen Jesus and pressing the cloth to His face. Perhaps she did not actually touch Him. Perhaps she did not hear His divine voice. Maybe she merely caught a glimpse of His penetrating yet sympathetic eyes just before he was prodded onward toward the remainder of His Mount Calvary trek.
Veronica was left with an imprint of the face of Christ. It was not painstakingly created as would have been a painting. Nor did it claim the clarity of a digital photo capturing an instant. But it was enough to proclaim a miracle. It was enough to be honored as one of several moments depicted for meditation regarding the Lord’s sacrifice for Man.
Did Jesus’ suffering include foregoing a single loving touch throughout His final agony leading to crucifixion? We have become a world of many words and little meaning. We communicate through blogs and forums, emails and texts. Can we see Christ in each other when we cannot see each other at all? It is a challenge, to say the least.
I experienced a flash of life within me. A miracle that lasted but a moment. A being I would never hold, a part of me who would remain undefined, and unknown. Ambiguous, vague. Yet understood somehow in that I know myself and I know she was a part of me. I chose the name Veronica because she has reminded me to be moved by my passion, to intercede despite the chastisers, to emulate the True Image of Christ. My husband chose the name Lily for purity.
Veronica Lily, intercede for us.

September

Bright shoes, clean laces
for three mile races
Thursday afternoon on the home course
when tummy flutters force
me to bolt sooner than I planned.

Sharp pencils, crisp books
Interesting looks
from the boy in the next row.
Will he ever know
more than just my face in the classroom?

Summer stories, hallway chatter
What’s the matter?
Didn’t you enjoy the school break?
No, I couldn’t shake
the lonesomeness of home after morning practice.

Blazing heat, Happy Birthday!
Wish there were a better way
to say I’m grateful you’re here,
if only for a year
or two during my life’s journey.

Conceived and Lost

I never knew you were a part of me until you were slipping away,
Drip by drip, day after day.
I knew something was wrong because nothing seemed right.
Silent, transient you,
Leaving before you could ever be
Known, named, desired.

No symptoms hinted at your presence except for a strange hot essence,
Inside, outside, through and through.
There was more of me when there was you.
Everlasting, invisible you,
Residing within, tucked inside
Womb, heart, dreams, mind.

I was unprepared to question my plans until you halted the temporal sands
Subtly – instantly – letting me dwell on possibility.
You weren’t wrong, you weren’t right for me.
Mysterious, untouchable you.
You entered my life and left me
Startled, delighted, confused, aching, wondering…
How it all happened, what it was even about.
You were inexplicable, a miracle, a what if, a hypothetical.
You were what would never be, yet what would always be a part of me.

April

April granted me my First Communion.
And a broken heart from my highschool boyfriend.
It required my efforts for the one mile relay.
And nine celebrations of my young cousin’s birthday.
It demanded a finished senior thesis:
“On Victor Frankle and Hope in Crisis.”
April presented to us Divine Mercy Sunday
And the joyful news of a January baby.
It tolled church bells for the pope from Poland,
The saintly Father of a generation broken.
April marked a rediscovery of me
With confused intense creativity.
The winter’s final doom.
The flower’s budding bloom.
Summer’s freedom soon.
April.