Aureations http://ambercunningham.posterous.com Most recent posts at Aureations posterous.com Sat, 29 Dec 2012 09:14:00 -0800 A Year in Review: 2012 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/a-year-in-review-2012 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/a-year-in-review-2012

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Sat, 29 Dec 2012 09:05:00 -0800 Baking Bonds Content http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/baking-bonds-content http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/baking-bonds-content

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Thu, 27 Dec 2012 12:22:00 -0800 My Lighthouse http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/my-lighthouse http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/my-lighthouse

The hospital smelled of sterilized death. The lobby made no effort to try and comfort or welcome. Perhaps the feeling of a temporary stay was intended. Still, it was all too unfamiliar, and I could imagine her being wheeled into the cold, stone-floored lobby, wanting to etreat.

The nurse squinted at my father, brother and me, skeptical of our relations to my mother. My red hair and strikingly similar facial features should have given it away, and my anxiety was building to the point where my balled-up fists were painfully white. Just show me to her goddamn bed.

 “Don’t be alarmed when you see her,” she said, almost too nonchalantly. “She’s been through a lot, and may be very tired.”

Hospitals had never been anything I was particularly interested in. Immunizations and blood work made me absolutely terrified of needles, most of the time the pain being less than expected. Walking down the hall, I expected my mother to be hooked up to every machine and every IV the hospital had. I expected nurses and doctors to be examining her body head to toe as she lay there, being prodded and poked, unconscious and unknowing. My steps quickened, though my feet felt leaden.

Peering into the room, the pain of seeing my mother in her current state was less than expected. She was fully conscious—tired and pale, but very much alive. There was one IV, one heart rate monitor, and one rolling TV tray with some leftover chocolate pudding beside the bed. There was no one in the room besides her roommate, who kept the curtains closed as she watched All My Children at a startlingly high volume.

 

As I inched closer, afraid to trip over any invisible wires, I began to see why the nurse had warned us. Bags under her eyes, her hair greasy from sweat and writhing, she looked nothing like the fashionable, put-together mother that I saw everyday. She was almost unrecognizable. I was afraid to even say “hello” in fear of disturbing this unfamiliar woman, but I recognized her perfect white smile right away.

“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

She turned her head toward the bedside table to grab a notepad, and that’s when I saw them. The alien-like wires sticking out from her scalp—jettisons of red and green and blue. I coughed, choking from my sudden gasp. She must have heard it, too, as she smirked as she was writing.

Feeling okay. Roommate keeps the damn TV way too loud at night. Haven’t gotten much sleep. The wires are to monitor my brain waves. Making sure the migraines don’t start up again.

I was confused. Why couldn’t she talk?

I went to her bedside, pushing the table away. She looked dangerously delicate with the IV in her arm, and I feared I would tear the needle out if I so much as touched her. I grasped her right hand and mustered up the courage to give her a gentle hug. Her right arm wrapped around me, hugging me tightly to her body. I watched as her left arm lay still at her side. She smiled at me, and I could see now that it was a slightly crooked smile, the left corner of her mouth seeming to stay in one place. She motioned for her notepad and wrote again:

Migraines caused a transient schemic attack. Kind of like a stroke. Can’t move the left side of my body or talk. Probably will move again, but not sure. Doctor’s said probably not, but I don’t think so. I know my body.

The thought of never being able to walk again made its way into my imagination. Never taking the stairs again, having to wait for the smelly, disgusting elevator at the Park Street T-Station, possibly having to ask complete strangers for help when my limitations were met. She’s strong, I thought. She’ll go right back to normal. Screw what the doctors say.

 

 

The Hospital for Special Care was where the real healing began. My father’s friend had gotten her a good room; she always seemed to have connections to people wherever she went, even when she was barely clinging onto life. I visited quite often, carpooling with different relatives, and watched her through the entire process. We took walks in the garden; I pushing her in her wheelchair and her intently listening as I would tell her about my day at school, and how my grade in math was looking a little grim. I could not hear her, but I knew what she would say.  

“Just keep working hard. Do the best you can, and if your grades don’t reflect that, at least they’ll know you tried your hardest.”

After the garden, I would see her to physical therapy, where she would climb stairs and do very basic exercises to see if she could gather any sort of movement in her left side. Not once did she stop for air or complain, and even the nurses found this astounding. She was still my strong mother.

 

 

Weeks went by, and the treatments did not seem to be working for her. Though her voice was almost back, nothing else seemed to be moving. This was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry.

I’m scared, she wrote in her notebook. I don’t want you to be scared for me, though. I’m sure I’ll be okay.

I nodded, forcing a smile through tear-drowned eyes. We had always had “girl talk,” just

as many mothers and daughters do, but very rarely does a child see either of their parents in a state of complete vulnerability. I wasn’t sure of what to do—what advice could I possibly give the wisest person I knew?

She was not weeping, but that sudden release of her strength for just a moment made me realize just how human she was. Though her hair was always polished and her smile always bright, my mother was not perfect by any means, but god, was she close.

The heart monitor beeped slow and steady as we both let go.

 

 

As I walked alongside her, still young and alive, I felt her strength in those few inches between us. She was here, and she had survived. Her legs strong after a stroke at an age much too young; her feminine glow ablaze after an oophorectomy, just after she brought my brother into the world; her smile emanating the joy in her heart after undergoing an induced heart attack—literally dying and coming back to life again. She is a marvel of human strength, both physical and mental.

One week after having surgery to remove another tumor from her ovary, she was walking around that track, arm and arm with me, proud to be walking alongside survivors and those people who love them. I felt like a child again, so attached to her, looking to her as if she were the world.

At that moment, she was. The purple sash across my chest announced “Caregiver,” a title I wish I could have had at the time of her treatment. Though I do not remember her experience with ovarian cancer, I remember what it felt like to almost have lost her.

Of course, the Relay for Life staff decided to play “You Raise Me Up” as the ballad to which the survivors walked, and though I had heard the song many times before—and actually deplored this choice, as it seemed to be quite corny—I began to tear up. I couldn’t believe it. All of the years I had walked with her, I had not once felt the need to cry. Perhaps it was the tiny brush with her cancer almost coming back after sixteen years that brought the tears on. I blinked them away quickly, as she had stated before that this was meant to be a celebration, not a time to weep. She always hated funerals—she still requests that there be a parade of some sort and a chorus of enthusiastic Baptist Church singers after her death as we spread her and my father’s ashes.

As she walked and I forced my tears back, everyone else seemed to disappear. Though there were many other strong men and women around her, she seemed to come out on top. Through countless medical ailments and brushes wtih death, she never showed one sign of pessimism. She took the struggles and strain she endured and turned them into the driving force behind the start of—and, so far, great success of— her dream career as an actor. Everything has fallen into place for her, and though I do not very much believe in karma, it seems as though the universe is giving something back to her. The hard work she has put into every single day since her TIA has resulted in her being a picture of health and, naturally, one of the most inspirational

people I have ever known and ever will know. She is truly a beacon, and though she may not know it, she inspires everyone who has ever had their lives touched by her grace, strength, positivity, and hope.

She’s guided me this far, and I have no doubt that she will be around, through sickness and health, to guide me through the rough tides I have yet to face.

 

 

 

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Thu, 27 Dec 2012 12:02:54 -0800 4:15 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/415 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/415

The flashes of light that usually prevented total darkness behind my eyelids formed into figures, and I was sure I was dreaming. Familiar faces began to spring from the purples and reds as my breathing slowed and my mind tried to let go of consciousness. Memories long since touched came shouting at me, wagging a finger in my direction, scolding me for running away from them. “You’ll never forget us,” they seemed to say as conversations wrought with intensity, betrayal, and heartbreak filled my mind’s ear.

The fan hums quietly. The blinds sway from side to side, brushing against one another as the air conditioning whispers through the vent in the floor. Tiny slivers of light break through their cracks, striping the walls and distracting my eyes beneath their lids. His breathing is steady and calming, a welcome warmth on the back of my neck.

This isn’t the first time I am in this bed. The sides seem to slope as the middle gives way to a softer, less dense valley of padding. He had slept here alone for quite a while, for which I am grateful for in a bit of guilt. I am glad that I am the only one to have slept with him in this bed before; that I have my own place in his heart instead of overshadowing another’s. The slopes force us to join in the middle, always in contact with one another, backs turned or limbs entwined. Sleeping with him is the most peaceful sleep I have ever experienced, his trust and mine forming a comfortable warmth and stillness where previous loves had distracted and energized.

www 

“I hardly got any sleep last night.” I rubbed my eyes, regretting leaving my glasses in my room before leaving for the night. “My mind was racing the entire time. Laying next to him was really nice… but I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Did you guys do anything?” Charlotte nudged, hungry for the juicy details.

“Yeah… it was really weird. He got angry that I was dancing with his roommate, but he was the one who suggested it.” My face flushed as I shook my head at the thought. “We were dancing and… and his roommate just kind of… started kissing me.”

“EW! Oh God, what did you do?”

“Well, we played a game of quarters right before we headed out, so I was pretty much completely gone after only a half hour. I just went with it.” I groaned.

“So what happened with him?”

“He got really angry when he saw that… I saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

My lips were locked against another pair of lips—a pair I was far too unfamiliar with. Had we even spoken for more than a minute? What the hell, I thought, it’s a party, and I’m not committed to anyone. I wished I had been.

He saw it, and a sick and twisted part of me loved this. I bet you regret letting me go now. I pulled away to catch him sprint-walking out of the room and down the stairs. I took my hands off of Pat, asking, “Is anyone leaving with him?”

“I don’t think so,” he shrugged, placing his hands on my hips. “He’ll be fine, just let him go.” I felt violated as he pulled me closer, and just as the song ended, I made a break for it.

“I caught him and we went back to his room on the bus. He said he hated seeing that,” I smiled at a wide-eyed Charlotte. “I don’t even know how it happened, but next thing I knew, I was on top of him. He kept telling me that he loved me. And then we slept. Or at least he did.”

“Do you think it’s gonna go anywhere?”

“I dunno. It’ll probably get all fucked up somewhere down the line. Maybe not, though. I think this just needs to happen for me to get over it, or it will just turn into something. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be hard to sleep next to the one you really love?”

“I’ve never heard of that,” she replied. “I’ve never really been ‘in love’ with anyone, but I think it’s supposed to be the opposite. Like you’re so comfortable with the person that you can sleep through a tornado with them by your side.”

I let the thought slip through my ears, never to be considered. The ignorant bliss crumbled when I received a text message a few days later:

I think it’d be for the best if we stopped seeing each other.

www 

So why am I awake? Any other night, I would be dead asleep, waking in late morning to early afternoon, even if I had retired at a decent hour. The clock on the cable box reads an orange-tinted four-fifteen, and my eyes widen even more. I can feel the sleep forming in their corners even though they have not shut, and everything seems to be amplified. The fan roars, the air is freezing, the slivers of light become painful scars on my corneas. All I can think is fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jacob lets out a mid-dream sigh, and for the first time in hours, I turn to face him and smile as his eyes flutter at projected workings of his mind.

www

I smiled a devilish smile as I pounced on him, shouting, “Come on, Jacob! Let’s wrestle!”

He began to tickle me—which seems to be his “signature move”—and I immediately succumbed to the feeling of being in his arms. It was comfortable, like being wrapped in a thick blanket. My body instantly became slack, and my breathing relaxed. We both sat up and, without thinking, I leaned in to kiss him. We’ve done this before, I thought. It’s just fun. We’re just friends with benefits.

Just as I brushed his lips, he grasped my shoulders, pushing me back. “Wait, wait, wait,” he managed, flustered. “What is going on here?”

I sat before him, feeling like spotlights were shining on me from all directions. I had no idea what was going on, and had forgotten how this pattern had even started. We had been betrayed, I knew that. We had been lonely, I also knew that. We had always gone to one another in times of need, and we’ve constantly felt the pull to be there for one another… I began to realize that.

“I… I don’t know… I…”

“What do you want, Amber?” The question fell on me with heavy pressure.

“Do you want to try this?”

My thoughts were a flurry. I didn’t want to lose him, but really felt like I wanted something more. I thought he didn’t want anything more than just “fooling around,” which was why before I had insinuated a sparring match, I sat on the exact opposite end of the couch, restraining myself from cuddling or doing anything that would have suggested my feelings. Fuck. What do I want?

I answered perhaps a second too quickly, the pressure controlling my words. “Yeah, I wanna try it.”

            We both smiled and embraced one another, but I was scared to death. I pictured everything going wrong: shouting matches, emotional turmoil, crying… lots of crying. It would be just like the four other times we had tried to be together, and this could really screw things up. In a time where friends were sparse and trust was low, I needed him. I really, truly needed him. 

www

I desperately needed rest. Nighttime was notorious for throwing bad thoughts my way, and at four-fifteen, I couldn’t afford to wander back into a depressive state. I twisted and turned, thinking of all of the repercussions that would follow during the day if I didn’t get at least a short nap in.

I began to cry, thinking of everything that bothered me at the moment and in the past. The frustration of lost friends, being manipulated by someone who didn’t even love me, and realizing that I was incredibly naïve filled my head, and I swear I could feel the pressure in my skull begin to increase. My body tensed, promising at least two more hours of uncomfortable wakefulness. 

www

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Jacob said gently, sitting me down on the bed. “I know you, Amber. I can see it all over your face. Something’s wrong.”

“I really don’t know,” the tears started to build. “I’m just really anxious or something, but I don’t know about what.” My body was insanely tense, and my breathing quickened at an alarming rate. I tried to search through my mind for the answer to what was making me so anxious, but nothing surfaced out of the storm.

“Look at me, Amber.”

Something inside me didn’t allow me to look.

“Why can’t you look at me?”

I lay on my side, pressing my face into the comforter. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know what I’m feeling, I’m scared, and I’m just completely confused and tense. I have no idea why, so please stop pressuring me!”

He sat silent and, after a moment, placed his hand on mine. “You can talk to me. Maybe that will help you figure it out.”

I dragged him down to lie next to me. I cried silently and forced myself to look into his eyes, to try and be comfortable. “I don’t know. I think, maybe, this is all just very new for me… you know, it feels different than the other times we tried…”

He smiled at this. “Yeah, it’s really different for me, too. I’m glad it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s definitely a good thing. I’m just…” I tried to find the right word as I scanned my body for symptomatic clues. “…overwhelmed?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“I just feel a lot for you, and while all that stuff was going on--all the ‘friends with benefits’ stuff, I mean--I started to develop feelings and I thought you didn’t want anything to do with that but now you do and—”

I stopped myself, checking in on my body again. My legs and arms were excruciatingly tense and filled with pain, and I tucked all of my limbs into the fetal position as I winced.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… everything hurts. A lot. The last time this happened was when I told that asshole that I—”

The last time this happened was when I told the boy who never loved me that I loved him. The pain overcame me, and I couldn’t walk or move my arms or hands, and it took all I had not to scream.

Shit, I realized, I’m in love with him.

“Listen,” he rubbed my legs and arms gently, trying to calm me down. “I think I know what you’re getting at. I love you, too, Amber. I have for a very long time. Probably since the first time I met you.”

I was astounded. I smiled and let my tears flow openly, as they had turned from upset to overjoyed. “But… I was so ugly back then!”

Jacob laughed. “Even with frizzy, curly hair and braces, I still knew you were amazing. The love is just stronger now that we’re both in a good place. Together.”

I laughed, my whole body shaking as the tenseness escaped me. “I do love you. I guess it’s just hard for me to say after—”

He put a finger over my lips. “You don’t have to think about that now. You love me and I love you, and I would never, ever play those mind-games with you. You deserve all the love in the world, and I’m going to give it to you. This is our time; this is a new time.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

www

I look at Jacob and, for a moment, I am on the precipice of sleep. He is at peace, lying still, with his arm draped around me. I hold myself in that moment, pleading, for once, for sleep to wait just a bit longer.

Just as I close my eyes, the light in the room becomes a bit brighter. The fan seems to slow to its usual hum, the air returns to a comfortable relief from the summer heat. The clock, just a few minutes past four-fifteen, grows a bit dimmer, and the slivers of white light begin to turn to a much warmer shade of orange.

I slide quietly out of the bed, my body finally feeling relaxed. I twist the rod to open the shades just a bit, and smile widely at the sunrise just outside the window. The streetlamp across the way extinguishes, and just before the first bird begins to sing, I realize the silence and stillness of morning. I wonder if this is what birth must be like. First there is complete silence, last there is a busy, blinding world, but in between… in between darkness and blinding brightness, there is this in-between of gentle sounds and soft, beautiful light. It’s those few seconds in which a newborn knows that now is the start of their time. A new time, a new chance, a new light emerging from the dark they have been in for far too long. 

As the clock glows a quiet five-fifteen, I slide back into bed, under Jacob’s sure arms, and dream of hope, leaving past darkness behind.

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Fri, 23 Nov 2012 21:35:00 -0800 Untitled http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/169554827 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/169554827

I watch you on the other side
as the kerosene begins to seep
into the deeply carved seams and cracks
in the wood of our footbridge.
Laughter echoes through the canyon,
off of the stone embracing the warm fog,
and through the vivid humidity streams
a myriad of memories,
in rainbows produced by rememberance light.

I weep quietly, and you do not see,
you are just a still-life after a year.
Your wavy hair, untouched, lay still
while winds whip around me,
dragging me from connection.

God knows I miss you,
but I do not know God.
He should help me.
He should guide me.
He should make it all right
to know you again.
He should put the words in my mouth:
“Hello, I knew you just a moment ago.
Can you hear me now?”

For all the things you never did,
should I be ungrateful?
You were a mirror,
perhaps too close.
My fingertips on our reflection
seemed to leave no print,
seemed to be a vain whisper.

When bridges are burned
and all is ash,
is rebuilding a track
backwards,
a straying from the nature of time?
Or is it a looking forward
to looking back on who we were
when we thought we could not be any better
and thought we were worthy of death and life,
all at once.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Wed, 30 May 2012 18:01:00 -0700 The Natural State of Human Mood http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/the-natural-state-of-human-mood http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/the-natural-state-of-human-mood

F-scott-fitzgerald-and-hi-001

This is a subject that has come up many times throughout this past year.

In his autobiographical essay, “The Crack-Up,” F. Scott Fitzgerald discusses his slow slip into reality the more and more he ages. The things he has seen and experienced have caused him to change his views of the world, and perhaps for the better. He seems a bit more cynical, which is also found in The Great Gatsby quite a lot, in my opinion. 

In the second to last paragraph of his stream of opinions and mindful retellings, Fitzgerald comes to an unusual—but perhaps true—conclusion:

“This is what I think now: that the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.”

A “qualified unhappiness” is what really struck me here. 

Last semester, my Art of Nonfiction class discussed the natural state of the human brain, mainly dealing with emotions. We aren’t psychiatrists or psychologists, but there is something to be said about the constant struggle for humans to be happy. Throughout history, we have seen evidence that happiness is something one has had to fight for, and is never achieved very easily. Now, while I don’t think that when one gets older, he or she is necessarily “qualified” to be unhappy, but there comes a time when people realize that the highs and lows of everyday life just aren’t worth the struggle.

Perhaps we are not naturally happy. Perhaps some are more naturally content than others, but as time goes on, that contentedness flutters away, and this is mainly because of more knowledge being acquired. The knowledge that people aren’t all good, for example, was a hard thing for me to learn, and looking back on my childhood now, I can pinpoint the exact moment that my emotional thermometer went from a highly-emotional temperature to one that was a bit calmer—somewhat like having a fever and getting over it. 

Perhaps we are not naturally happy, and the fight for happiness is a newer idea. Perhaps this is why so many people live in ignorance, choosing to stay in a constant state of happiness without knowing of anything remotely wrong in the world. The more and more one learns about the world around them, the less and less content they become, and this brings about change.

And change is important, is it not? We’ve overcome so many adversities through change, and change happens every single day. It is what we thrive off of, and change cannot happen without knowing what is wrong. Perhaps this is why I have become even remotely involved in politics and have stated my opinions on social issues—even one word, one change of perception can cause widespread change in others.

To change our ideas of what should make us happy could be the key to making the world a better place. For if we are not naturally happy, we must find the right things to get us to that level. Happiness should be redefined. I believe that happiness can be achieved while knowing of the world around you and accepting it, while at the same time, striving to make it your own.

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 13 Mar 2012 12:24:52 -0700 5:55 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/555 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/555

Those who run are not justly named human; we are more akin to creatures of flight, as the slight bound of toe to the churned rubber or solid pavement or comfortably loose cinder lasts far less than a worldly second. We are creatures of the primitive kind, though our instincts may be attuned to more modern signals of the “fight or flight” response.

            No, these creatures—my kind—are not rightly named human. We lanky, pale-skinned humans, with our manes pulled back into tight elastics and made into aerodynamic tails are not a natural sight to those who sit or walk or even jog, for that matter. The sight of us entices an alien response in those flat on their bottoms or flat on their feet. There is an unnatural flow of adrenaline through us that is almost palpable by those we sprint past—the sort of energy that makes a person nervous. Nevertheless, these creatures are seemingly happy from day to day. Aside from the general insanity that comes with craving a ten-mile run, they are sane. Balanced.

            It was a scorching day in the beginning of June. The air was heavy with moisture and pressure, and a long day of work preceded the very last outdoor track and field meet of the year. The score tables were already set up upon our arrival—timers assumed their positions, checking and double-checking their reflexes, visualizing the passing of blurred feet over the lines of the 100-meter mark. Such adrenaline came from the protruding veins of the coaches’ foreheads and the unloading of the great yellow beasts onto the polyurethane track that it was difficult to keep the head focused on any outside conversation. The vaulters and throwers too were keeping to their vigil; keeping their heads down in silent concentration and determination, appearing as monks during daily prayer; which, after being bred and trained in this mindset of “winner-take-all,” wasn’t abnormal. We would keep our heads down, locked on those feet that carried us to victory and, if need be, our mouths would move along with the same script we memorized each time we stepped up to the record table.

            Amber Cunningham, 1600-meter race, first seed. That is all it took; my nerves spun under my skin and made the muscles squeeze my bones. The same energy that spurred on the throwers also inspired the runners, sending the electric feel in the air into frenzy. We fed off of one another and gave each other fuel, whether we knew it or not; we were unconsciously giving the winner of the race their medal from the very moment we stood on the grass of the football field at the center of the blackened moat of rubber.

Running

(source)            

There were the ones seeded before you, and the ones seeded after you. If you were last, you had to really push your way up—you felt you needed to prove the officials wrong. You felt you needed to soak up every last bit of energy from the sun and hot wind swirling around the infield, and you could not help but stare at those ones ahead of you. One could not help watching them. One was inclined to pick up on every single twinge of their tendons, every weakness in the joints, every extra stretch of a muscle. The possibilities of victory over them seemed very slim, and any medal won seemed a merciful fate. They flew from one boundary to the other, their knees reaching their chests, lunging closer and closer to the ground each time. You could barely stand to witness their flexibility—core strength was everything, and flexibility lengthened a stride and made for muscles that could withstand pound after pound around the corners and down straightaways. Each demonstration of speed and discipline showed a sliver of invincibility. They were nothing short of gods in the eyes of their supporting lower seeds.

            Yet, because they were so agile and had such a clean streak of wins, there was something marvelous as well as pitiable about their lustrous careers. What was left to work toward? The peak of their racing days had to be close, if not at that very moment. Natural talent is satisfying, but without the work and heart wrenching effort that goes into training, what good is winning? It was as if someone plucked these poor souls from what they truly loved and placed them in an inherited wealth. The medals they won and many compliments were overshadowed by a gloom that hung over them, and one could not get over the sadness of it. One is apt to forget about the wealth held in hard work, seeing people’s efforts being shattered and cumbered and lost when another has won or their goal is unachievable. Again, the thought of hard work amounting to nothing while their casual winnings would carry them far caused one to view their efforts in vain—unless they won.

            After a warm up, as my muscles began to relax and my mind became settled, I settled on the metal bleachers alongside the 100-meter stretch that led to the finish line. I closed my eyes; I forgot about the trials of the day, the hardship I had gone through for the past two-and-a-half years. I forgot about him. This was the last day I had, the last chance to reach that seemingly impossible goal I had set my freshman year, and nothing would stand in the way of five minutes and fifty-five seconds and me.

I traveled back to those futile moments in training and racing, where I got so close, but was still impossibly far from the one thing I craved to reach. The year started out with another round of physical therapy; the bursitis in my right hip was acting up for the third time, an injury that lost me an entire season of cross-country. I built back up to six minutes and thirty seconds halfway through the season—another disappointment. 6:15 was closer, but still a far reach for my weakened legs and spirit. After perhaps the eighth attempt was my fortune turning right: 6:05. Not sub-six, but better than being twenty seconds away from what seemed like the speed of sound. The tenacity of my heart seemed to get a rise out of my coaches before, as they had named me female athlete of the week for Southington High School—and athletics weren’t something anyone took lightly. Fall after fall, I would work through the rounds of electrotherapy and slowly, surely, I would get back to where I was. But, as I climbed the ladder toward my 5:55, it came over me that I had never surpassed my time. It came over me that I might fail—that my body might not be able to do it.

The starting gun went off for the 800-meter relay, stirring myself from negative thought. Negativity had never helped me before, and there was no use in trying different methods now. I stood, realizing that the visualization process took the life out of my legs. What had happened in my head to drive my legs further? The heat, the tiring sunlight—on any normal occasion, I would be awakened and rejuvenated by the light. As I stood there, I realized that nature was in opposition of me. It wasn’t natural to run from nothing; it wasn’t natural to build up one’s own adrenaline. One could only hope that, by some chance, today was the day they were going to make a brush with death; one could only pray that their extraordinary efforts would spur them on to victory.

 I began to panic. I looked for an enemy to spur me on; to give me the energy and stimulation needed for my adrenaline to start pumping through me once again. I had no desire to think of him, but it was the only way; such a pitiful source of inspiration, but I knew it would send my body into survival mode through deep hatred. Looking up toward the field, my eye was caught by him. He returned a friendly smile, as if nothing had transpired two weeks before.

            A hand reached out in front of my face, holding a metal Thermos before my eyes. I absent-mindedly grabbed it from my mother’s hand, beginning to down the cool water. A vile taste of bad oranges and dirt sent me reeling, forcing myself to swallow the bitter concoction. I could taste the heavy amounts of taurine, and knew that this would awaken my legs further. Chugging the entire bottle, nose plugged, I absorbed every bit of energy that nature and chemicals could give me.

Nothing, I knew, had any chance against an end. I began to dread the race, and if they made me run it, I craved to run it forever. Every single second was pivotal, and there were so many past seconds that I had let go to waste. I had hoped for this day every day of my high school career, and now that I was running toward my own end—leading into a new beginning—I was frightened. What if I failed? I cursed myself for making the mistake of letting my goal be known to others.

My nails cut into the palms of my hands as my body trembled from the extreme amounts of energy drink and adrenaline. Last call for the 1600-meter race. Shouts and cheers of support from my teammates and family rang in my ears and somehow seemed a foreign language. I cradled the watch on my wrist, repeating the split times in my mind over and over again, all leading up to fives across the board.

My toes grazed the white curved line of the third lane. I wasn’t last, but I was very far from first. This day wasn’t about place—my coach ensured me of that. Time. Time was the sole goal.

I looked down at my wrist, then looked up to my father, his face blank. I could feel the stirring of his stomach from a mile away, and just before the official walked over to his position, I flung the watch toward him. No distractions, I mouthed. If I was going to run, I was going to run.

I wished “good luck” to the girls surrounding me, my voice shaky with anticipation and hyperactivity.

The official raised his gun, settling his index finger on the trigger.

Here it goes.

First lap: fast. Much too fast; about ten seconds faster than my split time. I could hear my coach screaming Too fast, too fast! but his voice was overpowered by my father’s cheers and excitement.

Second lap: still fast, by five seconds. The crowd was incredibly involved, and one could not even hear themselves think, if the time called for it. There was no thinking for me, except to keep my eyes straight ahead and head in the race where, at that very moment, I belonged more than anywhere.

Third lap: a bit slow. The hardest lap by far, but I had extra time. I did not let that enter my mind, though; my legs felt agitated and wanted rest, but I did not let that enter my mind, either. My lungs pleaded for death, but I would not give it to them. The struggle would be over soon enough.

Last lap. I was finally able to look up at the scoreboard, watching the seconds tick by. I couldn’t do it. It was impossible to get below six. 5:25 at the middle of the last 100-meter bend. I could hear my mother screaming her throat hoarse, my father cupping his mouth in an effort to reach my ears, and all of my teammates who knew exactly what I wanted going wild in the stands.

I saw him. I saw the one thing that made me weak, and I could feel my spirit breaking. Just as it began to crack, my legs ignited with the pleasure and pain of runner’s high, and I trampled every horrible thought, every lonely and heartbroken feeling into the rubber of the straightaway. 5:51. 5:52. The line was at my toes.

            I crossed the line at fifth place out of seven. Crouching over my knees, I went blind and deaf at the same time; all that was audible was my breathing. Suddenly, though, the roar of my distance runners overpowered the silence. I hadn’t looked at the clock during the last few seconds. Slowly, I turned to face my father, who emphatically shouted 5:53! 5:53! from behind the wire fencing. My eyes welled up in sheer happiness and relief as I wiped the sweat from my face, barely conscious enough to walk to the side.

            Nothing, I knew, had any chance against an end. Nevertheless, after a long pause of exhaustion, my legs carried me back to the friends I had grown with for four years. They carried me to friends and family, past lost love, and toward a new beginning. My sympathies, of course, were always on the side of everlasting love and the bright picture of forever. But even as I craved this so, the life of friendships and loves had often gone from alive and well to wilted and faded. But as these ends were met, a new sensation was created. These legs now knew a mile run faster than six minutes. As life had been a race before, so an end was now a finishing line, an achieved time, a part of the season of conscious living.  

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 18:02:00 -0800 A Second First Time http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104053690 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104053690

There is the first time you fall in love. Risky, painful, but all around beautiful. It comes with making promises, making love, and ultimately letting someone into your very essence. You let them see you naked; not just in the physical sense, no, but every emotion that could ever be poured out of you will spill in front of them, out of control, as if you were a natural disaster. Yet they accept you; moreover, they hold you closer than you could ever imagine possible in such a state.

You tell them you love them. Before you speak, though, it hurts. Your stomach churns, your muscles feel like they are about to explode, and you can feel your body breaking down. You have to say it now, or you may very well die. So you do. You say it, and everything feels better. You say it, and they say it, and all is damn fine and well.

Things change. You have intense arguments, fueled by jealousy or envy or lust. Whichever deadly sin you choose, it is bound to come up in argument at some point. That is what you do, though. You fight, you apologize, you compromise, and work. You do it because you’ve never felt such a thing in your life.

Suddenly, though, you can’t see anything around you. You’ve lost friends, your ambition has been slipping, your writing has slowed…and you can’t figure out why. You are blind to everything happening around you. Time has stopped, but for the worse.

The feelings fail, the loving slows, and uncertainty and unrest grow in a place that was once radiant. And then it ends one day, and it takes you months to recover. You’ve lost all hope in ever finding someone who can come close to doing those things or saying those words to you and for you, and you give up.

You give up, you give up, you give it all up.

So you cry in your friend’s arms. You cry about it, and all of your feelings spill out there for him to see. This is how it’s always been, only this time, you sense that something is different when he wipes the tears from your eyes. You look into his eyes, and there is an extra spark in them, something you hadn’t quite noticed before. It had always been there, but just now, it has called your attention to itself. So, like many times before, you kiss him. It is a selfish kiss at first, but it quickly turns into a force much more powerful than previously experienced. You fall asleep together, and it is the most restful sleep you seem to have gotten in months.

Cuddle

(source)

You try it. You decide to try it. Why the hell not? You’ve been fooling around for long enough; maybe now is the time to actually get “serious” about things. Weeks pass, and each day the feelings grow stronger. You can’t exactly sense it yet, but they are growing faster than anything you have ever experienced, not even your first time.

You ring in the new year with him, and there is no place you’d rather be than in pyjamas, your too-weak glasses on, no make-up, and atrocious hair with him. The feelings grow.

You spend a week up in Boston with him, and sleep with him every night. You have never been more comfortable in a person’s arms before. Not even your first time.

You begin to get upset. The days go on, and you become more and more nervous. Your muscles ache, you wake in the middle of the night, and your stomach constantly churns. What the hell is wrong with me?

Every look he gives you. Every single glance at you makes your stomach lurch. Your mind races, along with your heart. As always, he knows. He knows everything. He knows more than anyone, moreso than your first.

He asks you what is wrong, and you sincerely have no idea. You try to blow it off, but every time you do, you get more and more overwhelmed, and it reads all over your face. He digs and digs until it infuriates you; you wish he could just leave it alone. You slowly realize why everything has been aching, why your stomach has been churning, and why sleep escapes you at random points in the night while in his arms. You beat around the bush, saying that you want to say it, but you are afraid. You are afraid because you know you feel more than he does. You are afraid because you always feel more for the other person than they do for you.

And after minutes upon minutes of explanation, he says it. You are still timid, but you say it. And you say it over and over and over again, and you tear up because you never thought you’d feel this way for anyone else. You never thought you’d feel like this again.

But suddenly, you do. Ever so slowly, you do.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 17:42:00 -0800 Untitled http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104050804 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104050804

561347-bigthumbnail
(source)

not an inch of blackness can enrapture His eyes
the way i see them in the foreground of death
in hindsight i see a white page
flowers and winter teens
life has gone on and is laced beneath Your royal blues and violets.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 17:39:00 -0800 Untitled http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104049953 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/104049953

Frost_field

(source)

My soul is unkempt

a weed-fraught field

or a moss growing wild.


In daylight or nighttime
in thoughts unraveling

and flesh bare

and breathing slowed

I’ve more room to travel
from failed love to new heartache

Un-solid

absorbent and unrooted

Unclarity is key.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 17:37:00 -0800 You Write. http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/you-write http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/you-write

You write.

You write and you write, and you try to think of something to write, and you write of the struggle. You write of the tingling in your fingertips, the electric feel of a narrative that longs to be pressed out by those fragile extensions of your very subconscious. “Let your fingers do the talking.” As if they could even understand the thoughts skipping about in my head.

There is a sudden stillness that happens. That almost frightening slowing of time, the sign of a story being formulated, calling every other thought or function in the brain to a halt. You can feel your heartbeat throughout every inch of your body then, as if you were a time bomb, ready to spill out every single infinitesimal thought that has ever crossed your mind, falling out into this one very work that could possibly spell the end to your worry or anguish or even begin relief or happiness. Or it may not do anything at all but leave ink stains on the page.

Writing-calligraphy

(source)

And that wrenching. Oh, the wrenching in your soul when something begs to be written. Everything tightens up—a coil being wound around a spindle, hugging the walls of sanity so very tightly. As our bodies climax, our natural instinct is to maintain control. Maintain a balance. Perhaps this is what the out-flowing of words does when the pen touches the paper or the fingers to the keys or even the voice to the microphone (because what difference does it make if it is spoken or scribed?). Little do we know that homeostasis can really only be reached after a release. At least, for those who believe in love, anyway.

Your rational thoughts hold so very tightly to your conscious, blocking out any sort of imagination possible. Nowadays, everything is precise. Everything is. The monitor in front of you is there, the numbers, the letters, the codes and colors and music resonating from the speakers: it’s all there. See, with writing, it is as if you are being born again. You are being born into a world that you have not yet discovered. Your eyes are not open. You gurgle through those first few breaths and words because who knows what language this world will want you to speak in? Romantic? Horrific? Realistic?

But see, you never know. You never know what you’re going to get until you do it. So you do it. You write, and you write, and you write of things that you have thought of before, and things you have just realized and have just come to know as great ideas that you want to share with anyone and everyone. And all you know and all you see is different from anyone else’s perspective and anyone else’s train of thought.

All because you write.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:35:00 -0800 These Various Shades of Earth http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/life-alive http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/life-alive

O
(source)

 

The river eyes in faerie-light.
Wind is in the hound’s breath on the bank
of the bends,
riverroundabouts.

Five-finger’d leaves threat at the touching ground,
Spiderweb swings around veins
as a leafsong ripples through the ears.

Leaflet boats seen through beetle eyes
as yellow-white floods
the dark corridors of rods and cones.
A wonderthought,
wanderthroughlust. Earth between
the ridges of skin
holding tight to gravity
softens underneath lofty thoughts.

Ribbon bark, cracklelight
reflects upon the brow,
as green-dwellers crow
at the pollen in the plow.

Cotton arches tingle against a silky current,
and leaves are lips as trees are tongues
of blushing Mother Earth.

Steps are sprints upon moth grounds,
wings the veins of re-coupling birth
of ecstasy and safety,
home amongst the fog.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:29:00 -0800 'Neath the Old Maple Tree http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/neath-the-old-maple-tree http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/neath-the-old-maple-tree

Autumn
(source)


I sat beneath the old maple tree, mind transporting,
soul cradling memories.

What had just become, it could not process.
Numbness due to flurrying thoughts.
These moths trapped, reeking of recollections so antiqued.
Let me free, let me be, cruel Aphrodite.

A postcard of Love: the ocean:
Deep, ambiguous, spectacular.
Calm and comfortable as the sun is red at night.
Terrifying, unsettled, as storms rip through its skies.

Once I looked into your eyes, passion throughout,
I was never the same.
Love: your irises composed of shades
unlike any I have ever seen.
Love is held within, reflected in those coffee-stained spheres.

Love is the black hole.
Darkness thrives in negativity, infinity a possibility.
A phenomenon, a belief held by few,
taking we travelers far from reality.
Love? Obscure, unbounded.
An unseen force,
found only by those who
do not venture for it.

A love song: the bird's song.
A robin, singing for simple needs,
a hearth, comfort, room to fly.
Simplicity, the robin's nest.
Cradling the treasure, the heart.

Sit 'neath an old maple tree.
That is where pure love stands.
Roots sturdy, yet branches reaching
toward a brighter hope, future ascension.
Firm grips on reality, yet dreamers,
swaying to the ebb of the earth,
Life—Love—spinning circles 'round their trunks.
Give them time, those seedlings,
they will rise to new heights.

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Mon, 20 Feb 2012 16:17:00 -0800 Blood Orange http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/blood-orange http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/blood-orange

        ...Can’t you just picture it, Aniela? Me, walking down the aisle, in this beautiful gown made by... Dior, I believe it is? His gowns are brilliant, though that tight waist may be a bit of a struggle... Ah well, nothing a Polish woman can’t handle, hmm?

        Sister, you must begin thinking about taking a husband as well; someone who will care for you in this...state. You are twenty-three, after all. Aleksy and I will hold off our wedding until you return, dear sister. And you will return. I believe it, and so must you.

Awaiting your safe return,

Cecylia


        Aniela blew a bit of blonde hair out of her eyes as she stared at the magazine clipping just below Cecylia’s signature. The satin corset encased the boning that seemed to hold the entire dress together, and the tulle fabric of the skirt ran in ruffles. Looks like my fifteenth birthday cake, she thought, scrunching her nose. This reflex startled her, as the polio that infected her killed even the subtlest of movements.

        How did Cecylia expect her to think of getting married at a time like this? Her family’s values were so warped. This was 1957, for God’s sake; time for women to start doing what they had to do to make it on their own. Besides, what kind of husband would want a wife who couldn’t cook or clean?

        Aniela willed her hands to move. Just a lift. Just enough to flick the letter off the table. The letter remained on the metal stand, mocking her as one corner flitted in the breeze of her frustrated breath.

        “Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing. Again. Three months of nic.

        Polio was a lower class disease. How could she, the daughter of a senator, be subject to something normal people called their final suffering? Zaleski had guaranteed a better life for her family, and that is precisely what they had. While everyone was eating mush and stepping around sidewalks filled with defecate, Aniela had her own room and a full bed, with those who begged for better conditions serving at her feet. Her feet, which barely moved during the day, except for standing in front of her closet to examine the many jewels and lavish dresses she could not wear in front of the “commoners.” She was rich in secret—but rich, nonetheless.

Blood-orange

(source)

        “Miss Malec? Your lunch is here.”

        Aniela turned her head toward the voice of Feliks, the hospital’s newest inpatient nurse. She had always had Agneta deliver her lunch, and this change made her nervous. Any change made her nervous. She could remember her father begging Zaleski to let them keep their life at the chateau as members of the Party, even after her mother was disloyal to him. They lived in separate wings of the home; different existences under the same roof. But even this could not alter their need for consistency—any change to their routine way of life was turned away, as if they were trying to repeat history over and over again.

        “Where is Agneta? Where is my nurse?”

        He seemed to dismiss her question as he placed the tray on the bedside table. “Here you are, Miss. Kielbasa and onions with potatoes.”

        Aniela’s nostrils flared as she looked down at the tray. “Where is my blood orange, boy?”

        He cringed at her sarcastically casual tone. “Miss Malec, I’m sorry, but the citrus fruit is being rationed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen one—”

        “I have had a blood orange with my lunch every single day since I have been here to cleanse my pallet of the cold, disgusting slop you excuse for meals. I demand you bring me my dessert, or my father will hear of this and put you back into the factories where you belong!”

        The boy stared at her in disbelief before being scoffed out of the room. Aniela tried to calm herself down as visions of the iron lung passed through her conscious. Huffing a breath from her nose, she turned to the tray, glaring at the food in front of her. It will be frozen by the time he comes back, she thought. Though Feliks was about her age, he was just another servant to her. Just another boy she could push around which, in all honesty, made her feel great. At home, even.

        “Here you are—again—Miss Malec. I went to the market and got a bushel full of the finest blood oranges in stock.” He dropped the orange onto her tray noisily as a bead of sweat trickled down from his mahogany hair.

        This service was different. He took the fork and knife up off the tray and sat down in the wooden chair by the head of the bed. Leaning over her slightly, he cut the kielbasa into small pieces, just as her mother had when she was small. “I could do it on my own, you know,” she sneered. “If it weren’t for this damn inconvenience...”

        “Miss, if you could keep your mouth open, please? I’d like to feed you your lunch.”

        He had the power over her at this moment. The space between her lips and the fork was the reminder that without him, she could very well starve. She needed him, as much as she hated to admit it.

        Aniela sneered as his hand reached behind her back, lifting her gently toward the fork in his hand. She cursed her body as the back of her head rose from the backboard, wishing she could rise herself and give him a disciplinary smack across the cheek.

        Mother speaks of you everyday, Ani. She wishes to come see you, but it has been difficult getting away from our home nowadays. It isn’t good here, Ani. It is dangerous and sickly outside these doors. You are safe.

        Mother is standing over me as I write this—she says she misses you very much.  Things will get better from here. I miss you. Please come home.

-C.

       

        It was an effort to fall asleep. Even after five months, the moans of the patients in the ward just outside her door were still startling her out of her sleep. Cries of horror rang throughout the halls, slipping underneath the door and piercing Aniela’s ears. The weakness showed on her face as she slipped into a dream, and she could feel her limbs free up as she saw herself cradling her precious jewels and gowns, admiring herself in a handheld mirror as her servants prepared a feast at her bedside.

        “Miss—I mean, Aniela?”

        Her eyes flashed open, and her body felt heavy and lifeless once again. “What is so important that it couldn’t wait until after I stopped dreaming?”

         “It seems you have a visitor,” Feliks looked from her to the window. It wasn’t much more vibrant outside as the white walls of the hospital—fog settled in among the trees, and she hadn’t felt the sun in ages, it seemed. She took a deep breath as Feliks supported her back, raising her up to see over the windowsill.

        “M-matka?”

        It was she. Five months had gone by, and she hadn’t heard or seen her mother’s face since the day she left home. She was a bit overdressed to be standing in the middle of a courtyard; her best pearls hung around her neck, complimenting the light pink dress suit she had worn to many of her father’s campaign conferences. Her heels dug into the ground, rising up out of the dew-covered grass as she saw Aniela’s face. The iron fence broke the gentle green of the gardens behind her, preventing her from the possibility of feeling her mother’s touch. Though she was but twenty meters away from her, Aniela felt further away from family and her own life at this very moment. They shared a glance before Feliks came around to the side of the bed.

        “Your medicine.” He lifted the tablespoon of syrupy medication to her lips. She took it in absent-mindedly, spitting it out as she became conscious of the taste.

        Ja pierdole! What is this?! Are you trying to poison me already?! We haven’t even tried to fix—”

        “It’s just an experimental medicine, Aniela. The first of it’s kind. You’re very lucky to be able to afford this; most of the patients here won’t be able to even get near paying for a cure.”

        A cure? “Sorry, we don’t add the cherry flavoring to this one,” he chuckled, giving her another spoonful. “It’s better than the awful booster injections Salk invented, at least!”

        Aniela suddenly felt a twinge of fear. The world was so different now, and had gotten worse in her absence. Part of her wanted to stay in that room forever; at least she was guaranteed a bed.

        She could hear the minister repeating last rights down the hall—two, three...Lord...four times. Stay away, she begged, though part of her wished he would see her soon. Staving him away was the proper thing to do. Stay far away.

        Aniela looked back at her mother. Imagine, she mused, my mother’s prized pearls could pay for at least ten people’s return home.

        “Some man—Sabin, I believe—developed this only a few months ago. It’s in the experimental stage, so it’s not proven to work just yet. We figured, since this is an experimental facility...”

        “So you’re not sure it will work?”

        “Unfortunately,” Feliks wiped a bit of the black syrup from her bottom lip. “But we have high hopes.” He placed his hand on hers, and although she couldn’t feel it, her mind still warmed up to his touch. “You just have to believe you can make it through this.”

        Aniela looked toward her mother once again, giving her a weak smile and nod, dismissing her from the pathetic sight of her own daughter. “Like Mother always says, there’s nothing a Polish woman can’t handle,” Aniela joked, forcing a half-smile as she watched her mother walk away. She pulled her eyes away to meet Feliks’ and, for the first time since she was a young girl, Aniela blushed. She desired to pull away, but soon the warm sensation in her cheeks was a welcome one. Her instincts told her to smack him for coming in contact with her, but her body forced her to remain under his skin, perhaps in an effort to let him under hers.

       

        Thursday. Squinting at the schedule hung on the wall, Aniela let out a frustrated sigh. She didn’t understand why psychiatry appointments were necessary. There was nothing wrong with her mind; all she had was a fever and the inability to move her limbs. She was perfectly stable, as far as mentality went.

        “Good morning, Aniela!”

        An overly enthusiastic woman walked through the door, clipboard and pen in hand. “And how are we today?”

        The woman’s fat nose distracted Aniela for a moment. “...Just fine. Yes, everything’s great here.”

        ”Good, good... Is there anything you’d like to talk about today? It has been a while since we’ve really talked, and I don’t seem to have a lot of notes on you after being here for eight months—“

        “I am just fine, Doctor. Really.”

        Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Feliks peering into the room.

        The doctor ran through routine questions, asking of her comfort level, how her breathing was, and if she’d begun to feel anything in her fingers or toes. “Fine.” This bed is too lumpy. “Perfect.” No matter how hard I must breathe, you will not get me into that giant tin can. “No.” What good were they, anyhow? The answers were flat and timely, suggesting mental competence. Just leave me be.

        “Well, things seem to be going very well with you. We have high hopes for you, Miss Malec.”

        Hopes. Hadn’t they exhausted them yet? Prayer could not save her. If the good Lord made it so, so it would be. If his will was to cripple her, then it must have been a test. After all, she had always had it easy—inhumanely easy. This was anything but easy. It would make her worthy of something greater beyond the bonds of a disabled reality. Again, she thought, another vain hope.

        Feliks nodded to the doctor and squeezed his way past her through the door. Aniela watched him with suspicious but gentle eyes as he took up a chair next to her bed.

        “How are you, Aniela?”

        “Fine, Feliks. And yourself?”

        “No, no,” he smiled at her, his warm brown eyes lighting up at this new game. “Talk. Really talk. As a friend.”

        “Just as I said, I am completely and totally fine.” She was going to give him the least amount of information to work with, and he knew that. He pushed her further still. “Tell me about your days here. What’s happened to you?”

        “Why do you ask me such things? You’ve been here the entire time, idiota.

        “Yes, I know,” he laughed. “Just describe it to me through your eyes.”

        Furrowing her brows, she searched through her perceptions of a typical day. “Well, I sit here, unable to move. Breathing hurts and is harder to do each day. I can’t sleep, and most of the time I am unable to think. I eat what tastes like the bark of a tree and spears of grass for every meal, and there are times when I am hungry and there is no meal to call for. I am cold, and I hate this room. I hate the white walls, the cheap vinyl flooring, that ridiculous abstract painting of God knows what. I do not wish to be here.”

        “I apologize for the lack of interior decoration, Miss Aniela,” Feliks chuckled. “Is that all that has you troubled? It’s an easy fix...”

         “I miss my home, my dresses... I miss having everything I want in one place. I’ve done the same thing every day for eight months now, and I can’t take it anymore. I can live without being able to move as long as it is back home where I belong.”

        “In the arms of wealth, am I correct?”

        “That’s what I am used to, Feliks. I am wealth. That is what has defined my family for centuries, and our president has been gracious enough to allow us to remain who we are and what we are. Status is everything.”

        Feliks set down his clipboard and slid a bit closer to Aniela’s side, looking at her as if he’d known her for years. “What feelings do you get when you put on those clothes? When you tell others what to do, even? What do you feel?”

        She smiled to herself, imagining the lavish life she had before she got into the ambulance eight months ago. She saw herself in bed, ordering her servants to bring her food, jewelry, and fabrics for her custom-made dresses. Aniela was a mid-century monarch—she could get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

        As her memories grew stronger, however, she realized that her normal life wasn’t much different than her time in the hospital. She’d hardly spent any time with her mother or sister, exiling herself to her room, showering her existence with every bit of gluttonous behavior she could possibly imagine: dining on the finest pastries from Poland’s most esteemed bakers, watching in silence as her servants scrubbed the decadent frosting off the floor after dropping the ones she didn’t like. Not once did she move from her bed. As far as her servants were concerned, she was already paralyzed—inhuman.

        “I don’t really know,” she breathed. “I feel...power. I was taught that was happiness. My father chased after it, my mother constantly craved it, and my sister married for it. It was somewhat satisfying. Who has servants nowadays, really? I was—am—privileged. I’d be a fool to throw my father’s benefits away...wouldn’t I?”

        He wouldn’t answer. “Feliks, I have never lived on my own before. All my life I have had others do my bidding. I lay in bed, as content as a pig in warm muck, every single day. But I lay here now, and it is torture! Even when I do not have legs to stand on or arms to reach with, I still have more than anyone else could ever have at this very moment. I have so much more.”

        “Who is he?” Feliks said softly, casting his eyes down at his folded hands.

        “Who is who?”

        “The man that you love,” Feliks looked her dead in the eye. The usual smile on his face was gone, and Aniela could almost feel the tension in his lips. “Who are your friends, Aniela,” he continued sternly, his voice growing louder by the second. “Where is your family? What do you do for them?”

        No one. No one. Not here. Nothing. Each timely answer she had planned began with a “no.”

        “Come on, Aniela, don’t be stupid.”

        Her nostrils flared as she mustered all of the air her weak lungs could take in. “I am not stupid! How dare you insult me in such a way! You are here to serve me and make me feel better.”

        “I am not here to serve you, much to your surprise,” he sneered. “If that’s what you think of me, then find someone else to fool, Your Highness!” Feliks stormed toward the door, swinging it open to the mass of beds in the ward. “See this? This is what you deserve to be living in. Everyone in here is grateful to even have a bed to sleep in after being shunned by their families!” His breath was heavy as he looked upon Aniela, whose mouth had fallen open in shock. “While they lay in the iron lung, just praying for some sort of miracle that may never come, you sit here in the most privileged of situations, worrying over things like a damn blood orange! What is the matter with you?!”

        Aniela felt her throat closing up and began to panic as she watched a little redheaded girl’s chest rise and fall underneath the metal monstrosity. She let her tears flow freely, hoping that this would be enough for Feliks.

        And it was. He calmed himself and came back to her side. “Anyone with as much of a stubborn footing as you must believe in something. Pardon my wording,” he smiled, “but I can see that you stand for yourself, and won’t let others get in your way. That is strength, and that strength comes with consciousness. Please,” he begged, “just look at what you had at the chateau. Sure, you had amazing gowns and jewelry, but who did you share them with?”

        Aniela felt her stomach churn in embarrassment. “My mother hasn’t even put her own shoes on in thirty years,” she thought aloud. “Is...is that what I have become? A mindless puppet for others to dress?”

        Feliks picked up her immobile hand. It was the first time any man had ever reached out for her. A twinge of warmth shot up where she believed her arm to be. “You may need people, but everyone does. You have the potential to be great on your own—without wealth, without servants, just you. You just have to believe you can be.”

        Aniela was entranced by the feeling of his hand on her own. She could not feel it, but a fluttering in her chest told her it was there. “Here, only three more doses until the prescription is complete. This won’t do much if you don’t believe, though. Keep those blue eyes looking upwards.” He tilted the spoon into her mouth, and she took it without sputtering, without a blink away from him. She took it in, hope and all.

        “Lunch time, Aniela.”

        She smiled toward Feliks as he brought her the very same tray, in the very same bed, in the very same room she’d inhabited for nine months. “Thank you, boy,” she teased him. She looked down at the tray and, once again, there was something missing.

        “Boy, where is my blood orange?”

        Feliks winked at her, pulling it out of his lab coat pocket. He placed it on the tray and slid the bedside table over her lap. As he did so, the intercom called him to the nurse’s station. “I’ll be right back.”

        “Promise?” A bit clingy, Aniela, she thought, but good.

        He gently placed a hand under her chin. “Promise.”

       

        It was a lovely day. There was no fog in the trees, and the warmth of the sun reflected off of the windowsill onto her plate. Just below, she could see her mother, watching her as she had been doing each Sunday of each week. They exchanged a glance, and Aniela returned to her meal. It’s taking him awfully long to return, she thought.

        Closing her eyes, Aniela imagined her hand reaching out toward the blood orange. Just be, she prayed. Po prostu.

        She opened her eyes and looked out the window at her mother. Doctors and nurses were rushing out to her, as she had fainted in the courtyard lawn.

        Aniela rose off her back to see more of the scene. “Matka?!” she shouted. Just as she was about to leap out of bed, she felt something cool in her hand. She turned to the tray and saw the blood orange in her hand, slightly punctured from the pressure of her fingernails. The red juices flowed from the fruit onto her fingers, forming rivers in the microscopic valleys of her own skin. She took it to her mouth, watching as her arm rose smoothly with no conscious thought. She took the orange to her own lips and, with wide eyes began to gently drink the juices that flowed from the most spectacular blood orange she had ever been able to grasp.

 

 

 

 

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham
Mon, 20 Feb 2012 16:17:00 -0800 As Pigeons Go http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/as-pigeons-go http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/as-pigeons-go

Grandad always said that his office was “off-limits.” The door was always kept shut, the knots in the wood glaring at me every time I walked by. He never told me why I couldn’t go in. He had never told anyone, really.

The_lovely_couple
Original photo.

  There was a very uncomfortable-looking leather chair, its hard foam-filled cushion depressed in the middle from many days of sitting and pondering. Though the chair had been worn out, its curved wooden legs seemed to suggest that one not sit for long.

        As I sat all the way to the back, the chair kept my feet flat on the ground, as if to say, “Don’t rest for too long, there is still work to be done.” At least Grandad wouldn’t fall asleep on the job. Instead of welcoming its owner in for a nice, four-hour nap, this throne of sorts kept one just conscious enough to be unable to escape into sleep.

        His old wooden pipe lay on the dusty mahogany chess table beside the portrait window. Though the office had not been inhabited for years, the intricately carved tobacco pipe seemed to have a glistening sheen on the mouthpiece, as if he’d come back for one last earthly smoke.
        Grandad was always into his books. He had to have thousands of them on the shelves that lined the walls. Lots of Shakespeare. Oscar Wilde and Yeates, too. I always wished I caught onto his fascination, but I’d been too caught up in soccer the past few years. I should have read many books for my classes at Saint Kevin’s, but “higher education” never really appealed to me, to the disappointment of my family.
        His desk was still covered in accounting papers. A mindless job, if you ask me. Punching in numbers and keeping track of someone else’s money. It was a mockery of your own worth. Grandad never seemed to mind it, though. “Gotta keep the spuds in the pot and the pints full,” he’d always say.
       

  “Calum, is the tea wet yet?”
        I heard Gran’s slow footfalls down the hall. Though she couldn’t move fast, her voice sure could strike quick. She gave out like there was no tomorrow, especially after last week. I felt sorry for her; I hadn’t seen a smile cross her face in ages.
        “Calum?” her feeble voice called again. How am I going to get out of this one? I sucked in a deep breath and peered around the heavy door. I winced, knowing that I was about to get a verbal belt across the mouth.
       
        “Calum Aidan Byrne! Are you gone in the head?! You know this room isn’t to be tampered with! Get your arse out of here and put on the tea before I really give out on you, you no good, dodderin’ little...”
        “Yes, Gran. Sorry, Gran.”
        “You bet you’re sorry! All you do is goof about lately. Haven’t you got any work to do for school?”
        “Nope.”        
        She looked me keen in the eye. “You better be keeping up them grades, boy. Maybe it’s best you don’t come here any longer. You need to concentrate on getting a good education.”
        I rolled my eyes at this, apparently too conspicuously, as she said, “Just wait, Mister ‘Soccer Scholarship’. You can’t get anywhere without working for it. Remember what your...”
        She stopped then, her tightened, wrinkly face coming loose. “...just remember what we say.”
        I took my hand off the door, taking a layer of dust with me. “I’m sorry, Gran. Is there anything else I can do?”
        She closed her eyes, her hands balled into feeble fists. “Just go home, Calum. You’ve done enough.”
        “I don’t want to leave you alone, Gran...”
        The crow’s feet in her eyes loosened as she quietly whimpered, “I’m fine on my own.” She took a breath. “Go. I’m having tea with your mother. We need alone time.”


        The days before they aged were a thing of inspiration. Though I’m not a very romantic fella, they were the days that made me believe in something true, as far as men and women went. I’m glad she is young enough for me to watch her relationship with my granddad grow over the years. So many people fall out of love and end up just being “stuck.” Yes, they were stuck, but there was something different. Not like a fly on flypaper, or a businessman stuck in traffic. They were stuck like... two leaves on a stem. They created life, love—the stuff that I seemed to lose belief in.
       
        Gran would always take me to the park, where we fed the pigeons. I’d never been fond of the scummy things; “flying rats” I used to call them. Once in a while, though, there would be a few white ones. Pure white. “Gran,” I’d ask, “how do they get so white?”
        “Doves’re people who have gone to Heaven, Cal. Pure, forgiven people. Sometimes, they turn into angels and watch us; invisible. When they have no business left to take care of, but still want to walk earth’s green grass and smell its pink and red flowers, they come back as doves.”
        “But why would they want to stay here? Isn’t Heaven where you get to be perfect?”
        She sniggered. “Perfect, Cal, is what you are. We’re all perfect. We just slip sometimes.”
        “Did Daddy slip?”
        She took my hand and gave it a good squeeze. “Love, like these pigeons here, comes and goes. Sometimes, though, it stays forever, like the doves.”
        Love was a cryptic word to my ten-year-old self. Hell, I’d bet any “adult’s” last dollar that they still have not a clue what it means. I rustled my brows. “Why’d he leave?”
        “Hmm, maybe it was ‘cause he was sick and tired of changing your nappies!” she teased, her laugh lightly ringing through the crisp autumn air. “Oh my dark-haired, bright-eyed babe, we’ll never understand everything. Just know that they love you very much.”
        “You love Grandad a lot, don’t you?”
        “With all the drummings of my heart, I do, Cal. You’ll find a pretty bird for yourself. She’ll love you, too.”

        I waited out on the front porch as Mum talked to her. Their voices were so different from what I remembered them to be a few years ago; they were so gentle and smooth before, but now were raspy and rough, like their throats were constantly sore. I opened the door a crack.
        “Evelyn, I’m sure Arden wouldn’t have minded...”
        “Don’t say his name.”
        “He was just curious. He wants to hold onto his grandad, just as you want to hold onto him.”
        I saw her give Mum a look of pleading. Her grayed eyes filled with tears as she tried to blink them away. “Miriam, I can’t. I need to be wide about my heart. I can’t let him see me like this.”
        At that, I ran the five kilometers back home.


        “Alright, Gents, next practice we’re going to work on those two plays. Please, can we at least aim for perfection next time?”
        “Yes, Coach,” the team and I said in unison. I gathered my rucksack and headed off the field, where Jemma waited, a sarcastic smirk crossing her lips.
        “Coach giving ya the puck again, Cal?”
        “Shut it, Jem,” I mumbled.
        “You alright?”
        I wasn’t sure. My game had been off, but that wasn’t what had me bothered. “My gran’s having a bit of trouble coping with the whole... thing.”
        Jemma didn’t say anything then. She knew when to stop.
        As we walked in silence, we passed Dunlavin Cemetery, just as we did everyday. From the sidewalk, I could see my grandad’s headstone, the soil in front of it still freshly tilled. The black iron bars of the fence around it made me tighten my hands. I felt him, trapped by this inescapable cage of eternal sleep.
        Jemma grabbed my balled fist. “Calum, you can tell me.”
        She stared at me with those emerald globes of hers. “I don’t know what to say.”
        I loosened my hand and interlaced my fingers with hers. She gave a slight reassuring squeeze, and began to lead me gently toward the gate. I hesitated, leaning away from her pull, but once again her eyes won me over. Jemma understood my family’s history; she was the only one that knew everything. What, you think the gents on the team would understand? They’d think I was a nutter for lingering. They’d never lost anyone.
        It wasn’t like I knew the old man well. He was very quiet, only nodding to me when I came into a room. He’d always have a paper in his hand, either that or a pint of gin. He never drank it, though, which Gran would always laugh at. “Ardy,” she’d say with a smile, “now why would you waste perfectly good gin like that? It’ll be no good with you just holdin’ it there.”
        “Better to waste gin than to waste time, Ev.” Those words ring through my head still. He was always relaxing, always had his work done on time so none of us would see him in his “professional” mode. His office was always off limits, but the one time I peeked in while he was working at his writing desk, he didn’t mind a bit. “Wanna see the way I bring home the rashers and the spuds?” he said in his deep, whispery voice. I watched him for ages—at least two hours straight—counting and calculating. His big-knuckled fingers tapped the old register like they were born to do it. His silver-framed glasses sat at the tip of his nose, making me wonder how they were balancing there so impossibly. I’d look to his eyes every once in a while as they peered out of the little circles, blue-gray and bright. They would squint every few minutes or so as his cheeks rose into a slight smile, as if to tell me that my presence was still known.

        “Cal, just say what you’re thinking. It’s good for you.”
        I took a deep breath, puffing up my cheeks. I looked at the headstone, my mind blank. My lips tightened as I thought of the right thing to say, but all that came out of the breath was air. “Jem, I dunno what to do. My gran barely wants to see me anymore. She nearly got up to ninety just seeing me in his office.”
        “She still loves you, Cal. You have to give her time. Help her out a bit.”
        “How?” I couldn’t bust in on her again. She wanted to be alone. Her poor old heart was too fragile to be, though.

        Dunlavin was a sad, sulking excuse for a town for the next few weeks. There was no rain, but a damp fog surrounded everything. Granted, we didn’t get very many sunny days, but something about the soggy air made everyone go a little out of their heads. As my friends crawled down the avenue, I’d avert my eyes, letting on the impression that I couldn’t see them. It was complete bollocks for me to feel this way still—it was only my gran, right? She’d come around eventually. Right?
        Somehow, Dunlavin Cemetery became a daily sight for me, even on the weekends. Every errand I had to run for mum somehow led me past the cold, gray headstones. “What, Grandad? What do you want me to do?” I’d ask. As expected, I’d get no answer. No dove on my shoulder.
        As I walked to get mum some bread and spuds, I saw a figure bent over the site where Grandad lay. They looked to be wearing a black cape of sorts, but it was hard to tell through the thickening fog. I squinted, trying to get a better look. The figure looked around, taking a bag out from the inside of their cape. I could feel the heat of the blood rising to my face as I ran over, screaming at them.
        “’EY! You there! Get away from my grandad’s grave!”
        Just as I was about to give the grave robber a milling, the figure stood. “Cal?”

        “Gran? What are you doing here?”
        “Feeding the birds,” she said calmly. “I figured I’d share my chips with Ardy.”
        As she tossed the tiny bits of spuds to the pigeons, I could see which one she was paying extra attention to. A brilliant white dove sat atop the headstone, it’s head cocked to the side, a chip in its tiny yellow beak. “Mind yourself, now,” Gran said gently as she tiptoed among the birds to me. “They’re helping keep the site nice.”
        She handed me a bit of spud, her feeble hands careful to make sure every last chip got into my palm. “Gran,” I started. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about Grandad’s office...”
        “He would have wanted you to see it. He was always proud’a his books and trinkets.”
        Her face was peaceful now as she stared at the beautiful bird. “You know, Calum, that one may be a dove.”
        “What’re you on about, Gran?”
        “That Julie girl... the pretty one with green eyes.”
        “Jemma?” I corrected her. “Gran, she’s just a friend...”
        “Pigeons come and pigeons go, but doves’ll stay with you forever. They may seem fleeting or unexpected, my young babe, but they always come back to your heart.”
        She cupped her hands and turned to the headstone. Slowly shuffling around the burial soil, she scooped the dove right up off the slate. It did not shuffle its feet or rustle its wings; it sat there, perfectly happy to be in her warm grasp. “Go on, Ardy,” she whispered, leaning closely to the dove’s tiny face and raising it into the thinning air. “I’m not long behind.”

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham