Days have been hard; change isn't good, and the strange feeling of uncertainty and fear creep into my brain when I sit and think about the fateful June night. I live in Bar Harbor, Maine. A small town where everyone knows everyone and everyone's business. Including mine. As my alarm goes off I jump out of the strange dream about my past and fumble with the clock. Getting up I'm groggy and completely delusional, but I put on short and my running shoes. I sneak past my parents room like I've been doing since I was twelve and head out the door. It's still early enough for the street lamps to be on and I can feel the cool air sink into my skin. We live on a cliff that overlooks the harbor, where ships come and go with the lighthouse that is just over two miles away. The dirt path leads directly to it; with the gulls overhead keeping me company I sprint the rest of the way and rest on the door until I catch my breath. I sit on the cliff until the sun comes up and head back down before my phone starts going off. I can hear my dad shuffling around news paper when I jog inside.

Writing frightens me.

Memories are the images that can bring feelings back into your heart and into your soul. It can feel like you're in an ocean and each memory is a wave that breaks over you. Some days you're treading water, others you're in the midst of a tsunami. They make you who you are, lose them and what's left? You are able to become either who you were or come to the realization that that you can completely turn into something different. I wish I had a choice, I didn't though...

My name is Phaedra and I had the perfect life.

so much depends

upon

a silver passenger

train

glazed with rain

water

moving slowly along

the bay.

Email after email after email

Lies after lies and so it goes.

Accusations of being a scumbag

by a man that sold fabricated stories

to papers for millions.

This from a man who has one than one

facebook account in different names;

a man who reviews his own books

using pseudonyms but the same style.

How he writes is always the same.

To intelligent people, it all reads

as the rantings of a troll. That I know.

My crime: sending a parcel by a

courier who then lost it.

Weeks spent chasing were not enough.

Neither was the insulting compensation

they offered. But I’m still the culprit.

It’s all there, on screen, tracked to the

point it vanished. But I ‘stole’ the

contents. And yes, they were irreplaceable.

Surrounded by enablers he spins his yarns,

until he, himself, believes his words.

But it will all go away. He won’t turn up

on my doorstep if I pay two thousand pounds.

The fear I feel for my family and myself

all disappears for that princely sum.

The price of a parcel, and the harassment,

the extortion and the hate campaign.

It all stops. But it won’t. The man is cancer.

Noon already

And

I

Havenʼt

Even

Showered yet

My coffee is already cold

And

I

Haven't

Drank

All of it

And,

To make matters worse,

I just remembered

I promised

To help my girlfriendʼs daughter

Carve her first pumpkin

But I ran out of time

And now

I have to get ready

For work

Apparently I was getting sick a lot. The doctor tells my parents I need to have my tonsils removed. I am too young to completely understand this. I can barely write my own name--let alone--the word, “tonsils.” But I do understand one word very, very well: “ice cream.” My parents tell me I can eat all the ice cream I want when it’s over. All the ice cream in the world. This takes away some of my fear of the unknown as I’m being wheeled away down a hall to an operating room, fluorescent ceiling lights passing over me like clouds, whales, ships. I am reminded of ice cream again by one of the nurses just before I am put under. Later, I wake up from a strange drug-induced dream, my own version of the Disney movie “Fantasia,” my blood is all over me like I’ve been attacked, and it hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It’s impossible to swallow. I have no appetite. I feel sick. I can’t imagine ever wanting to eat again. Nothing, not even ice cream, and somehow I feel as though I have been tricked by my parents, the doctors and nurses, God--all of them, they have fooled me--fucked me over. On another sad, strange note: this is the last time I will ever remember seeing my parents together, as in one place (the hospital) as a couple. Somewhere deep inside of me I blame my infected tonsils. But I now know that nothing is ever that simple. Life is complicated. Painful. But, somehow, still beautiful. The truth hurts worse than a lie, worse than any fiction we can make up. But you already know this, right? The joyful bliss of eating ice cream won’t last forever. Childhood ends. We grow up. We forget. And then, years later, the sweet cold memory finds us again.

Stuck behind

a semi

traveling

at a

snail's pace,

I read:

DON'T FOLLOW ME...

FOLLOW JESUS --

written

on the back door

in big block

letters

for all

to see.

I can't believe

my eyes.

Now I've seen

everything.

Seriously,

who does this guy

think he is?

Annoyed,

I signal

to change

lanes,

then step

on the gas

and go around him.

Now he's

following me.

Imagine life without them

Imagine they were

never born

And instantly

their sweet faces appear

as smiling flowers

Now imagine yourself

even more lonely

and selfish than before

chasing after your own tail

and never

finding it

The day I spend without you. Light shines upon the empty space beside me. The Sun, the clouds, the sky, all are present, but I can't help but notice what isn't. You aren't with me in the day time. Warm weather can not replace the the touch of your skin. Sounds of nature can not replace the beauty of your voice. The day I spend alone.

The night I spend with you. Darkness envelopes me, as do the thoughts of you. Nighttime brings dreams of us together. Again, I can feel your touch, your warmth, your presence. Once more I can hear your voice. The night has no need of replacing you, because your place beside me is no longer empty. The night we spend together.

You ask the difference between day and night, I tell you this. The difference is in the absence.