frost over

I took your CDs off the shelf
And rifled through them to stay distracted
Because when I look up at you, it’ll all be over
I’ll focus my attention to what I love
To detract from what I’m afraid to discover I love
I’ll rattle your ears off with music trivia
Favorite artists, favorite songs, album names
So that I can’t get a word about you, me, or us in edgewise
I’ll pace the room and sit in the chair farthest from your bed
Stare out the window for a while
In hopes that what I really want to say will leave me
Drift off and disperse into the night sky
I’m glad you’re busy straightening up
With your back turned rather conveniently
Though it’s only a matter of time before you notice
That I’m darting glances every which way around you
I close my eyes and wheel the chair around
Just as you turn back to face me
This will work, I think, as I keep talking
About your favorite band and what I like about them
When I feel your hand rest on my arm
And the tingles make their detour to my heart on the way to my brain
My eyes squeeze tightly as if to hold everything in
As you ask me if everything is all right
And I tell you that’s a song lyric
Because all I can muster is ramble
And the chorus lines in my head
About unrequited feelings

From pen and paper:
12/28/04, eight-something a.m.

This morning I sat on an airplane, trying to catch up on sleep completely lost the night before and trying to clear my mind of everything negative over the past few...years.  My eyelids became a slow motion curtain fall, my ears adjusting to hushed murmuring voices from all directions when I heard a baby begin to cry -- softly at first, but gradually increasing in intensity.  Having been shut away on a large-sized college campus with an adequate stack of textbooks and notebook paper, overheard inebriated chatter, and a cable-free TV to keep me company and having been born the younger child, it had been quite a while since I had heard such a sound.  And though I knew that this was not an unusual occurence, my inner self, or whatever part of me was unable to drift away to sleep, reached out to sympathize with the cry -- years too late.  At that moment, I longed to express my discontentment in the same manner, but still achieve the same reaction of public indifference at a small child who was simply upset.  Then I realized that a baby's reason for crying generally had a direct cause or purpose with a straightforward solution.  Hunger -- food, thirst -- milk, uncomfortability -- burp, cold -- warmth, blanket...and so forth.  A parent would eventually pacify him or her with one of those solutions, croon with some generic phrase or nonsense syllables -- "Shh...it's okay.  It will be okay."  It will be okay.  How similar this sounded to what I heard when I relayed problems, frustrations, concerns, which seemed more complex and required further thought-out resolutions.  I can't even remember the last time that words were that reassuring to me.  I can vaguely recall the last time some action of affection calmed and soothed me for more than five minutes.  I wonder if that is what babies go through.  I wonder if they are capable of worrying about the future, even if it is immediate -- only seconds ahead of them.  I want to know how they can immerse themselves in one single moment to be open to every opportunity to experience something in a way that they have never felt before.  I want to know how that one cry can be a satisfying release for them.  But what I contemplate the most is how after the long wails and the temporary satieties -- how do they find those completely gratifying moments of happiness.