the beauty

of a lightning storm

is in knowing that it

cannot go on

forever.

quite simply,

one day,

one minute,

it must finally

be ended.

i wonder if i thought that

was you and me;

that we were beautiful

and bright

and blazing,

explosive, even,

plasma created from a

disbalance

that nature seeks to correct,

as electrons

shiver and quake and jump

so quick between the earth

and the sky

that in one split second

it is over.

and if i thought

that was us,

how could i miss

such an obvious thing?

it felt like an

infinite moment.

but lightning comes from

imbalance.

i enjoyed the correction

so much that

somehow

i missed the fact

that lightning

and rain

and storms

do not last forever

and neither could we.

"Let's stop at 7-Eleven!"

"7-Eleven doesn't sell flowers, Mom."

"You never know," [and i don't know what else, because I tuned out after that].

my big sister voices the feeling I have walking in - "there's something so exciting about walking into gas stations, it's like this unexplainable feeling of joy."

"prob'ly cause our brains associate them with road trips. and, like, snacks that we were never allowed to even ask for otherwise."

"oh, right. the poverty trauma."

we both laugh. aisles of candy, gum, chips, microwave meals, sodas, beef jerky and Takis and pre-packaged donut holes and Krispy Kreme apple fritters, a freezer box with Dippin' Dots - no flowers.

we find what we're looking for, though. one at first, then a second trip to the register upon second thought.

we're back in the car. we drive through flat land, a horizon without mountains; foreign, to me. no blues or purples outlined against the sky - just the flat meeting of heaven and earth that stretches as far as the eye can see, and even further. it feels... bare. naked. unprotected. exposed. the only trees are dripping with spanish moss; or climbing towards the sky with no leaves or branches until the very, very top; or tumbling over the edges of fences with thick, shiny leaves that look as though they could be snapped in half, leaves that conceal green mangoes which hang impossibly with weight that seems improbable for any tree to hold.

no pine. no fir. no maple, or oak, or cherry, or birch. but the thing I notice most of all is the silence. there are no cardinals to wish upon, no signs of ancestors and lost loved ones flitting between the trees with never-ending chirrups of song as they check on those of us left behind.

gravel crunches, mom makes two wrong turns (which is two less than average) and one haphazard u-turn ("It's fine, it's Florida,") and then we're on soft, green sod, cut & laid precisely. there's some tree I've only seen once before casting shade over stones laid out row by row, and my feet tread carefully, softly, dancing towards the other silhouetted figures waiting for us.

we are greeted with arms upraised, hoots & hollers, and "about time!" shouts of jest. it feels unfitting, but thus so is our family - nonconventional. I give my aunt a hug and crouch down to the level of the youngest cousin with hand outstretched. "you told me that you liked ballet class so we thought you might like this one." she takes the white stuffed mouse with big, blue eyes and soft fur in its pink tutu and crown.

my mom places a little dragon, blue and starry and velvet with wings that crinkle and cotton-stuffed spikes, down among the votives: a halloween decoration, stone angels, a plastic race car, an empty vase. "see? now you and your brother have matching buddies."

I stay squatted down. "This is kind of weird for you, huh?" a nod from the six-year-old bilingual artistic genius. "But you know what? It's kind of cool that you got to know grandma and so did your big brother. I bet they're hanging out together right now." a smile, now, from Con Tho.

we chat for a minute, my aunt & uncle joking that they've laid down here before just to try to imagine what it would be like to stare up at that sky forever, and how it's not a bad place to lay down forever. morbid humor, sure, but humor is a Blake family specialty. I don't speak to my other siblings.

when we walk away I try not to think of the bones beneath my feet. I don't look back, but I don't need to. I know what's there - a little blue dragon in a sea of grey stones, carrying our stories and the tension of dysfunction between siblings towards the skies, and the tiniest one of them all reads:

Francis Dinh "Tê Giác" Blake

October 23, 2015 - February 5, 2016

Beloved Son and Grandson

I wish I could tell you I saw a cardinal or two, then, but I didn't. I imagine that my grandmother, holding him, would not smile. things don't work that way, she'd say, ever pragmatic. so I think it to myself instead, as I say it to you now - you'll just have to trust me. I know.

the Ocean is trying hard as it might, pushing harder and harder to encroach upon the shores, the territory of another- Earth. Earth laughs and fizzles out the momentum from each wave of attacks sent by the Ocean. the waters recede each time that it seems like maybe, just maybe, this might be the one, the moment where the sea has pushed hard enough for victory. the world breathes a sigh of relief.

it is only when i turn to leave and see the Moon that it strikes me - the Ocean is no invader, no marauding barbarian, striking attack after attack on a helpless Mother. the Ocean is simply trying desperately, with every ounce of strength, to get back to her love, the Moon- and she will try and try, pounding with all might against the shores of the Earth forcefully, passionately, recklessly, reaching for her lover.

and every so often she will get close to success, but then her waters will fizzle out and we will all breathe that same, collective sigh of relief that the waves will not engulf our lives; and, strangely, we feel a sense of grief, too (though we know not what for).

but that's the beauty of it- Ocean does not give up. she will not grieve. she continues to fight for escape, to run towards her Moon, and each dawn and dusk, for just as long as Earth continues to drag Ocean back down and keep the two apart, countless people around the world will come witness this epic struggle in the name of love.

the fight never ceases. it circles around the planet, with Sun chasing Moon (a relentless and unwanted pursuit), and her flight from him continuing as she remains dedicated only to Ocean. while these two chase one another around and around the world, Ocean continues to reach after Moon, loyal, but forever chained down thousands of miles away from her lover, never losing hope that one day, surely, she will break free and the two will be finally be united. and the world will continue to visit the edges of land to witness the struggle, holding our breath, not comprehending that which we witness as a war, but knowing nonetheless its significance and gravity as beyond that which we could ever hope to understand.

I ran a marathon last week.

You're nodding as you say it, but eyes cast shyly towards your boots. With your knit cap pulled tight to your ears, and only the smallest of glances upwards when our eyes catch, then flit away, an endlessly repeating cycle of "will-they-or-won't-they," we're just two crabs in a bucket pulling each other down and getting nowhere for it. Holding back a smile, you are the picture of humility. At least, I imagine so. That's how you always were with me. I don't need to see you to know which mannerisms go along with this tone of voice.

I hear my own voice speak, although I don't recall willing it to - That's amazing, congratulations. Not too much training without your shoes, I hope.

This earns me a laugh, but it sounds tinny, distant, and maybe it is the phone connection, another reminder of the 2000 miles between us, but maybe it's because we both can feel the distance, and you're slipping away.

Maybe, in the time since you've gone you're no longer humble or shy, with eyes that flit between mine and your hiking boots. Maybe instead you've become someone else. I think that this is too good to hope for, though. Imagining you moving on without me as someone new would be a comfort, and what I feel now is far from that.

No, no shoe-less running this time.

Good. I'm . . . well, I'm proud of you. That's really cool, big accomplishment.

I can almost feel you steady yourself with a breath before you speak, and when you do, it's quieter, nearly whispered in a hoarse tone.

Thank you.

Regret. I can feel it. It's not forced, but the words do not thank, either. They say 'I'm sorry.' I don't want pity. You know better than to ask about my life and job, and, mercifully, you do not, so as not to force my lies about them. I almost say, knowing that you would understand and follow the conversation even as we once did, inferring meaning from one another and replying to unsaid things so that those around us even were incapable of following, "That had better be an apology coming from accountability, not pity."

But I don't say this. I don't say anything except -

Yeah. No problem.

I don't say 'You're welcome' because I am telling myself that you are not, in fact, welcome. But that is a lie, too, albeit only to myself.

I know from the silence you have read between my pauses, if only to recognize that I am holding back in a way I once would not have. But you cannot call me out on it, because you, too, are holding back.

I should probably get going.

You nod (I imagine).

Yeah, that's fine. I've got some work to do too.

'Some work to do.' Once, you might've said 'I've got this deadline coming up for a project and I can't figure out this one line of code that's tripping me up', or 'I'm going to walk on over to my garden and do some weeding,' or 'One of my students asked for help and I have office hours coming up,' or 'My kids at youth group challenged me to a basketball game so I've got to go practice so I can beat them.' There are a thousand other aspects of life you once shared with me, and I with you. Now we have both reined it in, and as unhappy as I am with 'Some work to do,' perhaps it's better not to know.

Okay. Alright, well, see you, I guess.

I don't wait for your reply before ending the call. I won't, in fact, see you. Sitting outside for this was a mistake, because all around me are signs of spring, and that means birds. You know, like the ones you know every name for and their calls and their coloring and their habits.

I pick up the bit of pinecone I've been running between my fingers, my nervous habit on hearing your voice, and flick it at the tree nearby and the female cardinal that I pretend not to know by her brown hues, orange beak, rusty red streak on the wing. Side-affects of you in my life. Aftershocks. You are gone and the distance grows further with every moment. I cannot unlearn your voice guiding my thoughts.

You don't know how good you have it, birdy.

She flutters away in protest but I don't see it. I've already walked away by then, unsettled with the knowledge that the man I've known for five years isn't gone at all, he isn't someone else now, he's just gone elsewhere and is living his life without me in it. Mourning is not a luxury that I am afforded.

waking up drunk is a whole new world.

(not really, because it's nothing too new.)

face all weird, texture's off,

fingers tingling and feet are numb

from curling up all night in one unmoving position.

what an odd thing, wishing to numb the pain with yet another drink and knowing if you do it won't fix nothin' in your brain.

but at least you might forget all the things inside your head.

Dante's smile, year from hell, spent too deep and trying not to yell out from the depth

because the sea of trials never could end well,

so why persist, why fight the swell?

it pushes deeper your denial.

waking up drunk with chores to do? what else is new?

this whole new world is odd because

the the world that lives inside my head and

in my dreams when I'm in bed

is different altogether, I am better,

with a job that doesn't suck the life out of my soul

and the energy to pull myself together

to work towards something better

without the constant heartbreak and the

stress of wond'ring

just how many desks

I would have to push against my classroom door to

keep a gunman coming through,

when rounds sound not far off

and my kids tell me they heard shots

and saw the lights and passing cops

that cut right through the dead of night,

hurting sleep and hurting life.

once again, their words will shake me

try to hide the way they break me

from their eyes, I say my line,

"That's so scary, are you okay?

Do you want to talk about it?"

They shake their heads and run away,

back to play and talk and chat

with classmates never knowing that

this world we're in is so beyond

what life should be; dystopian.

i can't imagine living a life where that won't weigh upon my mind.

but in my dream i saw it, and you,

pushing me to get out now,

this brand new world i wake up to is nothing new, it just feels too crazy

to be real.

so i will wake up drunk again for weekends to come

until I'm done and the kids i love are

safely in the hands of another.

waking up drunk is the only way that i can stand

to go into my work again,

"do it all for the kids,

remember why you started"

but my love for them keeping me

cannot be

the cause of my self-harming by remaining in this system that is killing me,

not slowly but with rapid and increasing speed.

waking up drunk on a Saturday, Sunday,

means I got a glimpse of what it's like to forget.

and I will go to work on Monday.

pen to paper, try to

write. convince yourself

you've got the right

as if you are

the kind or type who

makes the words fall in line,

besides

all those mistakes mean

finding out the truth that's in your

mind & whether

you have

got the

time to

ponder what you've learned or

wonder if it's worth it

they'll be

back to tell you:

take what's yours, don't

wait, more

mistakes are

ways we grow and so

make

more, don't

pour another cent

into what they say or do

until you know that

you're the type of you

that's worth some

saving.

my hands do a lot for me. sometimes they ache and the joints get all wobbly and they need to be held up by sterling silver braces to keep them aligned, but despite all of that, i try to remember why i love them.

my hands write and flip pages, they thumb through papers and leave encouraging notes to push my kids to go further each day.

my hands color, draw, and paint, in the safety of my home as well as at work. they gather information and they cut and paste and they catch falling pencils and wipe tears and start oranges and erase whiteboards.

they hold other hands, too, small ones. they help children cross streets and climb bars and build toothpick bridges. they trace lines and wipe down tables with non-clorox antibacterial wipes. They hand out tissues and pencils and erasers and opportunities.

My hands squeeze out hand soap and lotion, they peel open cheese sticks and milk cartons and crackers. They count down from five, they clap and snap, make rhythms and set beats for call and response. My hands open band-aids and lay them with care. My hands dial phone numbers and shake other hands and fill out reports with data and observations. They peel stickers and applaud and make wings and point.

my hands do a lot for other people. but for me, they make music that comes from my pen and hits page after page, notes floating high. for me, they tap out pitch after pitch until everything is just right and only then do they pull the words that they wrote together with melodies and harmonies and bridges.

my hands aren't pretty. my fingers are round, my joints often swell. my nails are thin and bitten down, and they're always inescapably covered in marker and pen. but they do a lot for me, and right now what i need is to find balance between them working for others and for myself. after all, we only get one set of them. might as well extend my helping hands to my personal life, too.

But who knew? a teacher's hands perform miracles every day, and every one of the thousands of tiny decisions adds up. 'Many hands make light work...' Sure, but I think it could also be said that 'Steady hands make life's work.' In my case, my life's work just happens to be helping tiny humans make their lives.

catching a glimpse of your smile is

just as rare as

sighting albatross in the woods.

i wonder when it changed,

because it used to be that we could

share smiles abound together,

like flipping over a rock and knowing even before you do that

a salamander lives there.

i never look for albatross. i spend too much time looking for salamanders,

probably because it's

easier to find them and

i would rather try my hand

at success in the woods than

risk my own failure at searching

for something that's no longer realistic between us.

if i ever see an albatross in the woods,

I'll let you know. it would mean

the world to me

because it might also be

the first sign that

redeeming

things between us isn't so far-fetched then,

and just maybe

it might come with

seeing your smile again.

i really hope it's "if" and not "when."

best of luck to you, my friend.

may you find trust.

all i ask is you show me a sign that

you're ok and just

let me know that your smile is no longer an unlucky

omen but rather

a symbol of good luck

and fortune (for all days ahead).

no rest for the wicked,

no rest for the dead,

no rest for a sailor with no land ahead

and no rest for me, either,

with dread in each step that carries me

deeper into the woods

where i will remain,

and keep my own head

down to the earth

at no loss of my pride

except wond'ring and hoping for albatross smiles.

it's been almost seven months since things changed.

i miss you. every part of my day is one i want to tell you about but thats simply no longer allowable.

now it's awkward when I'm the only one to catch your jokes- sometimes too quiet, sometimes so quick that the others don't even process it. and sometimes, it's only funny to you and to me. just a superior (or perhaps a dumber) sense of humor that we share.

i miss hearing about your life. how is your job? how are your students? your friends over there? 2000 miles didn't seem so far when we were still in the habit of 4-hour phone calls.

nothing you do or say could ever make How I Still Feel go away but

you should know

i wish it didn't have to be like this.

you led me on.

I'm ready to forgive

but only if the man who was my best friend is ready to admit that

he was at fault too. and that

I am not crazy. I'm just a fool.

i wish I could undo it all. Five years of friendship got tossed down the drain.

Remember how we used to joke that we were the same person?

INFPs who grew up on Lego magazine and obscure fantasy books like Charlie Bone & Brotherband Chronicles and share a love of nature and whose mild temperaments hide deep feelings from others

and yet i knew what you were thinking with just one glance, just as you did for me

and you knew how I felt without having to ask but you always asked anyways to give me the space to share or not

and you knew exactly how to cheer me up

and i was the only one who could make you open up and when you started calling me when you wanted to talk i knew that everything might be okay. but it wasn't. it's not.

falling in love with your soul mate when that person sees you as a sibling is a cruel twist of fate.

and the very worst part is I didn't realize it was happening until it was already far, far too late to jump in front of.

if you knew before i did, why didn't you say something? you peeked inside of my soul and pulled out a thread and you tied it to your pinky and walked around with it for a year and a half and i didn't even know it was there.

but to find out you had been holding the other end? you try reconciling that with the person who tells you things like "if you were a tree, you'd be a willow down by the river and all the songbirds would come sing in your branches" turning around and telling you that they don't feel the same.

drunk words are sober thoughts, andrew. i simply don't believe you. you're lying to us both.

but in seven months what I've learned is this: i miss you. my life is better with you in it. and i wish we could go back to the way things were, before i tried to be honest with you about my soul, and if things changed today i would be happy to go right back to allowing that thread of myself tied to your finger lead me around for the foreseeable future.

as long as it's one with you in it, i would take it. because anything, even unrequited love, is better than my life without my soul mate in it.

i almost killed myself this week.

i didn't, because some tiny sliver of thought got me up off the floor and into the bath where the water still ran way too hot and burned my skin and numbed the pain, but at least i'm still alive.

the thought that saved me was just this one: "i love my kids," over and over and over and over, my version of "i am, i am, i am" because the one i tattooed on my arm didn't do the trick.

funny, how that works. you think injecting Plath into your skin will help you remember to be present and instead of appreciating the strength and awe of such a simple phrase and being proud of your own resilience, instead of it reminding you "i am still here," your last sliver of clarity isn't about life at all.

i refuse to have a hand in further traumatizing any one of the 43 kids charged to my care five days a week. quite simply, the 22-year olds my kids will become deserve better than to be saying "When I was in fourth grade, my teacher killed herself."

but just for the record, taylor swift lied to me. i am not feeling 22. i'm feeling so much older and yet so much younger, too. i don't know where the line is anymore between the two.

one time my tooth came out and i thought it was a sunflower seed so i spit it out onto the sidewalk. it was spring. or was it winter? in any case, i was living in new york. i don't remember which time because after enough moves before the age of six they all blur together, but even if they didn't i have gaps anyway. i hadn't eaten any sunflower seeds but it was the logical assumption my brain jumped to. it was the only thing it could be because my brain had no other expectations.

that's how this feels. the "this" that i speak of is complex, but i think what i'm getting at here is that my brain has never had expectations for things to get better. so naturally, they keep getting worse, and with every block piled on top i can't help but resign myself to the fact that must be self-inflicted, and this thought is reinforced time and time again and overall

im beginning to think that plath had the right idea.

which idea, though? the "writing through the pain" part, even when there is no foreseeable success in the future because it's been such an upset of any possible plans that nothing feels in your control? or the "sticking your head in the oven" part? i guess we'll never know.