ch 29

After breakfast
I clean the bowl
pack it up in my rucksack
and turn to Old Bill.
He smiles at me and
says, “Have fun, kid.”
At first we shake hands
but we end up hugging
like we did after the meeting
with the Welfare
I tell Old Bill
that the Bendarat Hilton
is the best hotel
I’ve known
and he laughs and
says, “Glad it suited you.”
We shake again,
one last time
for a while, at least
and then he takes his bag
slings it over his shoulder
and walks
north
slowly, but he goes
I watch him for some time
and, of course
I’m happy
I look up at the sky
standing and staring
the hobo sky
strong and steady,
always there
like my Caitlin
and Old Bill
steadfast friends
and I know
I’ll make it through
then I stop
and think to myself
“I already have.”

a moment of observation

I am sitting on the lawn in the Library courtyard, leaning against a wooden bench, my legs curled under me, a hardbound book in my lap. The sun is shining brightly, rays stretching to the ground like greedy fingers, warming my back and glaring off multiple windshields of the cars parked not a hundred feet away.
There is a slight, cool breeze that stirs up in every direction as though it cannot decide which direction it wants to travel. North? West? South-east? Numerous opinions, each one as strong as the other, and so the wind continues its frenzy of moving in all directions at once.
The fallen leaves on the sidewalk are swept up with the wind, twirling and swooping in the confused breeze, randomly scuffing the cement and each other like excited chatter. The pages of my book lift and flap, wanting to be free to ride on the wind but their binding holds them in place, and I smooth my hand over them, quieting, settling.

A mother calls out to her child that has run too far from her side. His wispy blonde hair seems to drink in the sunshine and reproduce it in a softer, golden glow that invites my fingers to stroke it. His little fingers clasp a dandelion and pluck from its station among the vibrant blades of grass. Excitedly, he runs back to his mother who helps him make a wish and blow the dandelion until it is stripped of its fuzzy white arms. The child's interest is then caught by a small black dog that has just arrived with it's owner and the naked dandelion is discarded over his shoulder without another thought.

The mother trots after her excited child and asks the man if they can pet his "doggy". The man gives a small shrug and nods, an unsure smile on his face. The child reaches out to the dog, who calmly sniffs the pudgy fingers and gives a quick, friendly lick. The boy pulls away, surprised but delighted, his laughter shrill and lively. My lips turn up in the beginnings of a smile at the sound, and I turn back to my book. The main character is sitting in a rose garden, listening to his grandmother tell him a story of her past, when she was youthful and eager to enjoy life...

"Don't pull his ears!" The mother pries her son's fingers from the dog's ears and explains that it's different from daddy pulling his own ears to make a monkey face. The dog stares at the child with a steady, unassuming gaze. The boy pats the dog's head, explaining, "Doggy can't make monkey face," and asks the man if he can. The man stares a moment, as if deciding whether or not the boy is serious in his inquiry. His eyes dart to the mother who has placed a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop the laughter that is gleaming in her eyes.

But then! The boy is distracted by a group of children playing a game of tag on the other side of the grass circle, and he is off to see if they are in need of another participant. The mother thanks the man, who stutters incoherently and shrugs multiple times, waves away her apology and bends down to pet his dog as the mother yet again tromps after her child.

A yellow SUV pulls up, windows down, some kind of punk-pop blasting from the speakers. I manage to catch a few voices singing along, loud and slightly flat, before the music is cut and hurried chatter takes its place. Four teens jump out, slamming doors, laughing and teasing loudly. They each have an interesting collection of ripped jeans, hemp jewelry, piercings, and dreadlocks... and obnoxious laughs, like angry geese. They are completely enraptured by themselves and each other and don't notice the stares people send their way, eyes silently shooing, "Go inside, go inside, give us peace." But they stop, oblivious, and light two cigarettes, sharing, going silent long enough to take a drag, pause, and exhale slowly. They pin leaves beneath their worn shoes and crunch them, twisting their ankles as though desperate to end any life that may be left in the greenery. They mumble about the "crazy wind" and how it "totally blows the smoke right back up my nose". They give up their smoking, resume the loud talk and laughter, and enter the Library.

Silence, aside from the scuffing leaves. Pigeons land on the lawn where no humans are and gurgle at one another as they begin a frenzied hunt for anything worth eating. The breeze stirs my imagination, the sun sends a delightful shiver down my spine, and I am once again enraptured by the words on the pages of my book.

an old note i wrote to myself some years ago

i love finding things you've written on the past, that you forgot you had kept somewhere. (:

------------------------------

The only way to survive the ups and downs of friendships is to hold them close, but not try to own them. Then when (it's inevitable) you are let down, hurt, betrayed, etc., you'll be okay because God will be more important than those friends.

Don't get bitter. I can not stress that enough. Do not even let anger settle over you. Instead of scorning what was done to you, remember that God uses all things for your good, and instead scorn those vicious emotions that come to overtake you with human-nature's typical reaction. Get them away from you! It turns you into a different person, and comes in between you and God.

Remember that He loves YOU, you horrid specimen of humanity, so who are you to refuse love to anyone? Remember that He forgive YOU, in all your sick thoughts, habits and actions, so you have no place withholding forgiveness from anyone, no matter what they have done, no matter how many times the may do it.

You cannot survive without God. You would truly know all He is for you if His hand ceased to bless and protect you as it does now. You would see it then.

Don't let yourself rot inside. If you are going to accept His love and forgiveness, you cannot rightly refuse it to anyone else. So what if it tears you up and gets you down - think of what Jesus did for you, what He endured, the Blameless and Innocent Lamb, slain for you.

Is He not the Lord of your life? Then what else matters?

Bear all things in remembrance of Him. Being angry, bitter, judgmental, and unforgiving is in part saying that His sacrifice was not enough, not worth enough. Since you have received it, you were once in great need of it - therefore, who are you to decide who deserves forgiveness, grace, another chance?

Humility; above all things,strive to be humble. In humility you will remember, or re-realize how ridiculous you really are, Who is really important, and you will inevitably become closer to your lifeline, Christ.

Your life is only so long, can it really be so bad to suffer a little ow? In comparison to eternity, these things are so minuscule.

You will make no impact if you are angry, bitter and closed up. Think about what you want to do most, in this life, align it with what He created us for, and you will see there is absolutely NO ROOM for anything but joy, forgiveness, unconditional love, long suffering, serving, encouragement, etc.

Do you see how you stifle yourself?

receipt?

until it shines forth in the fruit dually promised

Where is the witness to this inner journey?

Seasons passing stand for ground covered

Are there witnesses to vouch for your miles?

Please take your receipt-

Proof of a good purchase or proof of a profound rip-off

Your tag has been pulled, the 30 days are up

They say wearing a brave smile makes the sun shine

So shine on, and walk on

Past winter’s cold shoulder and the dances of spring

Summer’s bewilderment and the winds of autumn’s slop

If weathered means well-worn, then please clothe yourself accordingly

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

So “where is Waldo” becomes your motto

But notice: Waldo dresses the same, rain or shine

get this

the strength in the surrender

the victory in dropping defense

the reward is always greater

than the struggle to realize it

"always greater"

Meticulously articulating

I’m moving from my room into a hallway, with ceilings the color of ash, and walls that shine with a finish telling of their recent makeover. The nurses that wheel me around never speak to me outside of my room, perhaps because they've learned that I don't prefer conversation.
The wheels of my bed squeak occasionally, but not loud enough to block out the sounds all around. There are voices coming from the other rooms I pass, some quiet as though too aware that any ears close enough could easily listen in on their conversations, some loud and uncomfortable, making small talk as they have a thousand times, asking the same questions and getting the same quiet replies. I am all too aware that every voice rings with a certain desire to be anywhere but here.

Obligated visits or desperate ones, no one really enjoys coming here. The staff try to make the best of it for you, but they don’t enjoy being here either, so, how effective, though genuine, can that really be? They have their own lives, outside of these multicolored walls reflecting the inconsistent stream of fluorescent lighting.

I don’t like fluorescent lights. I am more aware of how many times they flicker, even though it is as fleeting as the movement of a moth’s wings, than I am of the lighting they provide. Truth be told, it’s a harsh lighting that wears on the eyes and over time makes everything look overexposed and almost unreal. I would count the milliseconds of darkness in that flickering if I could, but my eyes can only keep up enough to detect it.

I notice smells, too. Like the strong perfume that clouds room 2248 as the woman therein tries her hardest to be constantly prepared for company- but they rarely come. The smell of the fabric softener that some of the blankets are washed with, for those of us who spend so much time in bed.
There are plenty of things to notice, things you would never have thought about, when you spend day and night here.

Occasionally, like today, I leave my room, traveling down the halls, turning corner after corner, watching the patterns in the ceiling morph and make shapes as I pass. I have a destination, but I play a game of pretend so I don’t have to think about it. Today I am going to room number 3127 to visit Patrick Wilkins, the middle-aged man with a large sense of self importance. He loves to talk. He doesn’t know I listen to him, but he talks as though he thinks someone is interested, even though the staff try to avoid his stories.

I pretend I am going to visit him, to introduce myself and tell him that yes, I have been listening, and I do understand all your complaints, but no, there’s nothing we can do, and isn’t just lovely that the staff here take care of us, because what would we be without them? He would go on to say that he could do just fine on his own, and go into detail on how his life used to be before his teenage son brought him here. I don’t know if he has any children, or why he is here, but I make quite a game out of it.

If I allow myself, I can pretend enough that I detach from my surroundings, and it’s not the tests and treatments and updates on my condition waiting for me, it’s the stubborn woman just one room over who sings like the parrot that refuses to be quiet. She can’t hold a tune, but her vivacious spirit is beautiful enough. She sings through the staff asking her questions and taking her to the shower, she sings through the blood samples they take from her every other day even though the prick of the needle cause her breath to catch.

She sings like she is invincible, and I envy her. My breathing sometimes blocks out the sound of her high and shaky voice, and I would like nothing more than to hold my breath, never again inhale this recycled air, but I have to breathe again eventually. I never go outside, and these windows can’t be opened. There are doors, of course, but only into other rooms or elevators. The doors that lead outside are levels and levels beneath my room, but I don’t even visit the entirety of this floor, let alone the others.

My room is my home, and this building is the world around it. This is where I reside. I am preserved here. I am medicated, I am fed, I am bathed- I am checked on more than a beloved toddler by the overprotective parents. I do not have visitors, aside from the graveyard fill-ins that are assigned my room when I should be sleeping.

I listen and I watch and I sleep, and I wish more than anything for rest, but rest eludes me.



Jennifer Rene Mikkola

Even from a distance, you could clearly see her head of red, unruly hair, some locks curling smoothly and tamely, other pieces rebellious and wild; quite similar to her character. Eyes full of years' experience, but always looking for more -you learned quickly that not much escaped her notice- if you didn't watch out, she'd discover "just what you need". A project horse? "You can't say no." And always setting up friendships, "You need to meet. You'd be great friends."

A laugh both unique and contagious, you could keep track of her in a crowd by just that sound, but when she wanted to, she could be intensely quiet.

If you didn't know her, she was the friendliest stranger, with plenty to say, especially about Ride and Shine and her beloved horses. But if you were lucky enough to really know her, she was a friend, a mother, a shoulder to cry on, someone to laugh with -she was faithful to administer whatever a situation needed, even if her idea of what that was differed from yours- a slap in the face when "you needed it!", a lecture in having self confidence, a jab about needing to "cowgirl up"... But you really couldn't be cross with her for long.

She helped us, she worked us hard, she taught us, she was a pain in the butt, she teased us, she lectured us... She loved us.

If you asked me to put, simply, just who Jen was, to me, I'd say: She was not what I expected, just what I needed, and much of who I hope to someday be.

I love you, Jennifer, I miss you like crazy, I wish you were still here to bug me and help me stay sane and get crazy. You helped me become who I am today, and who I am working toward being. I miss laughing with you, and crying with you, being goofy, and working ourselves too hard every day even though we said we shouldn't. I wish I could look forward to making more memories with you, but the ones I have are among my most cherished. Thank you for everything.