Leave it All Behind
"Will you still be here in the morning?"
I raise my eyebrows at the elderly man sitting across from me, "Is there a reason I should be?"
"Well...You know your parents should be back--"
"I know when they'll be back, I'm the one that paid for their entire vacation. I didn't come to see them. I'll be gone before their flight even lands."
I came to see my childhood home, to see if it was what I remembered, or if it was better or warmer even. But no. It was the same house, only now filled with more exquisite decorations--decorations bought with the money I'd given them over the years without even a 'thank you' note in return.
"Linzi, you haven't seen them since you moved out... They're your parents," Kenny's wrinkled hands shake slightly from an emotion that is hidden from his soft, thoughtful face. He's what people would call a family friend, to me he's the grandpa I wish I had. And he's currently house sitting for my constantly emotionally unavailable parents.
The feeling that has always haunts my stomach thunders to life, an unexplainable anxiety. The need to leave. I've been here too long. The air is heavier and the lights are brighter. Too bright. My foot starts tapping a terrified beat.
"Try telling them that, Kenny." Even my voice is shaky. I quickly rise to my feet, and dust off the crumbs of dinner. "I need to go."
"Wait!" Kenny's old joints audibly moan as he starts to follow me up. But I'm already rushing from the dining room to the front door.
"Linzi!" He calls after me, but my expensive fur coat's draped over my shoulder, and my right hand grips my keys and phone.
When the door opens, and the cool night air sinks into my bones, a bit of the anxiety fades. I'm almost gone, almost free.
"Your bags!" Kenny calls, still in the dining room. He's stopped trying to chase after me, because this is what happens every time I stay too long.
"I'll just buy more."
I shut the door with finality; the road awaits.
I wonder where I'll go next, if anywhere will be enough to hold me for more than a couple of days. If I can ever find a place that gives me inner peace, where my soul can be put to rest.
But for now, I'll just be the journeying rich girl the media ponders and my parents ignore.
Giving Back.
It was a blissful Saturday morning in New Jersey. I stationed myself near a bakery and sat down. I grasped a tin can in my hand, hoping for a bit of change. One by one, the customers entered the bakery and left, not even glancing at me. Of course, to them, I was a poor man with a shabby old beard and raggedy clothes. I sighed and got up to leave when a young boy dropped a quarter into the can. It landed with a loud clang and I looked up at him to see him smiling. As he walked away I pulled out a hundred dollar bill and snuck it into his backpack. Perhaps he would buy a new toy car or an action figure. I smiled to myself and left.
The next day I woke up in the alley where I normally slept. I decided to take a visit to the bank. When I entered, the lady at the front desk was rather surprised to see me.
"Mr. Monzerelli, what are you doing here?"
I whipped out my premium card and replied, "I'd like to make a transaction of 250,000 dollars please."
The lady nodded and escorted me to my personal bank, which was the size of a house.
I took out some wads of hundred-dollar bills before thanking the lady.
As I exited the bank, the lady stopped me and asked, "Why when you have the fortune of a billionaire would you stay on the streets, homeless?"
I just smiled and laughed. "Oh to me it doesn't matter whether I'm rich or not. I care about giving back to those who have been so kind to me.
The lady was still confused and just stared at me as I joyfully walked away.
Glass Jar
She kept herself
In the corner
Where she could hope to continue on, unnoticed.
Somehow though,
her unobtrusive way was sought out, and prized.
Her reflective opaqueness recognized for the simple
Beauty and clarity, shining from her intangible Soul.
Like a brilliant, misunderstood mosaic.
The pieces fashioned painstakingly together.
I Just Want to Tell
I'm a smile ready to burst,
A flower ready to bud.
But nobody even asks,
Why I'm jumping on my toes,
Trying not to squeal,
Tapping the excitement out of my fingers,
Or twisting my hair into incurable knots.
I want to shout my happiness to the world,
But nobody asks,
They're too busy,
Posting pictures of themselves on the internet,
Ignoring reality,
Breezing through life without a care.
The Good Child
Getting up before the dawn. Being the alarm on everyone's door. I don't want any pity, this is just what I do. Make lunches for little sisters and parents. Start cooking the eggs for breakfast, gulp down a bowl of cereal as the eggs are flipped. Send my groggy sisters back to the room to fix their backwards clothes. Run through the house, pick up random things off the floor hairbrushes, paper plates, toys, schoolwork, papers, and clothes. The sun starts to rise, get my sisters' shoes on, their bags together, their hair brushed, ignore their glares, because they had to find matching socks, make sure my parents' work bags are in the right place, for when they hurry out the door, get their coffee made, remind them of the grocery list, look down at myself, and realize my PJs aren't going to make the right fashion statement at school. Ten minutes before the bus arrives, I yank on jeans and a cute shirt, run my fingers through my hair, look for my socks, throw my books in my bag, remember to give out my sisters' lunches. Rush out the door, catch my breath, run through my homework assignments in my head, hoping I didn't leave any on my bed. Ready to do this all again, for the whole school year, staying up late, getting up early, only 'thank you's I get are quick, and sometimes forgotten, but I don't mind, really, because I'm the good child, ready to face another day.