July 22, part two: I remember... (fiction) (15 minutes)

...Caroline.

I remember her hair, her feet, the dress she wore on the beach.

I remember that beach, it was south of here, it was the middle of summer, it was really hot.

I remember wanting time to myself to think about what my mother had told me.

I remember that Thursday evening; I wanted to forget it, but I finally decided I never will.

I remember my father's face, through the window in the car, his sad look.

I remember thinking I'd never seen him cry before, but then I remembered Nana's funeral. That was different really.

I remember mother saying she had to talk to us girls first.

I remember thinking that was odd. We had never been a terribly close family, but we didn't usually leave people out.

I remember wanting to ask about Jeff.

I remember thinking I would say it wasn't fair.

But then when she dropped the bomb I remember it didn't matter.

I remember the anger that started in my stomach, a small annoyance like I'd swallowed a handful of smooth, shiny stones. They went down easy enough, but then there was the matter of passing them out.

I didn't really swallow rocks, but I remember that's what it felt like, like rocks in my stomach, in the pit of my stomach.

I remembered the beach, Rehoboth Beach, I remembered a vacation there when I was twelve, Rebecca was fourteen, Jeff was seven. He was small for his age, small for our family. An anomaly.

I remembered that vacation like it had meant something. It was the best time our family had ever had together. Becc and I were closer then, close like girls always are. But now we're in our thirties, we haven't seen each other in over five years; occasional phone calls don't really do it.

I remembered this when mother called us home. She's got her family now and I've got my stuff.

I remembered exactly the beach our family was on that summer. I found it and that's where I met Caroline, long brown hair, long feet, a long cotton dress flapping in the ocean breeze.

She approached me, I guess, because I sat down five yards from her and stared at her, watched her spinning, her dress flying.

She approached me, she introduced herself.

I remembered nothing of my family's problems.

I remember Caroline's smell as she sat next to me, body odor and sweet perfume.

I'd never kissed another woman before, but it seemed like the most natural thing to do.

We kissed, two women alone on a beach, the breeze was the same as it had been twenty years earlier.

With my eyes closed, I remembered my family all the more.

I remember now the kiss.

I remember Caroline's hair getting caught between our lips.

I remember her tears which she said were for me.

June 22, part one: horn (7 minutes)

I had the opportunity to join my teacher (Ethan Nichtern, who has been an important influence in my life) in New York at a one-day meditation and writing workshop which is part of the group he started called The Interdependence Project (http://www.theidproject.com/). In the workshop, we meditated, did a couple of Natalie Goldberg style writing exercises and read some of our work. It was a great day.

Red thing in his hand, a brass cone coming out of the rubber, a squeeze, a honk, the little girl laughs, her mother gives her a stern look, that raised eyebrow she knows well, but with it the mother smirks a little. He's a funny man. What's he doing here? Is he up to no good? The man honks his horn again and rides away on his bicycle. A little piece of plastic, small, black, shiny, on the ground, on the gravel embedded cement, not there before he came around. The mother notices it and stares at it. What is it? She stares at it for a long time; the little girl runs off to chase the breeze, the screams of the children on the far side of the park, the wrought iron fence, black and stoic, the yellow cabs honking on the other side, relentless little pecks, like birds with loud beaks. Nobody seems to notice, least of all the little girl watching the older kids on the swings, wishing for a turn, wishing for someon to push her high, not her mother, another kid, a big kid, someone she longs to belike, will no doubt be like in a couple of years, another of the neighborhood kids. her mother says she's too young for those kids, They play games that aren't nice for little girls, her mother tells her. Like what? The little girl asks, but her mother doesn't answer, her mother ignores her; her mother is intent of the piece of plastic.