shrouded gem

The price of this my shining stone is lost
Mid layers of crumbling earth. Can you see
The twinkling, tinkling gem that doth accost
The eye with sun, like off a tranquil sea?
While roughage still surrounds her like a frost
Hides coming spring, then she’ll be naught to thee.
The tag that is affix’t, her worth belies,
And cheapens innate beauty, strength disdains,
And he who wants an easy bid will prize
This shrouded light. Wish I, she might remain
Un-bought for such a coin. She doffs disguise,
Allowing worth to shine. Like fire again
In each man’s heart is greed, alight his eyes.
I’ll sell her high, or else my jewel retain.

sonnet, take one

This is my first attempt at an English Sonnet. Note the 14 lines of iambic pentameter, complete with properly rhymed quatrains and couplet.

Glory in Waiting
And now, good gentlemen, to arms and fall
In line, in ranks, for Glory you pursue.
She poses, lingers, hoping he, of all
The combatants, the gladiators who
Have donned their helms and bare their gilded spears,
Will muster hope, keep faith and claim the crown.
Our Glory, men, in waiting hides her fears
That victor who should win her heart is flown.
Oh soldiers great and princes bold, will we
Our mistress fail? By fighting not, our pride
We spare, our virtue hoard. Surrender! She,
If chased, exacts--if scorned, cannot deride.
For what does Glory mean to broken knights,
Who dreamed to win the crown without the fight?

sick

I don't think I've thrown up in years and years, not like this, not since I was little and had no control over my stomach. Yesterday was terrible. I went to bed feeling slightly queasy and woke up without an appetite and with small jabbing pains in my stomach. I walked to school on time but arrived home an hour and a half later, crawling into bed and moaning. I didn't think people really moaned outside of the movies, but I did. I had no audience to impress, and sometimes I didn't realize I was doing it. I just hurt and I had no way to express it. A couple of times I thought that if I could just throw up I'd feel better, and I even stuck my finger down my throat in a half-hearted attempt to hurry the process along. It didn't happen, because I chickened out. It's lucky, however, that I chose to carry a towel upstairs with me and lay it out beside my bed, because when the vomiting did come, it gave no warning. I felt like a little kid, out of control, weak, scared. And it really is absolutely disgusting on top of all of that.

Nora brought me flat coke ("I stirred it!" she said as she gave it to me) and Wonderbread. But mostly I slept. I sipped coke when I woke, and leaned over the bowl next to me. By night I managed to eat three crackers. At about ten the pain went away, and I slept for ten uninterrupted hours, despite the consumption of caffeine and the six hours of napping during the day. The only time I woke during the night was when I rolled over onto my stomach--probably to ease the pressure on my hips, sore from being on the floor for nearly a day straight--and promptly realized how terribly uncomfortable that was. Overall, not an experience I want to repeat, although being unconscious for most of it probably helped. When the alarm went off at eight, I woke feeling wonderful. No nausea, no stabbing pains, not shakiness or weakness--just a feeling of being rested. I never realized how good it feels to be my usual self. And I even finally ate something about an hour ago.

bragging

In my literature class, the top grade on the recent midterm was a perfect score. However, the class average was six points below what my professor desired. So, she gave a six point curve on the test, giving the top person an A++. She didn't give us back our exams, only that information, and she said she would send us each our grade. I checked my email only to find...I got that A++!

teatime

The essayist, as has already been established by the professionals, must set aside time in which to think, to ruminate, a time in which to remember events not for themselves but for the paths down which such memories will take him. I don’t presume to classify myself as an essayist, but I do try to attach meaning retrospectively to events in my life. In doing so, my mind is pulled back again and again to teatime with my mother.

I don’t know the habits of the British tea-drinker, but I imagine that for them teatime falls at an hour in mid-afternoon. For my mother and me, teatime meant midnight. She worked two jobs to support my older sister in college, and I kept such hours as conflicted terribly with her availability. At the age of eleven, I went to bed around ten and woke near six, missing my mother by some two hours either way. Needless to say, this damaged our communication, and we began calling mid-day to establish some conversation between us. I left her notes on the dry erase board, and she scribbled lines to me on napkins; but we went a month without seeing one another. Then one night I heard the muffled clanging of someone getting a drink in the kitchen. I snuck down the stairs to find my mother just home from work making a cup of tea to help herself relax. She and I smiled through our sleepiness, and I retrieved a second mug from the cupboard.

As time wore on, I didn’t have to hear her banging. I developed sensitivity to the sounds of her car in the driveway, so that I could meet her at the kitchen as she stumbled through the door. We heated the water in the microwave and sat at the table opposite one another as the bags steeped. For the next hour we talked together, she and I, like two grown-ups, equals. Sometimes we had information to share, news about the goings-on in our little household, but often times we waxed philosophical and thought introspectively. She had many more and deeper thoughts than I—or so I believed—especially about life, which I hadn’t yet experienced. She gave me wisdom for my preteen years. At Christmas, midway through her year of pulling double duty, we cemented our ritual. I bought her a teapot and matching cups, and she gave to me a silver charm for my bracelet: a teacup.

I grew during those nights. As she listened to my thoughts, I began to take them more seriously too. I challenged my ideas and sometimes found myself content with them. I found value in the innate wisdom of youth, and I tried to test my mother’s habit-ingrained doctrine. In retrospect, I worry about my mom and how our teatime robbed her of one more hour of precious sleep. I worried about her then, about her constant fatigue, and I tried to limit the burden I placed on her. I hope she never saw teatime as a burden. For me, the nightly tryst was not about the beverage: I don’t particularly like tea, and I had to nurse mine over the whole hour with two ice cubes melting in it until it suited my lukewarm standard. I loved that hour, because I had the opportunity to talk with my mother, to appreciate her and find that I in return held value for someone else.

She and I now live in separate states, but whenever I go home, she puts the tea kettle on at the end of the evening. I have never thought of refusing her, because it would not be the tea I’d reject. Teatime is our bonding time, and looking back I can find so much more meaning to it than I recognized at the time. It became a symbol of my close relationship with my mother and a sacrifice we both made to support it. In trying to affix meaning to this memory, I also find that it is my first instance in my life of trying to find significance in my life. If I ever become an essayist, I may say that I began my musings during teatime.

cinderella ball with the roomies