i really, really hope the holidays aren't like this

but i'm pesimistic currenlty. and i might have good reason to be. i don't know. i'll just see how it all works out. but until then, i wrote this. it's an experiement with prose poetry. let me know what you think (like you always do, *smile*).


It got cold way too fast. The short sweetness of he season is being blown away. Not like I would have had the opportunity to enjoy it anyway. The bustling of awkward relatives thourh gour open doors occupies thoughts, vacuums, and soapy water weeks in advance.

I made tomato soup the other day, but didn't watch and stir. It boiled over with a hiss, like forgotten family. an ovverflow of overcooked turkye and bad, sparkled sweaters comes to the front door. One can fake a smile for only so long, so soon they rush out into cold Christmas wind, and I'm left to enjoy tea in an empty kitchen, leftovers rotting in the refridgerator.

i really hope my thanksgiving is like this. i don't think it will be. and just so everyone knows, because i love to celebrate birthdays but often need reminding, my birthday is this friday. just a dropped note would be fine. i love you guys so much. miss you,

emilea

inside a leather wallet

I could have put something pathetic up here. Something...less embarrassing than all the others, and I think is actually sort of decent, if not crap. Instead I'm going with something completely different.


my fingers frantically dig through piles
and piles of old memories. There is a ticket
stub I kept from visiting my aunt, the
picture of my old best friend. Finally
my fingers grip the tired
leather of a familiar wallet.

Inside, there is a photograph, slightly
torn just below her hand, and raised from when
I wrote on the back in fury, my
pencil gouging lines into your eyes.

My trembling hands hesitate on the clasp,
suddenly unsure of how to snap it
open. When they do, there's an overwhelming
odor of rust and the scent of being
trapped in a closet for years. I can't

remember why I know the photo so well
or why, when I slip it out of it's home, that it
rests so well on my warm palm.
I think the texture has changed in seven
years, the surface a little less rough, a little
more glossy.

It's one of those professionally taken photos,
with the cloudy blue background and the cheap
smiles that cost far less than their forged copies,
the antiques that don't exist anymore.


all right then.
Heather