Final Posting

For my class I’ve been editing and writing old and new posts, poems, fiction, and nonfiction.  All of these have to do with memories, and the senses connected to those memories.  This will be my last post for class, and it may take me a bit to get back in the swing of posting once this class is over–just a heads up!  But I hope you all like this post.  It is long, with different pieces within it.  Let me know if it’s at all confusing and I will fix it promptly.

.

Bare

Seeing, seeing me.

Showing the world my face,

Not hiding a blotch,

A spot,

A blemish.

Just the zig zags of black,

The feathers around the orbs of my mind,

Protection against the pollutants in my world.

Skin, teeth, flaws, physicality all there.

Walk through the door to my conscience,

But you overlook me.

The one you won’t comprehend.

See me bare,

See me naked.

I’ll show it to you, if you show it to me.

.

.
.
.

Mistletoe and Holly

Green and red make the holidays that’s what’s said, but for me it’s a little different. It’s the smells: baking treats, cinnamon and clove, cat’s fur, family’s perfumes. I like the gifts, sure, but there’s something about the music, the snow, the air, that make everyone want to get together, be with family.

It was Christmas, once.  One time, specifically, for me, it was.  I was seven.  My whole family was around me, even Grammy who would die the next summer.  My mom bought my sister and I little, baby perfumes–the kind you spray on your dolls, except I didn’t like dolls.  Still don’t.  My sister and I got the same exact package–six little bottles with pastel colored caps marking which was which scent.  I remember the rose and lavender colors were my favorite.  They smelled like babies.  Those were my first makeup.  To me, these perfumes were the gateway drug of makeup.  I began collecting scents.  First the little plastic Calgene bottles at Rite Aid, then Bath and Body works.  Then real perfume. I would ask for it for Christmas.  I have more scents than anyone I know.  And more makeup than anyone I know, except professionals.  Although I don’t know any professionals, so the statement stands.  My sister stuck with Bath and Body Works.  I’m a little bit more sophisticated, so I’ve moved on to bigger and better (more expensive) things.

.

The Beginning

Yes.

In the beginning, there was the

word.

The one word my mother would say all the time.

Yes you can, yes you will, sure, of course. Rarely was the word “no” uttered in our home.

One time, I used all the hot water for my bath. ”No, Erin! Get out of the tub!” That was one of the only times I heard that word.

I didn’t take it for granted, I promise. When I told Mom during Freshman year of high school “I want to be a poet”, she replied with “Yes, Erin. Whatever makes you happy.”

The drama and distractions of high school ensued just after that declaration. Poetry was thrown to the back of my mind. I focused on my painting, drawing, and pottery, realizing I needed some sort of creative outlet or I would go insane. Well, at least more insane that I already was.

Then, in college, I decided to pursue my Creative Writing degree after realizing I couldn’t cut it in the art department. I felt a lack of creative juices driving me mad, very, very slowly. I turned to makeup, a friend I’d always been denied before college. This was the one “no” I’d ever been given. “No, Erin, you can’t wear makeup until you’re eighteen.”

It was like art on my face, that I could show everyone whenever I wanted. I loved being able to mix colors and see how they look on my face, with certain clothes, hair styles. It sated my need for creation, kept me going. Creation was still possible, even though not in the way I’d thought.

Then, I took Introduction to Poetry with Oliver. It was the best class I’d taken in college, revealing a whole new world of writing and creation I’d never known before.

Poetry was open to me again and now I couldn’t leave it alone. Yes, I could be who I wanted to be again. Yes, I could be anyone.

There was no one who could tell me who to be, and that’s the way my mother wanted it.

My mother would always say, “yes, you can be that person”.

I  would always hear that one word.

Yes.

.

Still Seeing You

I’m still seeing your face on my pillow,

Seeing your shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath.

Your velvet skin disrupting my thoughts,

Your closed eyes flickering across my memory.

There was never much I could do to keep you

But you always stayed anyways.

Now you’re gone without a word.

And I’m left with the memory of your smell, your touch,

But mostly the way you looked lying next to me.

My magenta sheets are molded to your body still.

I don’t sleep on the outside, the chill you left is deep.

But I see you, here next to me, still.

.

.
.

.
.

.

Feeling the Futon

My friend Tarryn's daughter, Natalie playing on said futon.

The futon in my apartment living room is my mom’s.  She’s had it for years.  Every memory my sister, mom and me have had on this futon is worth more to me than the red linen cover with the abstract golden swirls of vine and flower.  But the best memory I’ve had on this futon, this broken, wooden framed beauty, is with myself only.  I run my hands over the cool, crimson cotton and it all rushes back into my brain, the smell of cool morning, the sunlight glinting in the mirrors hanging above my head, and the birds chirping just outside on the veranda.

That was the day I decided to write a book.  I had an idea (I later realized was actually probably not such a great idea) that I was determined to write.  I didn’t have a laptop at this point, so I sat down on the futon, opened up my journal and began to write in my messy, scrawling script.  A boy and a girl meet at an apartment complex, just like the apartments in which I was living with my mom just after senior year in high school.

That whole day was fresh and clean and crisp.  I sat there for hours in my tank top and shorts I’d worn to bed, my skin chilled and bare feet turning purple from the cold.  It was very early summer, the sun still timid to grace us with its full heat.  But I just sat on that futon for those hours until my mom got home from work.

“Erin, what have you been doing?  You’re still in your pajamas.”

“I’ve been writing”

That was the first look of absolute appreciation for my talent and dedication to writing I’d seen from my mom.  That was the day I realized that she really would support me in my pursuit.  I was probably hungry, but I don’t remember it.  Just the cool day and my hand aching from so many ideas flitting around in my head, waiting to be transcribed to the thick, cream pages of my journal.