Giving thanks...

Yeah it's that time of year again; the time when we reflect on all that we are thankful for... but strangely, I am not feeling all that sentimental; thankful yes, but sentimental, no. In fact, I just chewed out my 14 year old for spouting off sarcastic comments to me and being disrespectful in front of a roomful of people. I truly believe that the holidays or, um, family, bring out the best and the worst in people. You realize that you're thankful that you have a family and that they love you and are there for you, but then you also realize that everyone is talking about everyone and why did your nephew smack your kid and why the hell isn't your brother doing anything about it? You just step back and go, what is joyous about this whole thing again? The cooking, well, the reheating, the cleaning, the disrespectful children, trying to spray whipped cream into their mouths directly from the can? I think about this and then I remind myself that the Thanksgivings that I loved the most were when I was a kid and I didn't have to worry about not having enough tupperware to put leftovers in running out of silverware before dessert... That's why the kids love it, that's why I loved it then... no worries, except for eating and being together.

I like the moments when we laugh at each other and even the moments when one of my brothers makes some snide comment and they always do, about something inane. I roll my eyes when I have to take the baseball bats from my nephew and from Ty who, incidentally are swinging them at the big punching bag out in the garage. I shudder to think of Luke swinging the bat near Ty's head. I smile when Katie comes and sits next to me to show me how well she can read Junie B. Jones and I crack up when she ran up earlier and said, "Aunt Vet, there's zombies in the backyard" as Christine, John and Steve chased the little kids around while they screamed.

Maybe it's only a matter of time before you notice the little things that piss you off or annoy the hell out of you; that just comes with the territory I guess, but, as the day winds down, you kind of shrug and smile and say, well, at least we all have a chance to share those moments together and you remember what really makes the holidays so great. It's not the food and it's definitely not the football, although my family would disagree with that. It's about having something to share with people who know you and who, at the very least, claim to love you; it's about coming together once in awhile and forgetting the little things like your brother texting that you are a dick (he claims it was meant for someone else) or the mass confusion about why there are two turkeys and no ham. Maybe there needs to be more booze and less tryptophan; maybe there needs to be more time to play and less cooking, sorry reheating. Maybe there needs to be less of everything; less money spent, less effort, less worry. Maybe there just needs to be a day when you see your family and it's just about sitting around, shooting the shit and escaping the daily grind and really, that should be enough.

I like Thanksgiving. I always have. I like laughing with my brothers and seeing the kids interact with each other and with my parents. I like having to cut Tim off after whatever number margarita he's on. I was half joking, but he actually said at one point, "I'm cut off." I like that I'm no longer waitressing on the holidays; that was always the worst. I like that Ty passed out cold at 8:00 and hasn't moved since. I like that my mom is feeling better and that the rugrat Maynard made an appearance. I like that there are leftovers. And I really like that no one has to get up early tomorrow...

I have great kids, I have a husband who claims to still love me after 18 years of marriage, I have a job that I love and friends who support me and who make me laugh, I have a family who I care for deeply and, I have a full life. For all those things and people, I am truly thankful. Next year I hope to be thankful for the following:

A better economy, a Guilty verdict and life in prison for Jerry Sandusky, less military personnel deployed overseas, more quality educators, Nick making and keeping friends, more patience, less profanity (dammit, going to have to work on that) more flexibility (literally and figuratively), a full time job for Steve and sobriety, more overtime for police officers if they want it, a full time job for Christine in her field wherever she wants it, a great soccer season for Jake, more time with my husband, better knees and, a trip to the Chicago marathon... and that's just the short list. Happy Thanksgiving!

Welcome to Public School...

I'm going to take some heat on this one, but, you know the drill... I don't really care. And, if I did really care, then I certainly wouldn't open myself up in a forum as public as this so that you or anyone else could comment on what I have to say. I'm going to take heat because I want to take aim at teachers and, I am one so therein lies the hypocrisy. Well, somewhat.

I want the bureaucratic nonsense to stop. I want there to be a system in place that not only eliminates the frivolous use of resources; one might argue that as of late, there is no frivolity because there are no funds, but, that is not the case. Do your research. I want that system to also include a "fine toothcomb" evaluation board that is comprised of a variety of educated individuals who have either excelled in their own teaching careers or who are currently excelling in them. I want this board or panel to represent the best of what our profession has to offer and to then take that expertise and devise a rigid, comprehensive evaluation process that leaves nothing to hide and that includes, as members, both teachers and administrators. I want evaluations to be on a regular basis with surprise "visits" to the classroom. I want classes to be offered either free or at a discount, by local Universities, to any educator who needs to stay current in his/her field. A program that encourages continued education, at a discount, with the incentive being that you keep your job and/or garner a promotion/salary increase. I want a system where the teacher, regardless of how many students he/she has, knows who my child is and what he/she is capable of and I want that teacher to admit when he/she is so overwhelmed or incapable of performance that my child ends up basically wasting a year of his/her life. I want a system that encourages homework only as a reinforcer, not as a time waster. Life is not built around the idea that the more you assign, the better a teacher you are. And, while we are at it, let's make "Draw and Label your own Island" an extra credit assignment shall we? There has to be an easier and more effective means of teaching children how to use the Legend on a map...

I sat through another IEP meeting today and I have to say that although it was standard fare, I appreciated the directness of the "specialists" and I found myself taking notes, some of which I might actually refer to in future. What I found and what I find disconcerting about Special Education in the public school is this notion that the plan is individualized to meet the child's needs. But here's the thing, those "needs" revolve around the child doing "well" and, even with the IEP goals in place, the only real yardstick that the district has is the same old totem pole that it has always used and that is, grades. A child is doing "well" if he/she demonstrates competency in the core subject areas. The other areas, such as social/emotional development or areas where "special" needs are addressed are broken down into categories and are then assigned an objective and a tangible "goal" that is supposed to be reached by a future point in time. What does this all mean? It means that the minute that you find out your child might be eligible or in need of special education services, you'd better find yourself a Child Advocate and put a Special Education Lawyer on your Rolodex if not on your Speed Dial because I'll tell you, every single time I walk into one of those meetings, I feel like I am facing a firing squad.

Maybe it isn't the teachers specifically that I'm taking aim at, I mean they are just trying to do their jobs, but it's this lack of understanding and even empathy at times that disturbs me. Yeah they have an inordinate amount of children and students to deal with and yes, there aren't enough hours in the day, but, wake up call, this is what they signed up for. They went into their respective fields because they wanted to make a difference. No one goes into teaching for the money or, especially not now, for the purported job security. People choose to teach because they are called to do it, like nuns or nurses I guess. You have to want to change lives to enter into a profession as demanding as education and if you don't, well, we've both met those who don't: burnouts in the worst sense of the word.

What I found particularly interesting about today's meeting was the presentation. Here are the services that the district provides if your son stays in public school and painted up, they all sound wonderful and many of them are. OT and Speech, sensory integration therapy and peer support. Sounds like a proverbial buffet and there I am thinking, well, maybe it's possible to receive some of these services if we bring our child to the school as part of the new plan, but still let him attend the private school where he is now? Um, how about no way in hell? See, it's about the money, show me the money and we'll meet your child's needs and that's it. Want services? Go to public school or sue the district for not providing FAPE for your kid. Acronyms - the lifeblood of special education. Keep notes, ask questions, get a dictionary and a map because apparently you are going to need to make several trips to various locations to peruse and gather the free resources that are provided by the district. SELPA (office), another important acronym.

Here's the thing, as a parent, how are you supposed to be automatically versed in Special Education; here you are dealing with a diagnosis and the daunting task of formulating a plan outside of school which will involve family, friends, coaches...
All the while, trying to rely on the school "team" to provide you with accurate, up to date, reasonable information, choices and services that your child may or may not receive depending upon said diagnosis. This should not be a situation of sink or swim. One must wade carefully into the waters of Special Education and this means, going slowly, while, sadly, your child continues to grow and try to manage his/her situation while you are trying to manage the information at the same time. Before you know it, 3 years has gone by and your child is being re-tested.

Public Education as a system is illogical. So many things that are done or not done don't make any sense. We know this. Even people who don't have children know this. I am not naive, I'm not ignorant, I'm not an idealist. I'm just a mom who wants her kid to be able to manage school in an environment that works best for him. My taxes pay for good schools in my neighborhood, but those schools cannot meet his needs no matter how many services they offer, regardless of the programs that are available. A system that tries to "manage" learning, education, students is very much like someone who "tolerates" others. If someone treated you as if they tolerated you, would that be sufficient, would that be "fair and appropriate?" To me, it wouldn't and it doesn't.

Teachers should be assessed more efficiently, programs and services offered by the district should be explained prior to parents needing to seek them out. There has to a more stringent means of hiring and firing people who are a part of this profession. When we look at ourselves and we recognize what our weaknesses are, only then can we move forward. There is no room for complacency nor mediocrity in education and the longer we tolerate it, the more damage both cause. Teachers have an overwhelming task and they should be compensated by their performance, their time, their dedication and of course, by results, measurable by some yardstick other than Standardized Test Scores. But there has to be a recognition that there are so many teachers out there who should not be teaching, who have to go. Restructure the system so that these people either live up to higher expectations or they get fired. Why do we protect people in a position to exert a tremendous amount of influence over a segment of the population that is the most vulnerable, the most innocent and who have the chance to make the most difference in the next generation?

If you tell me that I have weaknesses, I work on them, but, really, I already know what they are. I talk to my students, I consider what they say. I talk to my colleagues, I ask for help, I recognize when I am in over my head. Does any of this make me a better teacher? I don't know, but I do know that it keeps me in a Growth mindset rather than in a fixed one. And because of this, I keep trying to improve and to be better and to learn more and if that doesn't sum up what teachers do, I don't know what does. If you have a child in the public school system, start at the beginning. Find out what's available and where you need to go to get it and then GO.

Interestingly, although the "standards" have changed since I was in Kindergarten and in Elementary School, there were 28 kids in my class and I was reading before I left my K class. We even took naps back then. We had reading groups, we worked with kids who were of the same ability level and we moved at our own pace. We had one teacher and no aides in the class. We did homework that made sense and by 4th grade, I was doing 5th grade work and the more I did, the more the teacher gave me to do. There was no, "Please don't read ahead so that class can stay together." That is one of the most ridiculous statements I've ever heard come out of a teacher's mouth.

There are no real solutions here because the "problems" are like tentacles, reaching far and deep into every aspect of education. I know that. I just would like more parents to know, going into a school, that they have the right to question everything and everyone and that they don't have to take it just because a "teacher" told them that's how it is. That teacher most likely has a degree and a teaching credential. How did he/she become a sudden expert on psychological testing and emotionally disturbed children and working with autism and the social benefits of similar task grouping and... the list is endless. A teacher might do the same thing two years in a row, curriculum wise as mandated by the State of course, but I would hope, I would wish, I would pray that the teacher would adjust how he/she presents the material according to the students that he/she has THAT year. Clearly, what works for one class, doesn't work for another, even if that means, just two kids in the class.

A student told me the other night, Hey Ms. Hawley, you never stick to the syllabus, you always change everything and I agreed. I despise the syllabus. It's like a monkey on my back. It helps the students, but only if I stick to it and clearly, therein lies the problem. So I ask her, why are you taking me for the third time. She laughed and said, "Because you're a fantastic teacher." One does not have to give way for the other; I know plenty of fantastic teachers who follow the syllabus. Organization is not my strong suit; it never has been. I recognize that and I work on it. Slowly...

At the end of the day, Nick stays where he is, in a private school where the environment is slower paced, kinder if you will and less intrusive. I forfeited his services by signing them away yesterday and although I was worried about the implications of doing this, I feel, deep down, that it was the right decision at this time. A year from now, it might be different. If it is, then we'll address it then.

Ty said to his Preppie K teacher, "Hey, there's too much people in this class." She laughed and said, "Yes Ty, there are too many people in this class." She laughed and I smiled yet there was a moment when we both realized the truth in that statement and that it reflected something much deeper than either of us was willing or able to address. Hey, if the 5 year old feels it, what is there to do?

Educate yourself parents, go back to school, get resources and be prepared, because it's only going to get more difficult as the belt tightens and the expectations grow. Oh, and please, read to your children... just had to throw that in there.

Running the New York Marathon... 11/6/11

"Run like you stole something Ms. Hawley" words immortalized on the back of the running jersey that I will wear tomorrow in the New York marathon. I asked my students at Santa Monica College if they would like to sign my jersey before I left on the journey that brought me here tonight and most all of them did sign it; most of them, in fact, wrote the silliest, funniest and really memorable things. In addition to the one aforementioned, another classic would have to be "You better finish!" Almost sounds like a threat. When I asked the student about that, he laughed and said, "I just want to see the medal." Well, show me the money New York because it's on...

As I sit here in the dark, in the room at the Royal Park Hostel where I am staying, after just having had a "tension" reliever dinner with Rosh, Coco and Emma(also insane and highly motivated New York marathon runners)I am trying to draw from my word bank, the most appropriate and creatively descriptive words and phrases to accurately demonstrate what I'm feeling right now and, basically, I can't. I don't like to use that phrase and frankly, I use it very rarely, but there is no exact combination of things that I could say that can even begin to describe what the next 24 hours will be like. So, instead of trying, let me share a couple of stories and I hope that these will convey what this experience is like and what it will be like tomorrow...

The first marathon that I ran 3 years ago was for APLA and although I ran on Sundays, the Saturday group had a fantastic running coach named Scott. We had a much smaller group on Sundays that first year, but we knew who Scott was, just from the wonderful anecdotes that were shared about him, by the other coaches. I had only seen him a few times, but I too had heard the stories and he is beloved; that is the best way to describe it. Beloved. Two weeks ago, the new season for APLA began; the training for the Los Angeles Marathon in March and, I went, I signed up and there, in front of almost 200 alumni, was Coach Scott and this time, the story that involved him, that he would tell, would change everything, including an experience for a woman who had never met Scott, who never even knew who he was...

There are many reasons why I am sitting here and most of them have to do with you. Your support and generosity have fueled the fire that makes me want to continue to run these races. I could not do this without your help and that's really the whole point. We rely on each other in these marathons and we rely on everyone who surrounds us: family, friends, spectators, even people who we've never met, people whose lives benefit from the money that is raised, people who are trying to change the world by recruiting others to join in the crusade for charitable organizations.
I sit here because I represent all of them and you...

Coach Scott sent me a message saying that he was coming to New York to cheer on his brother in law and others who would be running. Then he shared the news that he had deferred his entry as long as possible for the last couple of years, but that this year he would have to use it. But, he wasn't going to be able to run and, by the way, Did I know anyone who could use it? (Insert mischievous smile here)

Coco Comer is one of those women who you want to know because you realize, once you've spent about 2 minutes with her, that she is everything that you could ever want in a friend: she's funny, smart, a confidante, she drinks, she runs and she's as quick as a whip. And, she's here, in New York, to cheer us on, oh, but now, she's running with us. Two days before the marathon and she has become Coach Scott and there couldn't have been a better person to represent this lovely and courageous man.

Coach Scott is in his own health marathon right now; battling two kinds of cancer. It is not my place to share details or even to ask I guess, but I think that by having made this coincidental connection and then by his graciously giving Coco his bib number, he has inadvertently bound us all together. Tomorrow when she runs, she will embody, as she does, all of the wonderful qualities about Coach Scott: his strength, his poise, his grace and his determination and, most of all his courage. Events unify us, but love and friendship, sharing and respect bind us forever.

I chose Autism Speaks this year because of Nick, for Nick and for all children with Autism. Tonight, as we sat at the dinner and listened to the stories and the numbers and when we met many people from all over, I was reminded of little I really know about the world and how simply naive I've become once again. I mean, do I think I have even a remote chance of changing the world with the 3 thousand dollars I've raised when a man stood up there who had raised 121 thousand? Do I, even in my wildest dreams, think that by running a 6 or even a 5 hour marathon will matter to anyone? How can I begin to imagine that what I do out there tomorrow has a real impact on any of it? On the world? On you?

So, I sit here and reflect, type, wonder, wait to get tired enough to fall asleep, knowing that I have to wake up in a little over 5 hours, in the freezing cold, take the subway, walk 4 blocks, take a bus and then wait around for 3 hours in order to run 26.2 miles... what definition of crazy is most appropriate here?

I'm scared and excited, nervous, jittery, my head hurts, I'm tired, I shouldn't have had that martini earlier or that ice cream if we're really counting, I miss my kids, I need to take a walk and clear my head. I am feeling a lot right now, slowly building to a boiling point that will no doubt explode some time tomorrow. But here's the beauty in it all. Not for one single second do I doubt that I will cross that finish line tomorrow. It's not pride or vanity or ego in this instance; it is simply sheer will. Whatever I have to do, however I have to do it, I will finish. And knowing that is the only option gives me enough peace to let all of the rest of it go for a few hours. Knowing that reminds me that Nick and Jake and Ty and all of the other children and families who are out there struggling with Autism or with HIV or with Cancer, all of those families who will show up tomorrow to cheer us on when we need it the most are what matters. Coach Scott matters, love matters, hope matters.

I'm going to close my eyes now and I'm going to say a quick prayer that might look something like this:

Dear Lord,
Remember why we are all running tomorrow and help those who cannot help themselves. Please give us all the strength and the patience to reach our destination whether that be a finish line or a starting line. And Lord, remind us of the greatness of helping others, of spreading the joy and love that reside in all of us. And, one more thing? Thank you for bringing me here. I won't let you down. I won't let any of you down.

Good luck to all of the runners tomorrow, may your feet be as light as your hearts and may they not hurt too badly. Thank you again for all of your wishes everyone. Close your eyes about 5 pm tomorrow and send me some more of those because that's when I will need them the most.

I run because I hope, I believe, I trust, I love, I care, I am blessed... I run because I KNOW that one person starts the change that makes the world better and tomorrow, there will be about 47,000 of them vying for the chance to show the world just that. Good Luck Marathoners!

New York City, 2011

Coming Home...

Yes dear friends, it's that time of year; dust off the letterman's jacket and pull out the photos with the frayed edges to show your kids, who incidentally, don't want to see them except to say, "What's with the weird hair mom?" Or, "Oh my Gosh, is that you?" Really? Am I that unrecognizable? Whatever it was, whatever it is, another homecoming weekend has gone and most of us are left to ask that age old question once again, "Where the hell did that year go?"

25 years ago, when I was 17, there I was, standing on the grass with my dad who, in the photos, is younger than I am now and we are waiting, waiting, waiting, seemingly forever... The frenzy that surrounds the crowning of the Homecoming Queen is much like the Hollywood "It" girl of the week; I mean, do you remember who "the next big thing" is from week to week? If you do then fuck you I'm not writing this for you, but if you are often as in a haze about the celebrity status quo as I am, then this monologue is right up your alley so, read on...

"Hey mom, what's that thing called? You know, the thing, the flower thing that I'm supposed to get for her?"
"What? What are you talking about?" I'm trying not to smile as Jake is frustrated and desperately playing one of our verbal games called, Let's guess what the hell Jake is talking about? Even when I guess, I usually egg him on for a few minutes anyway; it's in the maternal contract. Says right on Page 3, line 57, "...psychologically torture at will." Hey, I'm just doing my part.
"MOM! The thing with the wristband that I'm supposed to get for her for the dance."
"Nope, no idea what you're talking about. Is this some kind of a new fad or something, a bracelet, like those Save the Boobies ones?" Now I'm really trying to keep a straight face as he looks as though he is about to implode,
"Forget it, when is Dad getting home?"
"Oh like he's going to have a clue what you're talking about" Jake turns to walk away when I pretend like I'm thinking and I go,
"Hold on a sec, are you talking about a ... corsage?" I swear, the kind of relief that flooded his eyes and his face as his expression passed from one of anxiety to one of contentment while he nodded was the exact same kind that I felt when I was once so engorged that it took me FOREVER to get that little bugger latched on properly, but when I did, Hallelujah! The Heavens parted. Jake's face reminded me of that moment, same intensity.
"Corsage, yeah, we need to get her one"
"Okay, I'll order one"
"Yeah?" He seemed to think that was it, but he should have read further in the contract, Page 3, line 62 "continue torture as needed to procure desired reaction..."
"Yeah, no problem" He started to walk away,
"Hey Jake, but don't you need something to wear too? A flower that goes on your shirt?" The screwed up face returned when he realized that I was right,
"Oh, what's that called?" Can somebody say commercial interruption because there was no way in hell that he was going to get boutenniere...
Yes, I am mean (never said I wasn't)...

My senior year, there were 5 girls out on the field, as is customary: Jenny, Carolyn, Julee, Monica and myself. We were all standing in the freezing cold wind, adreneline pumping, surrounded by the drill team and the band, grasping our father's arms as they stood there, warm in their suit jackets, waiting... What is it with waiting, the prolonging... ah, I'm sensing a theme here with the torture thing, but you already caught that. Anyway, our senior year, the class president, who I've known since we played softball together starting at age 11, always had the craziest and really, the most awesome ideas. She was, and still is, a damn smart and creative thinker and she came up with the idea of getting the blimp to fly over at half time and to have the ticker tape reveal the name of the Queen. Fucking genius. Who would have thought of that, I mean, the blimp? How crazy cool is that? So, here comes the blimp and we're all like chickens, lolling our heads around, looking up, pointing, reading the letters in red as they begin to scroll... The 1986 West High Homecoming Queen is...

The doorbell rings last night and it's time for Jake to take pictures with Mia; it's also time for just a second of "This has indeed come full circle" for me since Jake is a freshman at my alma mater and it is surreal to see him, all dressed up, ready for his first dance in high school, with a gem of a human being on his arm. So, there's a little bit of fuss, I think we all did quite nicely, considering the group, Thalia and I primarily, of not humiliating the two of them and, we sent them on their way. There were a few collective, "Aaaahhhs" but overall, not too bad as Jake would confirm later after I picked the two of them up from the dance. I have to admit though, when he came down the stairs a bit earlier, I got a little teary eyed. No smirking... read Page 88 of the contract and cut me some slack.

I think the most wonderful moment and really, the moments of Homecoming are the shared memories that people have when they return to the school or a school from their youth. Even walking through an old school can evoke a flood of strong emotion and memory that is more powerful than the time when the person was actually attending classes there. Nostalgia and sentiment are powerful bedfellows and they do not like to be asked to go home too soon after they take over. Kinda like that girl you picked up last week at the bar down in Hermosa, just checking to see if you were still paying attention. This year, there was a dedication ceremony for Coach Pete and the revealing of the plaque in his honor, along with the renaming of the West High Stadium that will forever bear his name. Rightfully so, everyone agrees. The man was a Warrior in more ways than one and those of us who share that distinction, well, I haven't met anyone who isn't proud to have graduated from West and there is a camraderie that permeates this community. As a result of that, I am glad that my son is now a member of that pride and of that sense of belonging. I hope that he treasures it as much as I do.

I also think it's interesting the concept of the Homecoming "Queen" and of the "King" for that matter because it isn't something that you work for or that you earn really; it's just something that's given to you for really what reason? You were the smartest? The prettiest? The easiest? The Best at whatever it was that the majority of kids happened to like at the time? I mean, is popularity the criteria? I guess that's the universal answer, but what does it mean to be "popular?" Well liked? Respected? Feared? Hated? I mean in John Hughes movies, the popular kids were cruel and sometimes without feeling toward anyone else. If that's the case, then the Homecoming Queen is a real bitch. It's like Miss USA; really? Yes it's a contest, but it's not really a contest. Miss America, now THAT'S a contest; at least there's talent in that one. Not to knock Miss USA, but I just don't get it, never have, never will. Besides that, it's so unbelievably drawn out; just call out Texas already and get it over. Well, California sometimes too, but Texas man, you'd think that a state that produced W. wouldn't have any beautiful women, but whoa... there will be no political commentary here, none whatsoever. Besides, I'm digressing again,which, as you already know, is normal par for the course...

So there we stand, looking up, craning our necks as we hear people begin to read the words as they appear on the tape; it's this collective voice, unified, like a vocal drumroll, but then, when they get to the name, there is no name read because the crowd bursts into this kind of quasi-yelling, screaming mass of insane parents and friends and classmates and there's clapping and whistling as the former HQ moves to crown her successor. There are hugs and congratulations, roses and a robe and, of course, a tiara, more hugs, a glance upward to read her own name on the ticker tape and to laugh at the fun of it all. Tears come even though she told them not to and she feels very awkward and happy and silly all at the same time as her dad takes her arm and leads her to the car to drive around the track... and all the while she's thinking. All the while I'm thinking... how did that happen?

I pulled out the pictures last night to show Jake and his response was expected, mostly at our choices of 80's attire and hairstyles, but he smiled too as he asked me questions about that night. Then again, he is a boy so there weren't all that many questions. He got up and moved to walk away, but he stopped, turned back and asked,
"Hey Mom"
"Yep?"
"Is your picture still up in the ASB office from when you won?"
I thought about it,
"Yeah as far as I know"
He nodded, "Cool" and walked away. For the mom of a 14 year old son, that was pretty much the equivalent of winning the gold medal... cool.

It's not something you put on your resume or something that ever comes up in conversation; it's not something that I even tell people except in certain contexts. But the reasons why I don't say it aren't because I wasn't happy or because I feel a certain way about being chosen. I don't say it because there is no need to say it. When you win a game, you don't walk around telling people years later that you won. You might tell details or share in the joy of having experienced it, but you don't do that; it spoils the authenticity of the moment. Geez I sound like Dr. Phil, but, sincerely, when you have moments like that in your life, they remain precious because they are close to your heart, made for you, by you, with the help of others and oversharing them is to minimize their importance. Like when Jake put the corsage on Mia's wrist and she said "Thank You." It's all in the gestures, the background, the moments, and, that's the way it should be.

So once a year, I, like many of my fellow Warrior alumni, come home: to visit, to share, to remember, to help pass on the traditions to a new generation, to our own children. "What was it like to be the Homecoming Queen?" Somebody asked me that at the game this year and I guess, really, my answer to that question was everything that I just wrote here, but that would have been too much to say, so instead, I just simply said,"It was an honor" and it still is...

Welcome Home everyone. Go West!

Turning 5...

I remember sinking to my knees in the bathroom of the apartment where we were living at the time, tears coming quickly, staring at the little plus sign in the window.

I remember hearing those magical words, "You're pregnant!" and feeling both fear and joy that time.

I remember craving Orange Chicken and Pozole soup and wanting spicy foods; seemed to be the only things that settled my stomach.

I remember walking the dog and having to stop suddenly to vomit in the bushes because the morning sickness was so intense.

I remember how wonderful it felt, carrying you; feeling you kick, singing to my belly, wanting you to hurry up and get here.

I remember driving to the hospital with your Dad at 4:30 in the morning, ready for the C section that we'd scheduled.

I remember sitting there with your Dad, waiting for the surgery, trying to decide on a name for you, wondering why I was in pain.

I remember when we agreed on TY as your name and your Dad saying that we would tell people the T was for Tim and the Y was for Yvette, but really we just liked the name.

I remember walking into the operating room, telling the nurse about the pain, only to have her tell me, "You're in labor, you've actually been having contractions all this time!"

I remember hearing you cry, not too loudly and your Dad bringing you over so that I could kiss your face. Black hair, unhappy, squinting eyes, red skin.

I remember the 3 days in the hospital, not wanting to put you down, watching television, singing to you, feeding you.

I remember on the fourth day when you went limp in my arms and the nurse took your temperature and then, you were whisked upstairs for two weeks. Staph infection.

I remember coming home from the hospital without you, feeling kind of lost and very afraid; I was lying in bed, crying and praying.

I remember thinking to myself, please don't let him die in the hospital while I'm here. Please let me bring him home.

I remember going to pick you up, perfectly fine and the nurse making me sit in the wheelchair anyway, two weeks later.

I remember not minding the middle of the night feedings or the baths or the rocking you in the chair.

I remember how I blinked my eyes and you were 1 and then 3 and now, today, 5 years old.

I remember how much I wanted you and how much you've brought to our family.

I remember all of the times you've made me laugh and made me cry, already and I'm looking forward to many more.

And, in case someday you don't, I will remember all of this so that I can tell you about it then.

Happy 5th Birthday Ty Matthew Hawley and many more to come. I love you.

Ty

Happy Birthday to my littlest guy, Ty Matthew Hawley. What a blessing you've been these past 5 years! Have a wonderful day big guy...

Love,

Mommy

9/11

Dear New York City,

Ten years later, a nation remembers: your pain, your sacrifice, your devastation...

And, we will always remember.

Maybe that's all that needs to be said about today; maybe there aren't enough words or images or tears to cover the incredible tapestry of humanity that comes to mind when someone says 9/11. Maybe it's enough to simply close your eyes for a brief moment and remember, often and with a solemnity that only comes from having experienced a firsthand event that changes the very fabric of you are as a human being and who, really, a nation is.

It has all been said during this past decade; it's all been revisited in loving tributes, eulogies, articles about United Flight 93. The stories have been told and retold and today we live in a time when our military continues to be "out there," trying to maintain a foothold in an uncertain world, in a very uncertain time.

When I think of that day and today as I think about all of the people who were in New York City on that day, my heart feels heavy, my head hurts a bit and I feel a sense of despair that kind of starts in my brain and works its way down. My stomach hurts and I'm exhausted. And I wasn't there; like so many of you, I simply stared at the television, watching, waiting, hoping that it didn't happen. And then, I got dressed and went to work, people milling around, whispering beneath their daily tasks, taking every opportunity to turn on a television or a radio to find out what was happening...

When I was a kid, I had this feeling that my family, my neighborhood, my life was secure, invincible would be a better word. That's the point I guess, when you're young, you think that, most of us, if we're lucky. I went to sleep at night feeling safe and I gave little to no thought of the dangers that existed everywhere outside of my shell of world, outside of my family and my school. That feeling of security seemed to vanish on 9/11 and not just for children, for all of us. I remember some of the conversations that day and there was a sense of amazement and wonder as to how it could have happened, how could it have happened? And for maybe the first time, in my adult life as well, I no longer felt safe. I'm not naive and I'm not a fool, of course things happen and no one is 100% safe, but that feeling that I'd had since I was a child vanished the day that the World Trade Center fell and for those who were there, who lived it firsthand, who pulled bodies out from beneath rubble and who lost their family and friends and brothers and co-workers, I cannot begin to fathom the violation that they must have felt and still do. I try to multiple what I felt about a million times over and it's most likely not enough. Devastation lingers, but, maybe that is a point too.

In all of human nature, tragedy brings out the best and worst in us. I think that 9/11 showed the best of what we bring to the table when we are faced headon with the unimaginable, the wolf at the door... but it is also an example of the worst of human beings; their greed and desire for power, revenge, control. Because at our very core, we are all the same. It is merely how we choose to behave and respond that separates "us" from "them." And it was in our response, as New Yorkers, as Americans, as human beings that clearly distinguished "us" from "them." One can only aspire to be as brave, strong and respectful of human life as the firefighters who risked their lives that day; one can only hope to be as courageous and as forthright as the passengers of Flight 93 who knew that they were going to die, who, knew that they were going to die and yet who had the wherewithal to control how it would happen. Their story haunts me to this day.

Sometimes I think that it is ironic how we can come together as a nation in times of tragedy and remembrance but we cannot have a bipartisan Congress. Partisanship divides us to the point where we waste time, money, resources and our integrity even on issues and arguments that in the end, amount to nothing. The best of what we are as a nation should also come through on 9/10 and 9/12 and every other day or 9/11 becomes nothing more than another national day... If we are really going to remember and pay tribute to those who gave their lives, to those who suffered, shouldn't we do it by living their legacy? I'd like to see that kind of passion and committment to every single thing that we do as a nation. Maybe then we would see some real change.

It's hard to imagine what it must have felt like that day, in that great city, amongst the countless terrified and confused and sad people. It's hard to imagine that it could ever happen again. It's hard to imagine...

And so, we move forward and, like any tragic event, we enfold everything that came before and we take it with us, in everything that we do, in every place that we visit, in every baby that's born, in every triumph that we feel and in every day that we have together. So thank you New York, for everything that you are, for everything that you gave us and for reminding us of all that is to come...

Coach Pete

I was thinking that I would write about Coach Pete: Fred Petersen, the legacy at both West High and El Camino College, who passed away this past week. For obvious reasons, thoughts and memories swirling around in my head, I thought I'd just start writing and, in light of his service tomorrow, that maybe something would come out that was appropriate to share and that others would read and then nod and maybe smile and whisper, "Oh Yeah, I remember that..." But the thing is, everyone who reads this already knows all of it because if you've lived in the South Bay, you know the stories and you know the legacy and you know how important he was to all of us who passed through WHS athletics, through his classroom or through El Camino Football. You know because Coach Pete was a larger than life figure in every way; he is beloved because he made himself an integral part of the fabric of this community. Most importantly, he took pride in every team, in every player, in every student who came under his tutelage. We were at a parent meeting last night for the upcoming football season and I heard his name mentioned at least a dozen times. In the past week, I've read messages, seen family members and heard stories about the man that invoked that same reaction that I mentioned earlier, the nod, the smile, the whisper...

But I'm in no position to write a eulogy; I didn't know Coach Pete well enough to talk about all of his accomplishments and his career highlights or how his family is so well known throughout this area that there will be no room at his service tomorrow; the church will be full. I was thinking instead about mortality in general and about some very specific people who reminded me in the past few days that life is indeed, fleeting... As my oldest son enters West High in a couple of weeks, as a freshman football player, I am also reminded of how time and legacies and the gauntlet is continuously passed, even in the midst of loss and grief. Another generation comes to fruition in the long tradition of high school sports, maybe the spirit of coaches and teachers like Coach Pete pushing them toward excellence. At the very least, that spirit of unconquerable pride in one's school, community and in oneself.

I don't think excellence comes from having great genes or from working until blood runs out of your ears. I think being excellent at something really just means that, no matter what is put in front of you, you figure out a way to knock past it; if that means through it, around it, above it, beneath it, you do not let it stop you. And in that quest to get by, you prove your worth, your talent, your skill, your intelligence, creativity, athleticism, whatever it is that made you worthy of striving for excellence in the first place. Let's face it, not everyone wins the gold medal, somebody has to lose and, really, that's what makes winning worth doing. I'm the last one to push winning as a reason to do anything, but being a winner doesn't mean that you have the most points in this sense of the word. It means that you found a way past, on your own terms, in your own way. And, ultimately, I think that's one of the biggest lessons that I learned from Coach Pete. He was a tough man, he didn't put up with any bullshit, but he also exacted what he wanted from you, as a student, as an athlete; he showed you that you could get past and yes, it was going to be hard and it was going to hurt and it was going to redefine everything that you ever knew about yourself as a person. But in the end you'd be better than you ever were and when that happened, you'd have the skill and the wherewithal to accomplish whatever you set out to do in your life.

When we played soccer at El Camino College and I say we, because there were several of us from West who made our way over to ECC stadium to play for Bob Myers who was another formidable character and who I loved as a coach very much, I'd look up sometimes to see Coach Pete in the stands. On a Tuesday afternoon or a Wednesday night, there he was, sitting up there with the other 3 people that we had watching us play; not too many fans back then. And it wasn't that he was just sitting there, but he was yelling, "Come on Gabaldon, move!" and I'd be thinking to myself, What the hell Coach Pete? Yelling at me? From the stands? And then I'd laugh to myself, crazy man. But after the game, on every occasion that he was there, he'd come down to field level and he'd shake our hands, putting one hand on my shoulder and he'd tell me exactly what he thought of how I played and he'd smile, that Coach Pete smile and he'd tell me, in not so many words, that he was proud of me for being out there in the first place. And, I have to admit that was another thing that I loved about Coach Pete, he never treated us like we were girls playing a girl's sport. He respected athletes and we were athletes; he respected hard work and honesty and loyalty. He respected discipline and integrity and he stood for everything that West High stands for to those of us who are lucky enough to call ourselves alumni. He, in all of us, through all of us, has woven a tapestry of all of these traits that we now pass along to the next generation. And as we begin another AYSO season and we sit at coaches meetings, smiling at our former classmates, laughing about how we remember our parents coaching and refereeing, we are reminded of how quickly the time is passing and how these moments when we are drawn together by the passing of someone great or by the birth of another child of one of those longtime friends or teammates, bind us together, forever.

I am proud to be a part of that tapestry and every time I push myself to go a little further, a little faster, a little stronger, I live Coach Pete's legacy. I wish his family much peace and love and hope in hearing how much he meant to all of us and that we will never forget him.

Salty Breezes Sweeping O'er Us,
Cries of Gulls and Terns on High,
Purple Cast on Distant Mountains,
On the Far Horizon Lie,

Hearts United in One Purpose,
Hands Clasped Strongly in one Tie,
We Salute Our Alma Mater,
Staunch Defenders of West High.

Sleep Well Coach Pete. We love you.

The Grading Dilemma...

The worst part about teaching besides the students... (insert smile here) is (drumroll), grading. And yes, of course, as an English teacher, grading en masse is to be expected, but what I'm really alluding to here is the subjective nature of assigning a "value" to the product designed by another person. Yes there are guidelines and yes, there are exceptions to every rule, but there is no gentle way to break to a student who "busts her ass" to get that "A," that she isn't getting it, by the small margin of 11 points. Digest that for a moment if you will. 11 points. When I wrote my comments on her research paper, I explained the reasons behind the grade and she would agree, I am almost certain, that all of her other work was a combination of both excellent critical thinking and superior writing. Unfortunately, there were a couple of bumps along the way and those ultimately caused the point total to top out where it is. Clearly you see the dilemma; both the struggle in my brain and in my heart and wrapped in that, the distinct criteria that I had established in order to avoid said dilemma. But, alas, there is one or two of these situations every term. There is a student who continuously falls right on the "cusp" of the higher grade and, disappointingly, she does not get it.

I would not lose any sleep over giving her the higher grade, over adding a few extra points in the total for her participation, attendance, for her effort. I really wouldn't, not in this case. It would be simple to just punch in the letter "A" instead of "B." Who would know? Aside from those of you who are reading this, no one. And, by doing so, I may have inspired this student to work harder, even harder than she did this summer to acheive those kinds of excellent marks in the future. But, you already know what I'm going to say, you know what I'm going to do, what I've already done and it was not an act of moral superiority or "rightness." It was not an act that defines me as anything other than a person who struggles with difficult decisions and who does take into consideration the fact that each student is different and each situation is different. And maybe ten years ago, I would have looked at the situation from a much more limited perspective. That, however, is not the case now. Now it is merely a task that may be highly unpleasant, but at the same time, is both necessary and fair. In all fairness to this student and to every other student who is "right there," this is a situation that is designed to teach a life lesson as much as it is to teach a content based one...

In college, I had to take two semesters of American Literature, which I LOVED, maybe more than life itself. And, I was fortunate to have the same professor for both courses. I remember that during the first semester, in the "early" section of the literature, this professor dissected every statement I made in every single paper. It was like a writing anatomy lesson, "Okay Yvette, but this belongs here and this makes this work better and this... blah, blah, blah." Yeah, yeah I thought as he assigned me C's on my first two papers. C's!!!!! I have nothing against C's, in fact, when I have deserved them (Statistics :0 ), I have accepted them with no real disagreement. But, I busted my ass and my brain and I thought that I had done everything that he asked and still, average; your thoughts are average. That's what I walked away with. I spoke with him and he very clearly explained what I wasn't doing correctly and as time passed, I started to see that my writing was not expressing where my thinking was. I was writing like I was having a conversation with a friend and that conversation was all over the place. Interestingly, he let me, and others, rewrite our papers, but he would not change the grade. He read them and continued to make comments, but he wouldn't budge in this regard. It's an easy analogy to make; imagine your surgeon working on your torn ACL, you want them to get it right the first time. And, you want it to be an "A" job, not a re-do, hoping that the next time they'll get it "right." English papers are not medicine or "life or death", but the thinking behind analysis is done and required by most every field that I can think of, not to mention by those that might not even seem to require it. Needless to say, I learned a great deal that semester and I got a "B" in that course. I worked hard for that grade and in the end, I knew that I deserved it. I wonder though, if he had come to me and said that I was only 11 points from an "A" would I have seen that "B" as a failure or would I have simply chalked it up to another experience in which I wasn't treated fairly; would I cry and scream and be disappointed? Or, would I take it in stride and tell myself that the grade was a reflection of where I was THEN and that, like it or not, if I valued this professor's opinion and if I thought him a credible judge of my work, then I simply accepted that assessment and moved forward. Which is exactly what I did. And, the next semester, I earned an "A" in his class. Of course, I had something to prove, if only to myself...

I find it distressing and sadly amusing when students beg for grades. I mean, I cannot even remotely fathom how a student can come to me and ask for a grade that he hasn't deserved just because he "needs" it for some purpose, like avoiding athletic probation or increasing the average of his GPA. Amusing is not really the right descriptor here because the implication is that the power that I wield, at my discretion, is done with some kind of intent to harm or to "teach a lesson," in order to amuse myself, but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about a student who was told specifically of the criteria and then who blatantly ignores it or disregards it and then who expects me to comply so that he can transfer to the school of his choice. I mean, where in the rule book of life is the line, "If you don't get what you want, beg for it, even when you haven't earned it or when you don't deserve it." I must have missed that section. The thought of emailing my American Literature professor REPEATEDLY, begging for a grade makes me sick to my stomach, no matter how badly I needed the grade; no matter how desperate I was.

So I sit here, having just submitted my grades for summer school, digesting the information that some of those grades will have a serious impact on academic careers and some will force students to reconsider their plans for the Fall semester and even, for the future. I sit here and think about this and I really wonder about the student who is so close to the "A." If I asked her, would she want me to make the change, would she want the "A" even just by a mere margin of 11 points? Or, would she think about it and look over her work and the course and the criteria and accept where she is, right now, without remorse? Yes, she will be disappointed and surely, she will think back over all of the pieces that she wrote for me, asking herself where she could have made up that 11 points and possibly, the word "unfair" will spring to her lips. But, maybe rather coldly, I cannot be concerned with what her reaction will be; I can only hope that she takes this opportunity to self-evaluate and to come out stronger in the end. I can only hope that her disappointment leads her to write even better in the future and to be proud of her ability to have improved in such a short period of time. But I do that, not with a heavy heart; I do that with the knowledge that I've upheld my part and that I've done my job as objectively as I could and that, when she sees that grade, she will know deep down, that it was assigned fairly. It's hard not to take things like grading personally. But just remember this, it is your work that I am grading, not you. It is just about the work.

In the end, what are you if not the sum of evaulations done by yourself and by people whose opinions you value? If we do not consider the evaluations of others, how can we be expected to improve, to grow and to learn? Maybe all we can do as educators is continue, if we do that, to maintain that strong line of fairness and objectivity and to disallow the notion that if we "like" a student then adding in 11 points is really no big deal. It is a very big deal, one that will plague me whether I want it to or not. One that might make me rethink an evaluation, but not to change it. So when you take my class, if you take a class that I teach, know that I may not be the kindest or the most entertaining teacher, but I will be fair and at the end of the day, you will get the grade that you have earned; not that I assigned, but that you earned...

Aging... not so gracefully.

I don't want to age gracefully, fuck that, I want to go down fighting. And in no way, shape or form am I talking about Botox or Lipo or even plastic surgery. I mean, I can't say never, but operations in any shape or form, particularly for cosmetic reasons, just don't appeal to me at the moment, not to say that they won't, but, honestly, I'm not really that kind of person. Nothing against anyone who is; I am all for whatever, whoever, whenever makes you feel younger, look younger, pretend to be younger. I'm just not quite sure about the acting younger thing. I mean, if I am being totally honest here, acting younger just means drawing unwanted and unnecessary attention to yourself. And, of course, we all know to whom that refers, just google, "reality tv."

Here's the thing; I really have no problem with aging. When I say that I want to go down fighting, I mean that I don't want to just waste away into that category of "old." I look forward to getting "old" and to hopefully having grandchildren and to sitting with my friends at happy hour and to walks on the beach with Tim, but I also look forward to running some races, doing some yoga and waking up each morning for the rest of my life asking the question, "What will I do today?" instead of focusing on what I no longer am able to do. I'm already at the point where I can only do certain things for a length of time now without a full recovery session. Of course I am talking about mostly physical activity, but I'm also referring to activities that involve sustained periods of sitting or driving or listening to stupid people talk... had to throw that one in there for good measure. I like the idea that as I age, I'm carrying another year with me. Sandra Cisneros (of House on Mango Street literary fame) wrote a short story entitled "Eleven" and in this story is a little girl who is turning just that age; in fact, it is her birthday on the day that the story takes place. At one point in the narrative, she comments on how she feels like a compilation of all of those ages leading up to 11 and that, in certain instances, she is 5 or 9 or 1, depending on what is happening and how she feels about it at that moment. She even compares those feelings to the little dolls that fit inside of one another, from smallest to largest; a collection of ages, if you will. I love this idea with my whole being... because some days, even in some moments, I am not 42; I am 16 or 25 or 7, walking home from school for the very first time with Keiko who lived down the street from me. I love the idea that every bit of who I was is now another little "doll" that is somewhere forever tucked inside of me, waiting for the opportunity to get to emerge and, maybe for just a moment, live again.

I'm not afraid to die, I've said that before. And, like most ideas, this one will probably run its course and someday I will amend that thought. But for now, the idea of death is just surreal; something that is out there, waiting for me and because it is inevitable, I don't worry about it. I don't worry that I will develop some disease or perish in some accident because whatever is in store for me, in my thought process, was decided long ago and I am just living out my destiny, one year at a time or, probably more accurately, one day at a time. I'm fearful of not living, of just accepting what is without asking myself why it is that way. I'm afraid that another 42 years will go by and I won't have any new experiences racked up under my belt. I'm afraid that my children won't remember me as I am now, crazy and angry and full of life and, I want them to remember be like that. I want to remember me like that.

I got to visit with a former student this past weekend and he got to meet my very best friend at the same time; quite an opportunity. And as we socialized and caught up, I was mindful of the fact that many years separated us from him. 16 to be exact and there were a couple of moments when I felt out of place, but never old; that wouldn't have been the word to describe how I felt. I felt a lot like that character from the story; a combination of ages all at once, both lost and found. I enjoyed the age difference because I realized that it doesn't mean anything other than who you are in the moments that make up your life. It matters only in how you respond to others and whether or not you are gracious and kind and forgiving or whatever you need to be right then. And in the end, recognizing that 26 or 42 really isn't the issue at all; the issue is making the time and taking the moment to reconnect with someone who was a part of a time in your life that mattered very much.

My family is kind of hung up on age and I'm not exactly sure why. I hear constantly comments about how old everyone is or how old they look or how "remember when?" I find this kind of nonsensical for many reasons but particularly when someone who is in their twenties is saying it. There is no point in denying your age or where you are in your life because it is inevitable for everyone, we know that already, but what I think most of my family doesn't get is that I am perfectly happy with who I've become and where I am and I had my chance to be 18 and 33 and 11 and 19 and I tried my best to make those years worth living and worth remembering so that now when I look back on them I can sigh wistfully and smile, knowing that I did just that. I look at my sister and my brother and my kids and I am glad for them that they are going to get to have those years too; I only pray that they will. And I hope that they make the most of them because telling someone that they are old doesn't mean anything more than your are fearful of the same thing happening to you and, sorry to tell you, it's going to. It was my turn to be 23 and now it's yours and someday, it will be someone else's turn... so make it count.

I feel better than I have in 15 years: physically, emotionally, mentally. I am more active, stronger, more educated and definitely less patient than ever before, but that goes without saying. I do have 3 kids. Man I love those kids. Anyway, like my friend Coco said once; something to the effect of, "I like having scars, it means that you've lived." I think she meant the physical ones, but hey, let's throw in the emotional ones too, just for some levity here. To add to that, I like looking at my body and remembering where a scar came from or why certain body parts feel the way that they do. I like that my body is just a little softer than it was before I had children and I LOVED carrying them in my body; every movement, every shift was pure joy for me. I love that I feel stronger than I ever have and that my stamina is better than some people half my age because that tells me what I am capable of doing and how hard I can push myself. I really love that I can sleep very deeply, not for the longest periods of time, but often and that I can eat super spicy food before bed and not get a stomachache. I like the certainty that comes with knowing from where my next paycheck will come and, along those same lines, I like knowing from where my next orgasm will come; no pun intended. Well, maybe just a little "pun." But, again, that brings up the topic of sex and, as a woman who, well, let's face it, is at her sexual peak, there is certainly much to be said for middle age in relation to this topic. I think I can leave it at that. Just one more thing though and then I'll leave it at that, why the hell does this sexual peak thing have to happen in our early forties? Why isn't it happening sooner, later, in the future? Nature's cruelty I suppose or not, depending on how you look at it and/or if you have someone who is right there, waiting to pull you to the floor or whatever surface is handy. But, I digress just a bit.

Yes I dance around the house listening to songs that my kid put on my Ipod and I probably look like a complete jackass doing it. Yes I like to play in the mud and watch reality shows that crack me up because of the ridiculousness of the situations. Yes I love to eat sweets and stay up too late and read comic books. And yes I love to play tag, color in the lines and press playdough through the molds that come with the kits... but most of all, I love being all of those ages, every single moment and every single day where they combine to form a kind of lovely, tangential thread that pulls me through the universe, for however long I have, however quickly it wants to.

So the next time you look at me and think I'm old or wonder about my life or my age or my purported well being, just remember that I warned you; I warned you that your day is coming too my friend and when it does, there will be some 18 year old with a tighter ass and a larger bank account (maybe not at 18) and a faster car (again, same thing), but in the end it won't matter, none of it will because you, like me, are better than the sum of all your parts. You are the journey and, the end is nowhere in sight...

Top Ten reasons to have sex tonight...

10. There's nothing good on television.

9. Didn't make it to the gym today; have to get in the cardio somehow.

8. I just watched a Jason Statham movie and, well, if I can't have the real thing...

7. Bored.

6. My friends dared me to.

5. Vibrator broke.

4. Too much toxin buildup in my body so I figure, what the hell?

3. Hormones are out of control.

2. I drank too much.

and the number one reason to have sex tonight (a la Dave Letterman):

Endorphins people, endorphins...

Okay, gotta go. ;)

Why you ask? Why the hell not...

Somebody asked me the other day (and this is certainly not the first time that this has happened) "Why do you want to do a triathlon?" and while many things run through and ran through my mind, it wasn't until later, again conspiring with a friend... well, not really, but we were talking about this notion and the answer is so ridiculously simple, so unbelievably obvious that it doesn't seem to require an answer and yet, here it is, "Because I can..." Now that might not be enough of an answer for the hardcore pessimists out there or for those who cannot fathom the idea that tackling something or taking on a challenge that is out of your comfort zone is done because it is that very thing that deep down you don't really "want" to do, but you feel compelled to "try" anyway. Like anything really, having a kid or buying a house or compromising on an issue. Do you really "want" to do those things? Or is there something in your nature that drives you to do it. I mean seriously, does anyone really "want" kids? I'm laughing at myself right now, but if you knew what you were getting yourself into for the next 18 odd years, you might not have agreed so readily or, suggested the idea so readily...

So you doubting Thomasas out there, here's the thing. Will is a powerful yardstick by which to test your growth; as a human being, as a woman or man, as a force of nature. There has to be something that screams out at us, "I'm here, taunting you, just try to get past me" that begs us to do that. It might be piano lessons or skydiving or Thai cooking. It might be the Kama Sutra, computer programming or planting grass in your backyard. It might be traveling to an exotic place or giving up caffeine (yikes) or Bikram yoga (took a class last night, my body is sighing in relief today). But whatever it is, it has to reach that locked up piece of your soul that is begging you to take it out for a spin. And maybe, if you don't, then you become a stagnant swamp creature who soon cannot even look into the light. Or maybe the Blob... but I digress, just a bit here.

It is almost impossible for me to understand the apathetic. And I am not judging physical stature or ability level here. I am talking about people who just exist, who don't live, who just exist. And while my judgement extends to those who have first rate opinions about everyone else wrapped up in their apathy, I'm really addressing those who choose not to do anything outside of their comfort zone and, for many people, that comfort zone is smaller than their desire to change it. And so they question others. The why becomes the question instead of why not? I run because my legs let me and I read because there are books that I haven't begun to imagine finishing and I push myself because soon, I too will be just a memory and I want to know that I gave it everything I had. And by no stretch of the imagination am I suggesting a triathlon for everyone, but what I am suggesting is a hard look at the bigger picture here. Sinking into depression or apathy only breeds more of the same and that results in nothing good for anyone. While medication or alcohol may help, therapy too, I still believe that it is a lack of desire for something and the subsequent loss of having something to look forward to that depresses people and rains on their parade so to speak. I know you ask, well, does she really look forward to all those workouts and that pain and the exhaustion that comes along with it? And, if you've understood what I've been attempting to explain here, then the answer is obvious, "YES, dammit, YES." Why else would I allow the redhead to get me to sign up for 1/2 marathons? Why would I carpool with the bedthump and said redhead at the crack of dawn up to a fucking mountain in Palm Springs and then walk up it for crying out loud??!! Why would I subject myself to the fear and even terror that I feel when I am swimming in the cold ocean not knowing what is beneath me (and yes that does terrify me). Why do I sit in the rain or get up at 5 a.m. and do whatever activity is scheduled for that morning? Yoga, biking, running? BECAUSE I CAN people, because I can and the day I can't, I may just lose my will to live. Well, unless I have grandkids by then or something else that can simultaneously cause me pain and ecstasy.

I really think and I do see this in my students every single day in class and let me tell you, taking English 100 in summer school is NO picnic by any stretch of the imagination. Those who are taking it and doing well, they have wills of iron, nerves of steel and a huge giftcard from Starbucks because at 7:30 a.m. no one is paying attention, not even me... But, ultimately, having a strong will is not enough; it becomes about testing that will, challenging it and forcing it to push back so the next time, any time that you need it, like every other muscle in your body, it is stronger and faster and more capable when you want it to be, when you need it to be.

Physical fitness is about a lot of things, we all know that. And even if you were never an athlete or you never competed in the "sports" sense, doesn't matter in the least. The thing about physical challenges like mud runs or marathons or even triathlons is that you are only competing with yourself. Unless you are an elite athlete and I'm not really speaking to them right now because their will is unlike anything I could aspire to have. I'm talking about you and I, the everyday Joe's who walk around struggling with all of it and trying to find some balance. Creating competiton with yourself is a win-win situation. There is no loser involved. You get out what you put in and at the end, you are better. I mean I like that I am fitter than I have been since my teen years and because of that, I am reaping other benefits, but the biggest one, the most important one is knowing that I can try to do anything I set my mind to; note that I didn't say I can do it. Again, I never go out to win, that's not the goal. I go out to try and when I try, giving it my all, I never fail... nor will you.

So, why do a triathlon? Maybe for the same reason you watch reality television or bake cookies or wash the car. Because it is there, waiting for me, taunting me, asking me to do it. Sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but it's never the same thing twice. So, heed my advice, don't. Do something, do nothing, but remember "You are what you choose to be;" the Iron Giant, great movie... so, what's it going to be? Choose...

An exercise in futility?

I'm tired, I'm so tired of all of the management that daily life requires. I try not to let it wear me down, but it does and it is. I'm like that proverbial piece of "antique" furniture in your garage that needs to be refinished, but months go by and then years and pretty soon the elements, the insects and just the general effects of time begin to wash out the color, the smooth wood, the appearance that once gave it a lustrous feel... and now has left it just plain old. Some things do not get better with time; some things just fall apart.

I try to remind myself that everybody has a bad day now and then and ironically, I had a pretty good day today. But sometimes, even when I'm thinking that it's a good day, I can feel that sense of despair and, although, I despise using the word depression here, if only because I do not want to lessen the diagnosis of those who truly do suffer from this debilitating problem, I feel at a loss. I feel like I've put my shoes on the wrong feet. I can still walk, can still move forward, but much more slowly and with some sense that things are amiss...

I used to get mirgraine headaches and for many years, I didn't know that's what they were. When I was a teenager, I just labeled them "really bad" headaches; I didn't know that there were actual symptoms, medicine to combat those symptoms and even, therapies that might help alleviate the pain. When I was 26, I had an MRI done of my brain and, let me just say for a moment, if you are ever able to have this procedure done, whether you need to or not and you can pay for it, it just might be worth every single damn penny that you can scrounge from the couch cushions... but I digress, I know that MRI's border on ridiculously expensive, but the images that this proecdure produced and of my HEAD... let my pause for a second and say, I now understand why I was not capable of going to medical school. Because basically, I would have been standing over the patient with a gaping knife wound or a piece of glass stuck in their head and my mouth would have formed a nice doughnut while my eyes got wider and the sound, "Whoa" emitted from my throat. I am seriously in awe of modern day medicine and the technology that has enabled the peons of the world, myself included of course, to view images of their brains. For crying out loud, my BRAIN...

So, the doctor told me to wait until I had a migraine and then call, come in and they would do the MRI, while I was experiencing the excruciating and nauseating pain. They had already completed the images of my brain without the migraine so this was just the other half of the equation. I lay very still, or at least I tried to as the pain jackhammered itself into the right side of my brain and my stomach churned endlessly. The procedure takes about 30 minutes, but it feels like 30 hours when you are in pain and not able to move. I lay there, focusing on the noise, closing my eyes, wishing for certain death... no, not really, but wishing that the whole thing would hurry the hell along. Anyway, the procedure is finished and the radiologist asks me if I'd like to take a look at the images. I'm about ready to tell him off when I see him pull up side by side images on the computer and I feel myself moving automatically toward them. On the left are spliced images of my skull and my brain and on the right, you guessed it, my brain on drugs. Red synapses blossomed all along the right temple of my head and seemed to explode outward, but only in that one place. I felt compelled to put my fingertips against the pain, as if I could feel those red lines emanating throughout my body. I stared in amazement as the doctor pointed out different areas and identified what each was responsible for and how the patterns did this and that, but I was lost in the idea that he had actually captured my physical pain on camera, physiologically. From that point on, I knew that how I looked at things would literally be different...

I take medication now for the migraines, but, knock on wood, what a stupid expression, I don't get them as often anymore. I now know some of the things that trigger them and so I try not to smoke crack quite as often... insert smiley face here. I try to avoid too much caffeine, chocolate or wine. I try to get enough sleep every night and I try to stay hydrated. That is the worst one by the way, dehydration. When those don't work, I take Imitrex and that does work. So, on the days when things go awry, when my head is pounding and I cannot, for the life of me, seem to get a grip, I remember, I remind myself, I think back to laying in that machine and I know that things could be a whole hell of a lot worse.

I mean, that's no way to live your life, with the mantra, "Things could be worse, so I should be happy with what I have..." and that's what I was really thinking about. Happiness is like lowfat potato chips or fat free cookies: a mere illusion. Happiness is not the goal for me anymore, maybe it never was. Peace is the goal, inner peace and yes, I'm channeling my own personal half Yoda/half Buddha. But I'm talking about the kind of peace that slows your heartrate and allows you to sleep soundly at night, deeply... the kind of contentment that forces you to breathe deeply and smile as you exhale. I yearn for the kind of peace that makes me accept the fact that I will die and I do not know when or how, but that when I do, I will be ready because my life will have been everything that I wanted it to be. I think that happiness is temporary, but peace with yourself is eternal; a semblance of immortality if you will. It is the transference of a level of consciousness that transcends material goods and status. While I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my job and my ability to make money do help to define me, they are not me; they are what I allow them to be, what portion of "Yvette" I allow them to claim. Maybe not the best argument philosophically, but if I were to draw it on a piece of paper, it would be a few simple circles instead of a whole flow chart entitled what makes me happy, but I digress...

I just would like to get to a point where I wake up in the morning and stop telling myself that today has to be a "productive" day in order for it to be a "good" one. I mean, why can't I have days where I just lay around and do nothing, absolutely nothing, but read my book for 6 hours straight and then take a bath at 1:00 in the afternoon and, eat ice cream before dinner, well, let's face it, I do that anyway and often I eat it as dinner. But most importantly, when am I doing to stop judging my days by how much I got "accomplished?" It's not a checklist and I am not answering to anyone, not even to my family here. I'm simply saying that, for me, getting to that place of peace means accepting that boredom and sometimes just plain laziness are perfectly acceptable means and a part of my life and if I am trying to stave off the inevitable that I'd better start looking elsewhere because eventually, I am not going to be able to physically keep up the pace that I'm moving at right now and the sooner I accept that, the better shot I have of living a calmer and hopefully, more peaceful life. But for now, I'll just work on having a day or two where I do very little and try not to feel guilty or bad about it...

I saw a man sitting outside on his front porch this morning when I walked down to get a cup of coffee and that was about 7am ish... when I walked down around 10 to drop some mail off at the corner mailbox, he was still out there and I found myself throughout the day, just peeking at him to see what he was "doing." 3:00, he was just looking out at the street, shifting in his chair, kind of rocking back and forth. 4:30 or so, he had his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked and he was checking something out in the sky. The last perusing was around 6:30 and he had his arms folded across his chest. He might have been asleep, but I couldn't really tell from where I stood. I thought that he probably had gotten up a few times during the day, to fill his various personal needs, but, there he was, for a good 12 hours, just, well, just sitting. Imagine, just sitting, enjoying the world go by. I like to think that, as I write this, that he had no guilt about "wasting" the day because if I thought for a second that he did, the whole exercise would have been one of futility. So I just imagine that he was "happy" and at peace on his porch and that simple fact, or thought, gives me hope that someday I might be able to do that, or, at the very least, something similar. Maybe at least an hour. Here's hoping...

Top Ten Things That Give Me Hope...

1. The Arts; I read once that the Arts define who we are as a race and I couldn't agree more. Those who paint, draw, dance, play music, sing, write and all those who imagine and then share visions that bind us together do foster hope...
2. Kindness, in all of its forms: miniscule and enormous...
3. Love, all kinds; especially from the arms of a four year old...
4. Traditions; the passing on of ritual and rites to the next generation...
5. Friendship; often underrated, but always vital to my well being...
6. Learning; maybe formal education, but more than that, the desire to keep moving forward and to never stop growing...
7. Children; just looking at them makes one think of the endless possibilities...
8. The military; I am always in awe of those who continue to volunteer and who put themselves in harm's way to protect us.
9. Science; I think that regardless of what discoveries are made or what cures are not yet found, those who do research and who dedicate their lives to making a contribution deserve a profound amount of respect...
10. Because without hope, life really isn't worth living. And for what it's worth, God, in whatever shape or form or definition that takes...

For Ty Matthew Hawley, who finished preschool today and who moves on to the next chapter of his ever changing existence. For him, the future is limitless and for me, it is colored with hope as I watch him move forward...

Fitting in...

I think it's fascinating to sit and watch groups of children play in a social setting; it's not only a predictor for the future, but it also tells me more than I want to know about myself and social acceptance. As a socio-psychological "experiment" in and of itself, the sandbox at the park is as credible a place as any to get an idea of how and why human beings long to be accepted by their peers. The child who is ostracized or on the fringe of a group is the one that you do not want your child to be; at least, that has seemed to be the case more often than not. Of course, we want our children to express their individuality and to not necessarily conform to what others are doing, just for the sake of being accepted. But, more than that, we want them to have friends and to develop relationships and ultimately, to find their place in a world that thrives on the herd mentality. Whether I like it or not, whether I want it or not, I am a member of many social groups and those who make up those groups inadvertently dictate how I feel about myself and the world around me. The difference is, at least for me, as an adult, I have some control over which groups I choose to be a part of... most of the time.

I can be on a team or on a committee or part of social network of mothers with preschool age children. I can belong to a church or a gym or I can participate in a monthly book club. The list is endless, but the factor that is most important is the "who" factor; who are the people who I am involved with in a social way. Who are the people who I've chosen to share my life, my time, my energy with? And, it is this question that I consider as I watch the kids play because ultimately, when you are a child and especially when you are an adolescent, you, more often than not, don't have a choice. The hierarchy of popularity chooses for you and, albeit unfair or not what we would choose for our children, that's just the way it is. And when your child is on the fringe, the world becomes an entirely different place, for both of you...

Having friends is vital to our sanity and to our feelings of productivity and well being. I get that, I have that and, those people enrich my life. But it has taken years of observation and evaluation to realize that I don't need a network of people in my friendship circle. I don't have any desire to be friends with someone just for the sake of calling them a friend. So the circle remains small, but intact and these, mostly female, friends are a support system that carries me through difficult times, joyous occasions and sometimes just the daily grind. But thinking back to oh, fifth grade and seventh grade and the days when I worked in the cafeteria and often got teased or made fun of, or the times that I was called names or mocked because I wasn't wearing the right clothes or shoes or whatever insignificant thing was significant in the world of teenagedom at the time; I realize that sometimes, it is just about surviving those years and, if you can survive them intact, psychologically and you maybe have 1 or 2 people who helped you get there, then you've come out ahead of the game. Because, sadly, it seems as though there are less opportunities to form those lifelong friendships due to many factors these days and yet, it is still blatantly evident on the playground that we, as social animals, still crave it and as long as we do, the schoolyard bully and the cool kids and the "nerds" will always exist... to our detriment I think.

When someone makes an effort to be a part of my life because they care about what happens to me, it changes something in the way I see the world. When someone tells me that what I've said or done has made them better, stronger, more able to succeed, it validates my efforts, my existence. When someone loves me, in whatever shape that takes, it reassures me that my life does have meaning and purpose. On the other side of that is this need to seek those people out. I want them and I need them, but I do not want to have to court them or prove to them that I am worth knowing. I want them to meet me, to know me and to then decide whether or not they want me as part of their social circle. And if they don't, when they don't, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it hurts, it really does hurt sometimes: my self-esteem, my ego, my psyche. But if I've learned anything and if I can somehow manage to detach myself from the situation, I usually realize that it was for the best. Coming back around to the mantra that "everything happens for a reason" sums it up; maybe we wouldn't have been good for each other, maybe, in fact, we would have hurt one another more than we would have helped one another. Then I shrug and tell myself that there will be many other opportunities and many other people and that the longer I think about this and the more I experience, that it is the same for my children too. The relationships that they foster with people of THEIR choosing are who will matter; not just making acquaintances who, may or may not turn on them day to day, just because they feel like it.

I get my feelings hurt, I'm sensitive and people matter to me very much. I take things to heart and while I may not always show it, I carry deep emotions and some scars that will always be there. Everyone does, that goes without saying I suppose. But what I've begun to learn, and I say begun because life is one big lesson and it is like the perpetual blackboard being written on over and over again, is that fitting in is nothing more than being accepted only by people who matter to you and by, yourself. I can't change you or make your life better because there is only so much that is my control. But what I can do, is make myself the best that I can be so that when our paths cross, when you need to find someone like me, that you and I will form that yin and yang, for both of our sakes. And as far as everyone else, I am no longer in need of acquaintances. I have passed that stage in my life when us knowing one another is enough to validate our knowing each other. I no longer have time for you. Don't take it personally, just remind yourself that life is short and that really, you don't have time for me either. And while it may seem as though I am being specific, I am speaking in generalities here. I no longer have time for those who want something from me only to give nothing in return and I especially no longer want anyone in my life who is not willing to accept that I have many, many flaws and that while you may want me in your life, that I may not always deliver; that more often than not, I will most likely disappoint you, but that ultimately, it is not a reflection of my lack of caring or focus. For, once we allow people to have too much control over any relationship in our lives, we abandon what we believe to be important and instead accept the mere "norm." And conformity aside, fitting in aside, I no longer think the "norm" is what makes life worth living.

Be daring and creative and accepting, but also be sure that your life is exactly what you want it to be and that you share it with whomever enriches that time. Relationships are very much like your skinny jeans, sometimes they never fit again and when you recognize that fact, you shop for new ones, but every once in awhile, you dip back into them and they slide on as if you'd been wearing them every single day. Wait, let me check my closet...

Tell me a story...

Once upon a time, there was a shy little boy who didn't really know anyone in his neighborhood, but that was by choice. Nicolas was the kind of boy who didn't really feel the need to play with the other children or to have to do anything that they were doing because fitting in just wasn't a need in the hierarchy of important things to him. So, day after day, he sat by the window in his room, watching the other children climb trees, hide in the stalks of Mrs. Kotske's sunflowers, ride their bikes, all the while swerving to avoid each other on the narrowest part of the street; Nicolas watched and he captured it all, in his eyes, in his brain and eventually, through his hands.

The paper was expensive, but the oils were even moreso. Jeannie, his mother, would do without that new sweater that she desperately needed even with winter looming and Dan, his father, would have to make do by rotating the tires yet again and by praying that the treads would hold through until January. Christmas would be sparse, maybe they'd even have to go without a tree that year, but as they sat together and ate dinner that night and after, when Jeannie pulled the bag of art supplies out from the lower kitchen cupboard, she looked at Dan, who looked at Nik's face and the feelings of sacrifice that they had felt suddenly dissipated, and all was right with the world.

Nicolas adored his parents and he considered them to be his only real friends; the only people who really understood him and what mattered. He tried, often, to capture his love for them on paper, but he could never get it quite right. Either the colors blended too much or not enough and he just couldn't find the right blend of background and foreground to truly show the intensity of his feelings and his gratitude for all that they gave up for him and his art. He knew; he'd always known...

As he stroked the lines of green, he thought about how his mother had wept in the laundry room behind the closed door, thinking that no one could hear her and how his father had pushed through it to get to her. He remembered how his father had wrapped her up in his arms and how they'd both sunk to the floor, him whispering over and over, "We can try again Jean. It's going to be alright." He closed his eyes and felt the love that they had for one another wash over him and eventually, through the brush. Green seemed appropriate; green seemed perfect...

And then one day, he was staring down at the green of the grass and of the stalks of the flowers that adorned the plot and he tried not to remember the rich forest green of the dress that someone, who he didn't know, a distant relative had chosen for his mother to wear as she was lowered into the ground that day. Nicolas would have cried; he wanted to. But in the end, he was only exhausted and he longed to go home, to sit next to the picture window, to look outside as he had just last week, before everything, before his whole world had changed. Now, he grasped the hand of an aunt and stared blankly as the coffin was swallowed by the hole that even Nicolas found to be too deep for his mother to stay in by herself. But then he glanced to the right and saw that once it was filled in, it didn't look nearly as lonely. And, besides, now, like always, they had each other... The aunt tugged on his hand and he allowed himself to be pulled along, silently wishing that by the time he returned home that everything would be back to the way it was and that both his parents would be sitting at the kitchen table, smiling at one another across a cup of coffee and that they would turn to him simultaneously and say, "Hey Nik, where have you been?"
But, even at 8 years old, he knew that wasn't the way the world worked...

Sadness brings about creativity, maybe just as powerfully as hope or love or, as grief. Now, in his eighteenth year, Nicolas still hadn't found the balance that he so desperately needed between letting go of the past and of how to manage his future. But as he painted, when he painted, it was the only time that he broke free of the manacles of depression and despair that he still felt, even ten years later. Only now, his paintings wore shades of gray and jet black, really, mostly black and he never used green...

Another few years passed and although the grief subsided, it never fully disappeared. Rather, it hung on the edges of his days like a layer of dust that gently rests itself atop a picture frame. There were days when he felt whole and there were days when he felt nothing, and on those days especially, he tried very hard to remember, to identify a purpose in his life. Now 25, he desperately wanted to figure it all out.

He loved to sit on the edge of the lake that was near his Aunt's house, mainly because it was quiet. The cul de sac at the far end of the street prevented most cars from making the turn and although there had been many children in the neighborhood years ago; there were very few now. And for Nik, silence was never oppressive, rather, it was enriching. He sat very still and tried to sketch a white duck that was sunning itself nearby, but the duck kept flinching and turning its head. Soon, he gave up and just sketched the background and the duck's webbed feet, laughing to himself at how gangly they looked against the sharp, dark, wet rock. He sketched and he was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the splash until the duck jumped from the ripples of the water. He turned his head sharply only to see what looked like a little boy flailing his arms in the farthest end of the water. Not more than 30 yards from where he sat, Nik watched in semi horror as the boy dipped beneath the surface again, only to somehow push himself back up to gasp for more air.

He moved in that instant, diving into the water, taking the longest strokes that he could, pulling himself down when he got closer... eyes opened, he was struggling to hold in what little air he had left, but he saw the corner of the boy's flannel shirt and he aimed his fingertips toward the material. Grasping the corner as hard as he could, Nik pulled and wrapped his arms around the boy's chest, tugging him toward the surface, kicking with all of his strength, his lungs about to explode. He arched back with the boy in tow as he broke the line of the water, gasping, but still dragging the boy toward shore. When they fell up onto the sand, the boy began to cough and sputter and he rolled over onto his stomach, only to crawl to his knees less than a minute later, vomiting out the water and what little food he had left in his stomach. Nicolas automatically patted the boy's back, asking him if he was alright. When the boy had calmed down, he turned to look Nik in the face and he muttered softly,
"Thank you"
Nik couldn't help himself, he smiled and sat up, saying nothing, just brushing off the event as if nothing had happened. The boy turned and sat down on his haunches, shoving the hair out of his eyes; he couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 Nik thought, Where the hell were his parents?
"What's your name Bud?" Nik asked and the little boy sighed,
"Mark"
"Well Mark, who is supposed to be watching you? I mean, you can't swim and you're out on the lake alone?"
"I can swim!" Mark suddenly said indignantly, "I just kind of got stuck, I mean, my foot got stuck on something and I couldn't get loose"
Nik nodded, "Oh, right" he answered, biting back a smile
"Besides, I was only trying to find my baseball, I didn't even want to go in the lake"
Nik looked around, but there was no sign of the ball,
"Well, if I see it, I'll get it back to you" Nik stood up and asked Mark,
"Are you sure you're alright? Do you want me to call somebody?"
Mark just put his head down and said softly, "No. I'm fine." He stood up and kind of brushed himself off which was somewhat amusing as he was still soaking wet. Then he turned to Nik, held out his hand and said,
"Nice to meet you um"
"Nik"
"Nik" Nik extended his hand and shook Mark's, biting back another smile. He had the feeling that Mark and he might have been good friends, had they been the same age.
"I'll see ya" Mark said and pulled his hand back.
"See ya" Nik replied, wondering if he would ever see the kid again. He watched him walk all the way to the corner and then disappear. For just a second, Nik thought that he should have probably followed him or at the very least told someone what had happened. He rubbed his chin for a second and then shrugged; as long as the kid was okay, that was all that mattered...

"Mr. Stevens?" Nik gripped the phone tightly
"Yes?" his voice wavered a bit as he listened to the serious tone coming through the line. Much bad news was delivered by phone. He closed his eyes and squeezed his hand so tightly against the receiver that his knuckles went white...

The line of blue was almost imperceptible, but as he touched the canvas with the soft hairs of the paintbrush, he knew the color was necessary to the overall impression of the piece. He lost himself in the painting and he didn't realize that someone had been watching him the entire time...

When Nik finally looked up, Mark smiled from across the lake and waved a short, timid wave. Nik laughed and waved back motioning for Mark to come over and without pause, the little boy was sprinting around the water.

"Hi Nik!" Mark plopped down right next to him and Nik laughed again,
"Hey buddy, how are you? Feeling better?" Mark smiled,
"Yeah, hey, that's really cool" Mark pointed to the painting and Nik smiled,
"Yeah, I wanted to get the sky just right, but it's taking some time"
Mark thought about that for a second,
"Why don't you use the reflection of the sky on the water?" Mark kind of tilted his head at his own suggestion. Nik raised one of his eyebrows in thought,
"Good idea little man" Mark smiled automatically at Nik's assessment of his suggestion. Nik had the urge to reach over and tousle the kid's hair, but thought that this expression might be a little too much. Instead, he held up his hand, palm out flat; the universal symbol for thanking a kid. Mark laughed and slapped Nik five.

"Okay, well, I've gotta get going. Hey, thanks for letting me watch you paint." Mark stood up quickly and was already walking away before Nik could say anything. He jumped to his feet too and yelled out, cupping his mouth as Mark was already halfway around the lake,
"Hey Mark!" Mark turned and looked,
"I come out here every Friday morning, why don't you meet me next week and maybe I could show you how to paint something?" Mark couldn't contain his smile. Children were so easy to please, Nik laughed as Mark nodded his head up and down vigorously. He lifted his hand in a wave,
"See you next week!"

"I don't know how I'm going to finish all of this in time!" Nik shouted out to himself as he moved about the house, knocking into the corner of his dining room table which housed his latest sculpture.
"Dammit" he shouted louder, righting the table and staring at the dozen unfinished pieces that had to be completed before the end of the month. He ran his hand through his hair, hoping that he could get it all done; after all, his future depended on it.

"Yes sir" Nik had hung up the phone in a kind of surrealistic trance. He was one of ten students selected to win a possible fellowship in graphic art at the University and he knew that the selection committee would be made up of some of the finest and most cutting edge artists. He had to select five pieces to show and he also had to compose introductions for each of them. It was everything that he had hoped for and his only brief tinge of regret was that his parents weren't there to see it happen.

He put his hands on his hips and went to work...

Something was scratching, it sounded like scratching he thought. He opened one eye only to look around the room, not seeing anything. It was still dark outside.
"What the fuck?" Nik glanced over at the alarm clock and rubbed his eyes harshly. Now the sound was louder, accompanied by a knock. He threw off his sheet and stumbled out of bed. When he got to the front door, he opened the door so quickly that it took the visitor a second to realize what had just happened. Frightened, Mark stepped back while Nik thought he was hallucinating,
"Mark? What are you doing here?" Nik's voice was scratchy and full of sleep; not to mention the five beers that he'd had earlier that night,
"Hi Nik" Mark looked down, knowing that he shouldn't be there, but hoping that Nik could help him anyway. Nik stared at the top of Mark's head for another second before he grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him inside,
"Well don't just stand out there" and before Mark knew it, he was sitting on the couch, drinking a Coke, telling an almost complete stranger his life story...

By the time that Mark finished telling his story, the sun was coming up and Nik was in awe of all that the boy had had to endure. He empathized with everything that Mark told him and he was shocked that in a few short months that Mark too would be without a parent. Mark yawned then and put his head back on the couch, clearly not used to being up most of the night and into the morning.
"Why don't you pass out here for a little while and then I'll take you home" Nik said, already moving to get a blanket,
"K" Mark was already half asleep and as he shifted positions on the couch, Nik covered him with the throw,
"Night Mark"
"Night" his voice was so soft, almost a whisper.

Nik sat on the porch, sipping his coffee, watching the sunrise and wondering why he didn't make an effort to get up earlier to paint. The colors in the sky alone were enough to fuel several paintings. He thought about Mark's mother, everything that the boy had shared, the illness. He thought and considered and then, he moved inside to draw it.

Mark rubbed his eyes and threw the blanket over the arm of the couch. Feeling disoriented, he looked around and then, remembering where he was, he called out,
"Nik? Hey Nik?"
"In here Mark" his voice was coming from the back bedroom. Mark stood up slowly and stretched his arms over his head, yawning again. He had to go home, but he wanted to see what Nik was doing before he left. He walked toward where the voice came from.

"Hey, how'd you sleep?" Nik smiled at the kid,
"Good, I was so tired" Nik hesitated, stilling the brush in his hand,
"Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"How old are you? I mean, I should have asked, but"
"I'm 8" he said, shrugging as if this was an obvious answer
"Okay, just wondering"
Mark looked over at the canvas,
"What are you doing?"
Nik half smiled,
"I'm painting your story"
Mark was confused, he didn't have a clue what that meant,
"My, um, story?"
Nik nodded, "Yep, yours and your moms"
"Can I see it?" Mark asked, suddenly eager as to what Nik was going to come up with
"Well, how about I finish it first and then you can see it and take it home with you"
Mark's eyes got wider, "Really, cool"
Nik laughed, some expressions said it all.
They looked at each other for a minute,
"Hey, maybe you better go check in, your mom is probably starting to worry"
Mark looked at his watch then and nodded,
"Yeah, she'll be getting up now"
He paused,
"Nik, thank you"
He didn't say what for, but they both understood why he said it,
"Anytime Mark"
Mark turned and when he got to the doorjamb, he looked back and waved. Nik kind of half saluted him and then he got back to work.

He still didn't use green. He couldn't bring himself to color anything, even grass, the color of what used to stand for hope in his life, for love, for everything that meant anything. Even his mother's eyes had been green. As he moved the brush, he thought about her warm eyes, how they enveloped him, small crinkles in the corners and how they had lit up when she was happy, especialy when his father had come home from work. They had been very much in love. Nik's hand seemed to move of its own volition as he thought about Mark and his mother, the diagnosis, the finality of it all. He was lost in how Mark was dealing with it and ironically, how well adjusted the little boy seemed to be, much more than he'd ever been. He took his right index finger and smudged a bit of red in the corner of one of the trees that he was painting and as he wiped his hand on his old shirt, he wondered what was going to happen to Mark when his mother died. It wasn't a conversation that he was prepared to have, especially not with an 8 year old boy...

"Are the pieces almost finished?" the voice on the line was intent and focused,
"Yes Sir, next Friday I'll be bringing them in to your office" Nik looked around his workspace and he could suddenly feel his heart trying to escape out of his chest,
"Very well then, Friday,the 9th, 10 am"
"Thank you sir" that was it, Nik heard a click on the other end and as he put the receiver down, once more looking around the room, he knew he was in deep shit.

Mark was banging on his front door, "Nik, Nik, I found my baseball, come and play catch with me"
His hands were dripping with clay and wet with water,
"Mark, come in, I'm in the studio"
Nik heard the door slammed open and little feet pounding closer to where he was. A week had gone by since he'd seen Mark and heard the story and although he was caught up in his own deadline, he was worried about him. Mark came flying around the corner,
"Nik, hi!"
Nik couldn't help it, he had to smile at Mark's vivacity,
"Hey man, what's going on? What's all the yelling?"
"Look, I found my baseball!" He produced the worn out piece of twine and leather from behind his back and grinned from ear to ear. He's going to need braces Nik thought,
"That's great, where was it?" Nik kept moving his fingers so that the clay wouldn't set just yet,
"It was under my bed"
"Oh" Nik chuckled thinking about Mark's excuse for being near the lake that day,
"So come on, you want to play catch with me? I've got two gloves"
Nik looked up and saw the hope in Mark's eyes and he hated to deny him, hated the idea that he'd put work before something that would be just as fun for him as it would for Mark, but he had to; right then, he had to. He sat back up and looked down at the boy. He frowned just slightly, why hadn't he noticed that Mark had green eyes,
"Um Nik? Nik..." Mark waved his hand in front of Nik's face,
"Oh" Nik shook his head to snap himself out of it,
"Yeah, listen Mark, I've got to finish this piece right now. I've got a deadline, but if you come back this afternoon, I can play with you then?" he tried to interject a note of hope in his tone and Mark, in all of his 8 year old maturity, tried not to sound disappointed,
"Oh, okay, yeah, that'd be good. I'll come back later." He turned to go and Nik felt something pierce through him, although at first he didn't recognize what it was. He stood up and reached for the nearest towel,
"Hey Mark?"
The boy turned back, a question in his eyes,
"Give me 10 minutes"
Nik's reward for that statement was a grin so large that Nik could see the gaping space at the back of Mark's mouth where he'd lost his first molar. Mark bolted back outside,
"I'll be by the big red tree" he yelled and Nik laughed. He sighed and went to wash his hands.

Friday came and went and Nik delivered; he delivered it all. Mr. Perry was so impressed that he didn't even read the introductions to the pieces that Nik had brought; instead, he just listened to the story behind each piece and he was amazed at the quality of the work that Nik had produced in such a short amount of time. When Nik's presentation was over, Mr. Perry grinned so widely that it reminded Nik of Mark's face the week before. And when he'd left Mr. Perry's office that afternoon, he imagined that his smile rivaled theirs.

Two days later and Nicolas got the call that he'd been waiting for; the scholarship was his and come the next term, he was going back East to Art school. When he hung up the phone that day, he felt both relieved and somewhat terrified, but the more he thought about it that night, he realized that the fear wasn't really fear, it was simply, excitement.

"Mark, hey Mark" Nik was yelling around the park, hoping that the kid would show up since he still didn't know where he lived. Five days had passed and he was wondering how Mark was and at the same time, he was thinking that he'd get a phone number or something so that he could keep tabs on the kid. No response. Nik walked around the North side of the lake in the general direction of where he'd seen Mark come from on several occasions and as he crossed the street, he felt guilty for not having made the trek sooner. He walked past several houses in serious states of disrepair and as he moved East, he realized that he was going to cross into a neighborhood that he'd never even seen. Despite living with his Aunt for 10 years there, he'd never made the foray out past his initial street. How odd he thought to himself, but then again, he'd spent his early childhood staring down at life from a picture window; not all that surprising that he would have stayed close to home. He came to the first cross street and looked both ways, not sure which way to go when he suddenly saw Mark come out of a house to his immediate left and just as the kid began to run, he called out his name. Mark stopped, turned and when he saw who it was, the blood sort of drained from his face. He froze there so Nik had no choice but to walk over and greet the boy,
"Hey man, I've been looking for you"
Mark looked scared, really scared,
"Oh yeah, how come?"
Nik furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding why the kid was so nervous,
"Are you okay Mark? Is everything okay? How's your mom?"
Mark swallowed hard,
"Um fine, she's fine, I'm fine. I've just been busy, you know, my mom worries so sometimes I just hang around the house"
This sounded so ridiculous to Nik that he almost laughed and he probably would have except that Mark still had such fear in his face,
"Well" Nik ran a hand through his hair,
"I finished your painting and I thought you might like to see it"
Some of the color returned to Mark's face then and Nik could tell that the boy desperately wanted to see it,
"So, why don't you come by when you have a minute? No worries, whenever"
Mark sighed, wishing that he could tell Nik what he'd been doing, wishing that his friend, his only friend knew how much trouble he was in,
"Yeah I, well, maybe I could come by tomorrow, after school?"
Nik's face broke into a smile, "Great" he turned to go,
"I'll see you tomorrow then?"
Mark nodded, "Yeah"
"You sure you're okay?" Nik asked again,
"Oh sure, I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow Nik"
"Okay then, tomorrow" and he was rounding the corner before Mark could say anything else. Mark watched him go and he hoped that he would get to see Nik again...

Nik was in the midst of a creative frenzy. He was sculpting and focused and he couldn't allow himself the opportunity to get distracted. Mark entered his mind for a split second, but, a little guiltily, he pushed the thought aside. He had 24 hours to finish the last two pieces and he was going to finish, no matter what else had to be sacrificed.

"Okay Mark, ready?" his mother smiled down at him and Mark tried to smile back for her sake, but his heart was racing and his palms were beginning to sweat.
"It won't take long honey, I promise." His mother's voice was always soothing in moments like this so, he closed his eyes and breathed before opening them again and he tried to focus on how much he loved her and how much he was going to miss her.

"Well Mr. Stevens" the curator held out his hand as he finished perusing the last piece, Mark's painting, Nik had entitled it. He hadn't planned on including it, but there was something special about the finished piece, just like there was something about the kid.
"You are certainly talented on many levels. I especially love the Dracula piece" Nik smiled inwardly, it was his favorite of them all: dark, full of shadows and again, black and white.
"Thank you sir" he let go of the curator's hand and then he listened as Mr. Stevens explained how the pieces would be put on display for eventual purchase and that Nik indeed had been selected to receive a scholarship. He tried to contain his excitement, but he knew his eyes were giving him away as Mr. Stevens laughed and said,
"Congratulations young man, your future is going to be very bright."
"Thank you again Mr. Stevens" that was all that Nik could say right then because inside, he was screaming.

Inside he was screaming; it was more painful than anything he'd ever experienced. He tried to focus on her face, but images were blurred and the constant vomiting and lack of sleep made it difficult for him to think of anything other than the constant pain,
"Mommy" he cried out as the tears rolled down her face. He hadn't called her mommy in over three years,
"It's okay baby, I'm here. It's okay."
She lifted his hand and put it to her lips, "It's going to be okay" but deep down, she knew what was coming and she dreaded telling him; she dreaded what was coming next...

Nik looked at his watch and then out at the lake. It had been over 2 weeks and still, no Mark. That's it, he thought and he grabbed his coat and headed over to the street where he'd last seen Mark. He only got halfway down the sidewalk when he nearly collided with a woman who looked about his age, maybe a few years older. He sucked in his breath when she lifted her eyes to his because her face; she looked just like,
"Excuse me Nicolas?" her voice was quiet and unsure. Nik shook his head,
"Um, yes?" he rubbed the back of his neck, completely confused at this point. She smiled gently,
"My name is Nora, Brayden. I'm Mark's mother." He must have looked confused because she asked,
"Are you alright?" He felt like an idiot and shook his head again,
"Oh yeah, I'm just, well, I'm confused. Mark told me that you were in the hospital; that you were dying, brain cancer. I just didn't expect... hey, wait, Nora?" the blood seemed to instantly drain from her face and while she felt like she was going to faint, she didn't want to do it in front of a total stranger and especially not in front of the guy, the friend who Mark needed now more than ever. Nik put out his hand to steady her,
"Hey, I live right there, do you want to come inside and talk?"
She nodded, still too stunned to say anything else just yet. He kept his hand on her arm as they walked up the path and he only let go when he held the door open for her. He gestured to the living room and she moved quickly to sit down.

An hour later and he watched her walk away, only this time, he was the one who felt faint. Mark, he thought.

"So, the doctors want him to continue with the chemo and the radiation, but I don't want him to suffer any more and, you know, Mark doesn't want to be in a hospital bed. He wants to be out running around, playing, seeing you" Nora had smiled when she said this and in that moment, Nik realized how much he had missed having the kid around,
"How long Nora?" Nik asked somberly,
"The largest tumor is spreading quickly and although they aren't sure, the doctors say a few months at most" she breathed deeply not wanting to cry, not wanting to dwell on, once again, what she couldn't change. Nik put his face in his hands and then pulled then down his cheeks as he lifted his head back up. He tried to think of the right words to say, tried to think of something to make it easier for her, but only one thing came to mind,
"Nora"
she looked up, unshed tears threatening to spill,
"I was Mark's age when both of my parents were killed in a car accident" the words sounded strange coming out of his mouth because it had been years since he'd told anyone. He hadn't even told Mark that. Nora's expression changed and the tears did fall then,
"I'm so sorry for you" she said with sincerity,
"Thanks, thank you. I, I wish there was something that I could say" she held up her hand and cut him off,
"You just did; you understand the pain, you do" she sighed,
"If I could take it, I would. Some days I wake up and I think it would be better if it just happened instead of having to wait and to watch him go through it" Nik understood that,
"But then" and here she wiped the tears away before continuing,
"I feel grateful, thankful really, that I get to spend another day with him, another week, maybe another month."
"Yeah"
They looked at each other for another minute before Nora stood and said,
"Nik, he's going to have to stay inside for another week or so, could you, will you come and see him?" Nik smiled, she didn't even need to ask,
"Just tell me when" he said quickly and she breathed easier. Mark had been asking for his friend non-stop and she knew that by just seeing Nik that Mark's spirits would be lifted,
"Thank you"
"Of course" and as he walked her to the door, he wondered just what he was going to say to a little boy, his friend, who was most likely going to die before his ninth birthday,
"Thank you for coming Nora and for telling me"
"I'll see you soon" she said and then, she was walking away, back to the reality that she couldn't escape.

Nik stayed up all night, painting, inspired by Mark's story and when the sun came up, he thought about his parents and once again, the sadness enveloped him.

"Hi Nik"
"Nora" Nik smiled and walked through the screen door as she held it open. He had a small package in his hand and a medium sized canvas that he planned on setting up in Mark's room. She pointed to the door at the end of the hall,
"He's waiting for you; he hasn't stopped talking all morning" she laughed and Nik couldn't help himself, he did too. He walked toward the door and took a deep breath, just a bit anxious, but when he got the doorframe and Mark saw him, the yell that Mark let out cracked Nik up and within a minute, they were both laughing and throwing high fives,
"Hey little man"
"Hey Nik" Nik grabbed the chair closest to Mark's bed and sat down.
"Hey check this out" and Mark pulled his cap off of his head only to reveal a perfectly shaped dome which was now devoid of any hair,
"I'm like an old man" and Nik chuckled, reaching over to rub Mark's head,
"And you're happy about that?" Mark sat back up and pulled the cap down,
"Yeah, well, not happy, but how many guys my age lose all their hair at once, check it out, even my eyebrows are MIA" Nik couldn't contain the joy that he felt when he sat with Mark. He wondered how many 8 year olds would have such a a good attitude about being bald,
"And it's only hair, it'll grow back" Mark shrugged,
"Yes it will" Nik said,
"Hey, what's in the box?" just like a kid Nik thought, on to the next thing,
"Oh, it's for you" he handed it to Mark who ripped right into it,
"Whoa" he breathed as he looked at the expensive oils that were inside of a mahogany box. Mark lifted the lid and looked at Nik,
"They're for you so you can start painting. After I'm gone, you can use these to draw whatever you want, whenever..." he saw Mark's expression change then,
"Where are you going?"
Nik rolled his lips thinking that he should have prepped the kid first, but since he'd brought it up, he knew that he had to continue,
"Well, remember those pieces that I had to finish, that I was working on before?"
Mark nodded,
"This man from a school, an Art school back East came to see them and he decided that I was good enough to be allowed to go to the school"
"Back East? Where is that?"
"New York" Nik said carefully and Mark let that sink in,
"Oh, when, when are you going?" Nik could hear the disappointment in the boy's voice,
"The program starts next month so I'll be heading out in a couple of weeks"
Something registered on Mark's face then and Nik couldn't be sure if it was anger or fear or maybe a combination of the two,
"Well, that's good right? You want to go to school. I always liked school." his voice cracked when he said that,
"Mark?" Mark looked up at him,
"Want to learn a really cool trick for painting the horizon?" At the thought of learning something new related to something that Nik liked, Mark perked up,
"Sure"
Nik stood up to take off his coat,
"Nik?"
"Yeah?"
"What's the horizon?" and Nik couldn't help himself; he reached over and rubbed the top of Mark's fuzzy cap and laughed. He really had missed him.

"I'll see you in a couple of days okay? Get some rest. If you feel up to it why don't I take you down to the reservoir and we can skateboard or ride bikes?" Mark's face really lit up then,
"Really?"
"Sure"
"Okay Nik and, thanks for coming over"
"Anytime buddy" and he held his hand out for Mark to smack it,
"I'll see you" he walked out of the room then, feeling both exhilerated and exhausted and he couldn't wait to see Mark again.

"Hi Nik" Nora's voice called out from the kitchen
"Hey Nora, how's it going?" when she didn't say anything, he walked over to the dining room table, snatching a cookie that was on it. She had her back turned to him and she wasn't moving much,
"Nora?" he moved to her side and when she looked up, her face was blotchy and red; she'd been crying for some time,
"What is it? Where's Mark?" Nik started to move,
"He's not here Nik" that stopped him,
"Where is he?"
"His grandmother took him to the zoo today; he really wanted to see the new meerkat habitat"
Nik breathed a sigh of relief,
"Okay, well, what's going on?" he pulled up next to her again,
She looked at him,
"We went back to the oncologist yesterday"
"And?"
"Best case scenario, 3 months" Nik felt his knees buckle,
"Nora"
"And the doctors think that the last of that time, he'll be in a coma or so drugged up that he won't know what's going on anyway"
She turned and he put his arms around her as she began to sob. Three months; in 2 weeks, he'd be in New York, starting his new life and before the sememster ended, Mark would be... he held Nora for a long time until she was ready to regroup and not long after, Mark came running through the door, holding a stuffed meerkat, screaming wildly and suddenly the bad news was overwhelmed by the absolute joy of the spirit of a little boy who wouldn't be squelched, not for anything.

Nik went home that night, his heart a little heavier, but his soul a little lighter. Nora had decided not to tell Mark how much time he had left. They couldn't change it so he didn't need to know. As Nik walked, he thought of the past two weeks; the fishing, the ollies and the trip to LACMA. Nik smiled when he remembered how Mark's eyes had gotten really wide when he looked at some of the surrealist paintings, how the boy had tilted his head and how he had tried very hard to make some sense of what he was looking at. Nik thought about Mark's first attempt at painting; a landscape that had inadvertently turned into what coincidentally resembled a large meerkat. He walked slowly, glancing at the lake, thinking about how Mark had almost drowned that day. He thought about how hard it had been to come to grips with the loss of his parents and he wondered how much harder it was going to be to deal with the passing of a little boy who had become his best friend. He shoved his hands in his pockets, sighing, thinking that he only had 4 days left before he had to go.

"Hey Nik, why don't we play Monopoly?" Mark's voice was high pitched and his eyes blinked rapidly. Nora had explained that it was the medicine; it dried out his eyes,
"You sure you're up for it?" Nik asked, already moving to grab the box from the top shelf. It was his last night in Los Angeles and they both were reluctant to see it come to an end,
"Game on" Mark laughed and fell down on the floor. Nik sat down Indian style and pulled off the box top. Let it be a long game he thought to himself as he began to take out the money,
"I'm banker this time" Mark giggled, "You cheated last time"
Nik half smiled; he had cheated indeed.

Nora watched from the doorway and when it got to be almost midnight, she cleared her throat. Nik was painting a background on the canvas which he'd left for Mark and that now clearly looked like two meerkats. Mark was sound asleep on the floor, two 100 dollar monopoly bills clenched in his left fist,
"Hey" she said softly and Nik looked up,
"I just wanted to finish it for him"
She smiled, moving to put Mark in bed,
"Here, let me" Nik said, standing up and walking to where Mark lay silently on the floor. They both hesitated for a second before he bent down to lift the boy into his arms. He wasn't heavy at all, not nearly what he should be. He walked over to Mark's bed, but before he put him down he held him for just another minute and he hoped that Mark would hear him when he whispered,
"Goodbye little man"
Nora moved to pull up Mark's covers, but before she could turn to thank Nik, she heard the front door slam. As Nik ran down the sidewalk, he let the hurt come, let it wash over him like the water surrounding him the day that he'd saved Mark. Saved Mark. He'd done it once and he wished, against all odds, that he could somehow do it again.

"And so, I think you'll find that the Life Drawing class and the Digital Sketching Seminar will fulfill the requirements for your first semester..." Nik was listening, but he was only half listening. He was looking around, thinking, reading over the note that Mark had sent to him, wishing him luck and asking him to come back over Christmas, if he could. Christmas... 5 months from then. Nik stood up then, slowly,
"Mr. Stevens, somewhere you'd rather be?" the professor asked and Nik smiled,
"Actually, there is" he said and moved as quickly as he could.

He had been in New York almost a month and it had been everything he'd hoped, but in that moment, sitting in class, he realized that he was getting the chance that he'd never gotten with his parents; a real chance to say goodbye, the only chance that he was ever going to get to help Mark really live. He threw his clothes in his suitcase and then, he reached for the phone.

"And so the meerkats huddle together in hopes of staying warm for the winter" Nora's voice faded out slowly as Mark's eyes began to close. She leaned down to kiss her son and as she brushed her fingertips across his forehead, she suddenly felt exhausted. She stood up and walked to the bedroom door, switching off his light, staring at his outline in the dark, wishing, always wishing for just a little more time.

"Hey Mom?"
"Yes honey"
"You know you have to draw the line of the horizon up higher to make it look further away..."
"I didn't know that" she said as she kept reading her book. Sitting out by the lake, she'd pushed Mark's wheelchair slowly so that he could look around and ask as many questions as he wanted and because it had been 2 days since he was outside,
"Yeah, Nik taught me that... Nik, Nik, Nik!"
Nora looked up as Mark tried to yell, but it came out more as a fierce growl. Nik smiled and walked toward where they sat,
"Nik, hey Nik" Mark's entire face lit up as Nik approached him,holding out his hand in their typical greeting and as Mark slapped it, Nik sighed,
"I missed you little man" and the smiled that washed over Mark's face was worth the decision that Nik had made.
"Me too" Mark said softly.

Nik sat that night, looking out at the darkness, watching the wind gently push the water in the lake. As he walked down to the water's edge, he let the last 6 weeks wash over him, the moments of pure love and happiness that he'd shared with Mark, the thrill of seeing the boy every day and not having to wait until it was too late to tell him how much he'd meant to him. He cherished the moment when Nora held Mark, right before he shut his eyes for the last time, the sound of her crying and the tender words that she'd whispered as she held him against her chest. As he walked around the lake, he heard Mark's laughter and felt the grip of his hand in Nik's palm, he thought of the way that Mark had turned to Nora and told her not to worry, that it was going to be okay and not to miss him too much because it would make more lines on her face. And he thought of how the night before Mark died how the boy had put his frail arms around Nik and told him that he loved him and how he would miss him. As Nik walked, he played it all like the movie of his life and he let himself feel it all and finally, he let the tears come.

He sat out by the lake until the sun came up and then he walked home and into his studio. He tried to remember where he'd put it. Rubbing his chin, he honestly didn't know; he didn't even know if he still had any. He grabbed a stepstool and moved it underneath the top cabinet. Opening the door, he glanced inside and saw an old case. He grabbed it and stepped down, opening it up immediately. Looking at the tubes, he found the one he wanted and he smiled. Moving toward the window, he grabbed some paper, placed it on the easel and as he squirted the paint onto the small pallet, he thought about hope and faith and love, he thought about the enduring power of friendship and how, if you allow it to, one experience can change you forever, good, bad, difficult. He dipped the brush into the paint, swirling the paste into a thinner, more manageable texture. He thought about his parents and how the time that he'd been given with Mark had allowed him to grieve, finally, on his own terms, in his own way. He thought about how grateful he was to have been sitting on the lake that day and how, no matter what happened in his life from then on, that he would live every day to the fullest.

He touched the tip of the brush to the paper and sighed. The richness of the green was better than he'd remembered...