Cheers

Here's to Boston. City of our fathers, bounded by the regular tides that heralded their arrival and the endless expanses that lie westward still. It defies its borders, jutting out precipitously into a speckled harbor and reaching higher still into the frigid skies so often plagued by swirling winds cast callously inland by the Atlantic. The rooftops bear witness to nature's resentment. Shingled houses abandon their perennial black and grey veneer to adopt the familiar whitewashed facade that always accompanies yet another nor'easter. The snow paints the whole city white. It paints in broad brushstrokes and does more than simply muffle colors under its uniform surface...it erases the clamor of the city as well. It silences everything beneath a blanket of tranquility and transforms a bustling city into a range of snow capped mountains. And for a moment all is quiet. No sounds of cars barreling down narrow streets, no screeching of subway wheels as they round an iron track before disappearing underground. Not even the occasional sullen voice of another pedestrian can be heard within the stillness of the cold night air. Just you and your thoughts alone in the city, a queer companion that serves only to momentarily stave off the loneliness, though never the cold. For that greater adversary something more is needed. A warm body, a warmer smile. Such company is a rare find on frozen Boston nights like the one I find myself in this evening, a treasure that once collected should never be relinquished. Too many solitary figures scuttle around me in the frigid air, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched over with heads wrapped in scarves. Their eyes occasionally glance up from the snow covered sidewalks and meet my gaze. They look so cold out here, so alone with no one to warm them from the falling snowflakes that slowly fill in the footsteps they leave behind.

My body shivers almost uncontrollably from the cold. My lips are nearly frozen and sensation has long since abandoned my extremities. An unexpected icy gust races through a corridor between two buildings and hits my face, singeing exposed skin with the ferocity of any lapping flame. The shock causes me to gasp, exposing my lungs to still greater perils and sending my body into even colder realms, inviting pain on any skin not enveloped under layers of clothing. My ears hurt. My nose stings, and my left hand is nearly immovable in its submission to the cold. But my right hand...my right hand is warm. Blood pumps ferociously through it and each sensation is easily perceived with unchanged tactility. Indeed, had a delicate feather run the ridges of my palm such nuances would not have passed notice. I look down to see the source of my right hand's warmth and find my palm clasped around another hand, smaller than my own and decidedly less abrasive. It's wrapped in a red woolen mitten and gives my hand a gentle squeeze as if to reassure me that simply being held is just enough. My eyes dart from the hand within my own to the awaiting gaze of the woman who possesses both. She smiles. I smile. Warmth returns to my lips. We kiss.

A week later I am back in Birmingham. My flight home was delayed by storms but I make it back to my apartment after catching a ride from an airport taxi. I pay the driver and begin the march upward to my apartment, but for some reason the stairs seem less welcoming than they did as I descended them some nine days before. Maybe I was just excited to get up to Boston. No, that's not it...I was excited about seeing her.

A quick shower and shave before heading to bed. The linens seem cold, an unwelcome departure from the routine I have grown accustomed to over the preceding days. And I'm here alone now, staring up at the ceiling, the overhead fan slowly churning the still air as I absentmindedly reach over to curl my arm around a figure who is no longer there. Only the memories remain now. The memories of soft melodies intermingled with alcohol as our modesty disappeared beneath a canopy of blankets. 

So here's to Boston. A city like no other where for nine days I cast aside my southern roots and became a true Yankee. It truly is an amazing city, one where my proclivity for both intellectual and emotional indulgence found no greater harbor. Yet for all its history, for all its culture, its atmosphere and its people, it wasn't the city that drew me here...it was her. A girl whose hand reached out to warm my own, and whose abundance of generosity is tragically matched only by my vanity.

No Woman, No Cry

Just down the road from my apartment there is a quaint little place called Vulcan Park that overlooks all of Birmingham. The park's crowning feature is an eighty foot tall Vulcan statue perched high atop Red Mountain that draws visitors from all over the city. Below the statue a walking trail winds alongside Red Mountain and offers breathtaking views of the city skyline down below. Every Sunday I make the short walk from my apartment to the park and slowly stroll down its winding path, my mind completely at ease and miles away from the mundane concerns that too often take precedence over everything else. Most days my walk is a solitary one, but if I do find company it is usually in the form of a passing jogger or family dog that has wandered too far from its owner up ahead. The path is always very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that it is easy to lose yourself in a moment's reflection and completely forget that sometimes a walk in the park can offer unexpected surprises. Sometimes, it can change your life forever.

Beside me something rustles. From somewhere in the waist-high grasses and kudzu covered tree branches that line the trail I see what appears to be some sort of creature lumbering out of the forest. Its appearance so startles me that for a moment I am paralyzed by the uncertainty of whether to run or indulge my curiosity. Before I have time to do either the creature turns to me, lifts one arm in the air and says, "Don't let me frighten you. I'm just on my way out"

The creature in front of me is no monster at all, but rather a homeless man who has spent the night sleeping in the woods along the trail. I have heard of the homeless sleeping here, but had never actually seen anyone stumble out of the woods before. The man's gait seemed unsteady and he wreaked of alcohol, his clothes slightly tattered and covered in dead leaves and dirt. Despite his compromised demeanor he must have at least been aware of my surprise and felt the need to offer some sort of explanation. Apparently after a night of drinking he wandered through the park before finding a nice patch of leaves to substitute for a bed. It was a familiar routine for him and he decided to ease his embarrassment a little by offering to walk with me and recall the sordid tale of how he had come to find himself in such a lowly state. His offer was curiously appealing and so we walked the path together, this homeless man and I, as he told me his story.

"The name's Marley," he said. "My friends call me Marley. I didn't mean to frighten you, what with me coming out of the woods like that lookin' quite ragged."

Marley was a man of about thirty-six who wore an old, secondhand jacket and dirty khaki pants that had faded into a muddy brown. His hair formed tightly woven dreadlocks and continued down his bearded chin to encase his entire head in a sort of derelict lion's mane. When I asked him why he was living in the woods he replied:

Marley: It wasn't always this way. For a time, many years ago, I had a quaint little house in Homewood. It wasn't grand by any means, but it was presentable and just enough for me. I had a wife too, a lovely woman she was. Lovely, lovely woman...

His words seemed to grow somber at the thought of his former life, and especially at the recollection of his wife.

Marley: But all that's gone now. My misfortune and poor decisions thereafter saw to that. It started with losing my job. Not my fault, really it wasn't. The steel mill I was working at went under and had to let a bunch of us go. Just like that, no job...but the bills kept coming. For a while I could deal with it, especially with my wife Marla to keep me going. She used to help me try to find a new job, something just to get me out of the house and back on my feet again. But I was too depressed to look for work so I started trying to cope in other ways. I started drinking. It was foolish, I know...but it helped me forget for a bit and that's all I really wanted to do.

We keep walking down the trail as he begins fidgeting through his pockets looking for something buried deep within. He pulls out a half empty flask and takes a healthy drink from it.

Marley: This is what did it. This is what caused her to leave. I chose this bottle over her, and what's worse, I didn't even realize what I had done until she was gone.

Me: She didn't try to help you? She didn't try to get you to stop?

Marley: Was it her responsibility?! Never...but in her kindness and love for me she did try. But I couldn't stop drinking, or didn't want to, and so after a year of trying to help me she finally left. That was four years ago and I still think about her every day.

In the corner of his right eye I notice a nearly imperceptible twitch as the wellspring borne from the rehashing of old memories is just beginning to form. He quickly wipes away his tears in hopes that I won't notice before saying to me, "Tell me something, son. Do you have a woman in your life?"

I stop walking. Just over the mountain a frigid wind comes roaring in and causes me to turn away as its bitterness bites into my exposed skin. I turn back towards Marley and reply, "I did once, but that was a long time ago"

Marley: But not anymore I see. Ah, these women are all the same...heartbreakers, all of 'em. Never there to help you when you need 'em and always lookin' for their Prince Charming.

Me: How can you say that? You just finished telling me that your wife comforted you for a year after you lost your job. She was patient with you through your troubles and even tried to help you stop drinking. She wasn't trying to break your heart...she was trying to love you!

Marley: Ah, so maybe they are not all heartbreakers after all. Perhaps sometimes it is the men who are the problem and just can't see it. But maybe now and then we find a good one, one who looks past our faults and sees something we ourselves are blind to. If you find one like that...

His words trail off as another fierce wind drowns out the last of his advice.

Me: What does it matter now? So what if I found her once. She's gone and nothing I can say or do will ever bring her back.

We stop at a clearing on the trail as Marley reaches out and points to the Birmingham skyline now visible through the trees.

Marley: Take a look down there son, take a look at the city down below.

Marley: You think you are the only one whose heart has ever been broken? There are a hundred thousand stories down there just like yours. Do you think all those people simply crawl into bed one day, curl up, and wait for life to pass by? Or do you think they move on, learn from their experience and become a better person because of it.

Me: But I just can't forget, I just can't ever forget how she made me feel. And what's more...I don't want to.

With that Marley put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and said:

“You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before, she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect - neither are you, and the two of you may never be perfect together. But if she can make you laugh, cause you to think, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don't hurt her, don't change her, don't analyze and don't expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she's not there...because one day, she won't be”

With those words Marley and I reached the end of our time together. The trail ends by choosing one of two directions, a high road or a low road. I've been down both before and know the final destination of each.

Before I make my decision on which path to take I say my final words to Marley.

 Me: I still miss her.

Marley: I know you do son, I know you do.

Me: So does my story have a happy ending?

He turns his head away from me and begins walking back down the path before saying:

Marley: Like everyone else's, that all depends on when you stop telling it...so don't stop too soon.

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When I was in college I had a roommate who told me that the people in our lives are there for a day, a season, or a lifetime. It is a saying that I have reflected on many times over the years not because of its inherent profundity, but rather due to its recognition within my own life. Countless names and faces have occupied my attention for a day while a precious few have been with me throughout all of them. But what of that other group? What of those who are only with us for a season?

These are the people who can affect us most deeply I believe. They can teach us lessons we never would have known, introduce us to experiences we couldn't have imagined, and sometimes even touch our hearts in a way no one else ever does. They can do all of these things because these relationships are often times just on the precipice of transitioning to a lifetime before, either by fate or circumstance, they are snatched away from our grasp. Like a tree uprooted by a fearsome storm, the roots of the relationship are laid bare and the emotions aroused because of it ensure that every moment is illuminated like none other before it.

And then it's over. A person who you grew so very close to is out of your life forever. You turn to those who form part of your lifelong relationships for comfort, or you indulge in petty trysts with others who are forever relegated to a day. But always you shy away from the seasons, knowing that the sweetness of indulgence never quite overshadows the bitterness of regret. Despite all of the tender moments together, in your heart you wish you had never met her.

Years pass. Slowly at first, but gradually faster with each passing turn of the calendar. Memories that were etched onto your soul slowly fade away and a broken heart begins to mend. Moments that once seemed nearly transcendental in their recollection now suddenly elicit a far more mundane response. You realize that the relationship was never meant to go beyond a season, and what's more, you finally accept its passing. But more than this, you begin to understand that no relationship is forever, not even the ones that last a lifetime. All is temporary...all is fleeting.

Yet it's the acceptance of this unavoidable fact of life and, more importantly, our reaction to it that colors our world. I finally realized that it's not the endurance of a relationship that makes it valuable, but rather its intrinsic impermanence that makes it so special. It means that you never take a moment with her for granted, that you never let an opportunity pass to tell her you care. It means that you care about her so much that you are willing to spend what precious little time you have in this life together. That is why it is such a gift. You are giving her something you can't ever take back. And even when the hourglass runs out and the last grain of sand trickles through its narrow gate, your heart still rejoices that the two of you have shared a season of life together...if only for a moment.

Name ThisTune - An Explanation

In the six years that I have kept this online journal I have discussed everything from world events to local attractions, personal triumphs and dismal failures. I have spoken of philosophy and religion, interjected humor and the absurd, and even revealed intimate frustrations that have served as the catalyst for more entries than is likely prudent. In all that time I have never censored myself or refrained from delving into the specific troubles that I felt justifiably deserved an outlet. My reasons for doing so are as varied as they are uncertain. Some days I want to share an idea I have been pondering for some time, other times I seek a sympathetic ear to vent my frustrations. Some entries simply write themselves as my fingers furtively glide across the keyboard, uncertain of their next destination but trusting the latent ideas that stem from my subconscious to guide them all the same. It is with this approach that I have managed to craft some fairly revealing insights into my own psyche that have occasionally (albeit inadvertently) caused trouble. Such was the case just a few entries ago in a post entitled “Name ThisTune” when, for the first time, I decided to delete an entry that I had posted somewhat on a whim. It was an entry whose motivations were unclear, but one in which the impending consequences were anything but. In one instant I managed to hurt someone whom I care about very deeply. She did not deserve or cause such indiscretions on my part and for that momentary lapse in judgment I am truly sorry.

It is with that disclaimer that I have chosen to repost the original entry for reasons that I will now expound upon. The actual reason why I have never deleted any post or censored myself is found in the incentive of detailing the events of my life in the first place. Someday I am going to be an old man whose only joy lies in the remembrance of past events and the occasional emotional elation that such memories elicit. I am going to spend my days reflecting on all the previous ones and wondering what impact my life truly had. Many men find that their memories fade or reconfigure over the passing years until one day when they seek to tarry over the days of their lives such memories only offer fleeting glimpses of highlights and harangues. So they claw at scraps of ancient recollections in an attempt to remember who they once were and hope someone, anyone will listen lest the memory of who they are fades away with each generation’s passing. I cannot be that man. I decided a long time ago to keep a record of my life so that even if no one else knew him, I could always look back and remember the man I once was. Despite its inherent futility and possible blights of hubris, I simply don’t want to be forgotten.

We all fade away. Some people manage to slow time’s eraser to a crawl, but none can halt its sinister task completely. If I am to remain true to my past, however, I must be able to record it accurately. I cannot remove the painful parts when they form a unique part of the tapestry of life that is as essential as any triumph. To do otherwise is a death of sorts. To do otherwise is to be forgotten.

Name ThisTune

Several years ago a game show used to come on television called "Name That Tune". In the game, contestants would try to guess the name of a song after listening to just a few notes of it being played. The object of the game was to identify the song in as few notes as possible with each contestant bidding on how many notes it would take them to "name that tune". The setup would go something like this:


Host: This song climbed all the way to number one in the charts in 1955, but don't let its melody "haunt" you while you try to recall its title.

Contestant 1: I can name that tune in seven notes.

Contestant 2: Well, I can name that tune in five notes.

Contestant 1: I bet I can name that tune in four notes.

Contestant 2: Name that tune!

At this point the band would strike up and play only four notes of the song Contestant 1 would have to guess. Given only the brief musical assistance and the accompanying clue, the contestant would then try to determine what tune he had just heard. It was a fun, lighthearted game to watch and half the excitement was in trying to play along with the contestants at home. Although I enjoyed seeing if I could also name that tune at home, this wasn't the most interesting part of the show for me however. My fascination was with the occasional savant-like talents some contestants acquired that enabled them to name fairly obscure musical scores in as little as two or three notes. It was as if their knowledge and intuition of music was so vast that they could easily extrapolate an entire ballad from just a few simple notes. I often wondered how anyone could possess such an immense musical library that undoubtedly took a lifetime to attain. My answer came when I noticed that the contestants who fared the best were often times the ones who appeared to be having the most fun. They were smiling, laughing, and genuinely enjoying themselves all while effortlessly naming song after song with the apparent ease of any virtuoso. And that's when I realized why. To these people, this game was not about how much money they won or a fleeting fifteen minutes of fame. Their reward was something else...it was the music. They loved music so much that simply being around it, being a part of it was enough. It was because they cared so much about music that they were able to attentively hear and understand its nuances when no one else could.

The relationships we have with certain people are like that. Sometimes when we care enough about someone and spend enough time with them we find that we are attuned to parts of them that no one else even notices. Where others might overlook a subtle glance or deft remark, a carefully tuned ear embraces such nuances and relishes in the understanding of things that often go unsaid, but never overlooked. When we spend enough time with someone our perception of that person changes. Where once we saw only a desire to travel and a love of music, we now see a yearning for freedom and a blossoming creativity that fills the soul. Her words become a novel and her face a canvas upon which no great artist could ever have imparted such interpretation. Yet you understand it all. You understand this woman because in your heart you know that you are just like her. And what's more, you know that you still love her. That you will always love her. Despite the years, the distance, and even the betrayal you know that a part of this woman will never leave you...and a part of you will never come back.

Some would say that such folly is but fodder for the poets, while others that it was only ever a fool's hope, but the intuition upon which I have come to rely beckons otherwise. Your face was one that I had not seen in four years and had no expectation of ever witnessing again. Eventually I accepted that and moved on. But I cannot deny that you sought me out this time for reasons that are known only to you. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was surprise that our paths have wandered so close together once again. Whatever the reason, this is as brazen as I dare to venture without some measure of reciprocation clarifying your intentions. You told me to completely forget about you and I have been faithful to that request. But truthfully I still care about you, I have always cared about you. And if my words should fall on deaf ears, if they are simply misguided by a hope that was mistakenly rekindled, then I will harbor no animosity and will release my sentiments just as quietly as they arrived.

My last letter you carried across the Atlantic before opening it in a London dorm, yet this note has far greater distances to bridge. I hope it finds you, and finds you well.

The tune was Unchained Melody.

Beyond the Castle Gates

Every few months I awaited his arrival. The plane would land at six o'clock, another fifteen minute drive to our house, and then the front door would open as he came bearing gifts for my younger brother and me. Sometimes it was a model space shuttle from a trip out to Houston. Others times a child-sized cowboy hat picked up from the airport gift shop in Dallas. But without fail, every time he came back home after a week away on business he would always arrive with all sorts of wonderfully strange souvenirs along with (to my eight year old ears) equally exotic stories.

This man was my father. When I was a boy my father would travel to Dallas and other cities across the country for business on a fairly regular basis. To a little boy, it seemed like such a grown up thing to do and became part of the routine that all adults simply did from time to time. I remember thinking that my dad must be incredibly brave to travel so far away from home, almost like a knight venturing past the castle walls without anything other than his courage and determination to protect him. Part of this belief was attributable to the magnanimity that all boys bestow upon their fathers, but another part was due to the realization that one day I would also venture past the safety of my hometown and follow in the footsteps of my father. Looking back, it seems like such a trivial thing. After all, as an adult I now realize that the world beyond the boundaries I grew accustomed to as a child are not really so scary. But the moments that we remember from childhood about the curious world of adults and who we will be when we grow up are as indeterminable as they are magical. For me, that world always involved leaving my familiar surroundings behind and routinely exploring new and exciting destinations. Since I work in a field that requires me to travel fairly extensively, I almost feel as if I am experiencing those moments from my childhood all over again, just from a different perspective. Now I am the grown up. I am the one venturing beyond the castle gates. And it's exciting and wonderful for reasons beyond what my boyhood curiosity could have imagined. From Washington DC to Tucson and from Dallas to Seattle, these are the distant kingdoms that my imagination traveled to in my youth, but my eyes now gaze upon today.

In Dallas I visited Dealey Plaza. It is one of the more somber historical sites in our nation's history but one that I felt was worth seeing. When I took this picture I was standing on the actual spot where the fatal shot struck Kennedy.

If you look closely you can see the open window that the fatal shot was fired from. Although some conspiracy theorists claim all sorts of bizarre ideas ranging from CIA involvement to Castro's secret plottings, I simply think that this tragic event was the result of one very disturbed man whose life was in a tailspin. Oswald's fascination with grandeur convinced him that infamy was better than obscurity.

For Americans in my parents' generation, this shallow outcropping known colloquially as "The Grassy Knoll" holds the secret of where the actual fatal shot was fired. Numerous documentaries claiming to go beyond the official version of events while espousing myriad conspiracy theories all seem to tie back to this place. Strangely, these ideas seem to be more widely accepted by those who lived through the events versus younger generations. In much the same way, our generation's 9/11 conspiracy theorists will probably find their arguments falling out of favor as time goes by.

This is the actual spot (the X) where a bullet struck the back of Kennedy's head and he died. To say that it is eerie to stand in the place where such an important person died so tragically would be an understatement. My entire experience in Dealey Plaza was surreal and in many ways it feels like stepping back in time to be there. While I am glad to have seen this area once in my life firsthand, its inherent solemnity will likely prevent me from ever returning.

After my trip to Dallas I was on my way further north into the cold expanses of the American northwest. Flying to Seattle feels like crossing the Sahara in that you travel over what appears to be vast wastelands down below before finally reaching civilization. For some reason this part of the country has always seemed depressing to me. Whether it is the permanent overcast skies or bitter coldness I cannot say, but I suspect that it probably has more to do with its perceived isolation than anything else. Anyway, I took this picture of the Space Needle as I crossed over a bridge heading into downtown. Curiously enough, there's not a cloud in the sky.

One of Seattle's most unique attractions is a semi-outdoor food market that reminded me of a middle eastern bazaar. It is situated right on the edge of the water and seemed to be a good place to stop for lunch.

  

Inside of the market people rushed by in an apparent fervor to find the best deals. Several longshoremen had just arrived with the day's catch at one booth and were hauling fresh fish from the packaging area out to the market. Rarely have I seen so much fresh food scattered before me and had I not been in this area on business I may have stopped to sample some.

Just down the street from the market an open air park offers spectacular views of both the bay and overlooking city. Skyscrapers tower over the bustle down below and bear witness to the eclectic nature of this unique part of town. If you look closely you can see that a skeptical ginger seems to be giving me the evil eye in this picture. I don't think my picture taking was that suspicious but clearly he suspects otherwise. No matter, that seagull perched atop a light post seems ready to drop a surprise his way if things get testy.

Seattle is full of street performers. This gentleman brought a tiny piano down to the market and entertained the crowd with unique renditions of "Hey Jude" by The Beatles and several other songs upon request. Curiously enough, the roads to get down to this part of town are at a forty-five degree angle so I wasn't quite sure how he even moved this wheeled piano down here. I imagine he probably climbed atop it and rode it down the city streets...playing whimsical melodies as his gilded hair whipped in the wind.

After touring Seattle all afternoon, I spent the evening with a friend who I have not seen in years. She lives in the city and took me to an upscale bar where we talked for hours about what has been going on in our lives over the past few years. It was a nice way to end my time in Seattle, but I was surprised at how somber our conversation occasionally turned considering the longevity of our time apart. Usually meetings with old friends will elicit laughter and colorful stories filled with nostalgic memories. While we certainly traded our share of each, she confided in me other moments that tell the story of what is actually going on in her life. It was at times both surprising and heart wrenching considering that she is one of the most joyful people I know. But it was also strangely comforting to know that someone else was going through a similar situation too. Sometimes it's nice just to share our struggles with others, even if a resolution to our problems is ultimately up to us. It's strange that in a city that has always curiously embodied loneliness for me I should find myself confessing things to an old friend who I have not seen in so very long. Travels will do that though. These new kingdoms take you out of your cozy world and force you to look over the horizon to see what lies just beyond the castle gates.

Forget Yourself

Saturday night in Birmingham. The evening comes to an end as I walk out the door from a day's revelry with friends. A day spent watching college football, watching my Auburn Tigers scrap by with another victory and enjoying the excitement a momentary distraction brings. But the game's over now and it is time to leave my friends and drive home.

I drive through Mountain Brook, the wealthiest part of town that serves as a divider between my friend's house and my apartment. It is a short drive and one that I have made countless times on forgotten nights just like this one. The winding streets are familiar to me and could almost be traversed without much conscious effort, a fortunate circumstance considering my mind's wanderings. I don't pay much attention to the stop light up ahead or the turn I am about to make. I'm somewhere else right now, back in a dorm room with her wondering where it all went wrong. I've played it over a thousand times in my head without any resolution and nearly lost myself because of it. So I buried the memories deep and resolved to never visit them again, lest their hold on me became complete and I finally lost myself altogether. And then, just when I believed the memories were forever gone she re-enters my life, not in a purposeful way or one in which she planned. Curiously enough, not even in a manner caused by her own doing. But the memories are dredged up all the same, losing none of their vengeance over the years. I don't need this now. I don't need this ever. I just need the memories to disappear and only know of one method to ensure their departure.

My car veers from its normal path. I take a left when I should have turned right. Mountain Brook becomes a speck in my rear view mirror as I venture to another part of town not accustomed to recognizing my face, but not yet calling me a stranger either.

I park in a dimly lit lot just south of downtown. Its faded lighting casts my clothes in a burnt orange veneer that gives a sinister tone to the Auburn colors still emblazoned on my shirt. Half a minute later and I'm at the bar, deciding what I'll have while checking to make sure my wallet will cover the cost of the evening's indulgence. The bartender brings two shots of No. 7 and another of Patrón, a slight departure from my usual tastes but inconsequential for tonight's purpose. The two shots of whiskey go down quickly while I savor the tequila, its unique texture gliding across my tongue like the sting of a sensual kiss.

One more shot, then another, and finally a sixth to round out the half hour. Anything to erase the memories and the corresponding feelings they never fail to elicit. My left arms rests motionless on the table holding an empty shot glass while my right one lies sprawled out across the back rest of the booth that I'm sitting in. Almost without noticing, a girl takes a seat beside me and conspicuously places my right arm around her shoulder as she edges closer. She mentions something about how she saw me across the bar but her words clang together like the bells of some nearby church that will be ringing in only a few hours. I can't understand anything other than she is a student at UAB and wants to study education. Girls like her always want to be a teacher for some reason.

Thirty minutes later we are back at her dorm. Her roommates are gone and the room is completely dark save for a curious desk lamp with a pink lampshade over it. It casts the world into a starlit, faded crimson as we climb into her bed. She turns off the light while I succumb to an evening awash in alcohol and bad decisions.

The next morning I wake up to sunlight glaring through the window and the sound of quiet breathing coming from the body beside me. She's still asleep as I climb out of bed and get dressed. A moment later and her bedroom door is opening and closing behind me. The last time I was in a dorm room ended roughly the same way.

It's a two mile walk back to the parking lot and the mid-morning sun is only exacerbating the pounding between my ears. When I eventually find my car I notice a ticket placed just under the windshield but I crumple it and toss it to the ground without reading what it says. The drive back to my apartment is only a short distance away and by the time I make it home I'm having trouble remembering everything that happened last night. Something about a bad memory it seems. Maybe it wasn't that important...I'm sure I'll remember it tomorrow.

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Memories are our connections to the past. They show us how far we've come, remind us of who we were, and sometimes even let us relive a particularly important moment in our lives. When a memory is good, it can be a treasure to its holder and remind him of the very best life has to offer. But what of the other memories? What of the painful ones? When a memory is particularly painful it can seize someone by the throat and focus all your attention on reliving an experience that is seemingly inescapable. It can unmercifully bring you back to a place you repeatedly seek to avoid and hold your gaze there indefinitely. But what's more, it can make you forget. It can make you forget that things were not always this way and that tomorrow brings with it the promise of new adventures. It can make you forget that life is not about holding onto bad memories, but about making good ones.

I have one particularly bad memory in my life. It is not about anything unduly tragic or especially unique, yet it burdens my spirit all the same. For several years I have sought to rid myself of it and, for a time, believed I had accomplished my goal. But all it took was one happenstance to bring everything flooding back. One accidental correspondence to make me feel just as I did on that day so long ago.

If the particulars of my situation are vague you should know that it is by design. I choose storytelling as an outlet for my frustrations since narratives are assuredly less problematic than the actual behaviors contained therein. I simply don't know how to let go of a bad memory and even if I did, I'm not sure I possess the courage to bid it farewell.

Dragon Wings

The bell rang precisely at eight o'clock and signaled to both parents and students alike that the first day of school had just begun. All of the parents had come to class that day to give a few last words of encouragement to their children, although most of them didn't need it. Many of the first graders had bounded down the halls from the moment they left their parents' car and came running into the freshly decorated classroom. Their brightly colored backpacks overflowed with pencils and paper and were always decorated with each child's favorite cartoon character or superhero. One little boy tripped as he darted to a desk that he had picked out for himself, spilling the contents of his backpack over the floor but running still faster all the same. Only after he claimed his prize was the recently emptied backpack given any attention as his mother, who had struggled to keep up, finally reached him. Although she would normally have been upset at the mess he caused, the exuberance he showed for starting his first day of school provided a sufficient excuse. All of the school children seemed caught up in a whirlwind of excitement at the indescribable wonder that undoubtedly lay before them.

"Look Mommy...numbers and letters on the wall. I'm going to learn how to read and count!" one girl said, her eyes dashing from one numbered poster to the next.

"I love to draw Daddy," another little boy said. "I see crayons and markers everywhere!" His father simply nodded his head and smiled at the boy's exuberance.

Everywhere around the classroom children talked and laughed as their parents hugged them for the last time before quietly filing out of the classroom. A few of the mothers stopped to talk with the teacher and asked questions about when they could pick up their children that afternoon while the fathers politely shuffled them out with kind words of reassurance. In the parents' absence, the first seedlings of new friendships were just beginning to sprout as several of the boys and girls began talking with each other amidst intermingled claps and giggles. The classroom was alive with the sound of tiny voices and no child hesitated to add their own.

Except for one. In the fourth seat on the fifth row of an otherwise lively classroom, one little boy sat morose, his head looking down as his mother quietly tried to comfort him. Unlike the other children, this little boy looked nervously around and seemed hesitant to accept the unfamiliar surroundings that other children embraced wholeheartedly. He wasn't an unhappy child or even particularly averse to new experiences, but the prospect of being separated from everything familiar and thrust into a world of uncertainty was not something he naturally accepted. His response had not been to protest the situation but to instead simply withdraw from it, and it was this reaction that his mother was now trying desperately to alleviate.

"You'll make new friends," she said in her most convincing tone. "And what's more, you'll even learn the alphabet and how to write your name. Doesn't that sound like fun?" Still the boy sat silently, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes never even offering so much as an acknowledging glance.

As the mother continued to offer what solace she could, the teacher was just seeing the last of the other parents out the door. The bell to begin class had long since rung and many of the children were growing anxious as they waited for the day's lesson to begin. Only the little boy's mother remained, though she knew that she would soon have to leave as well. Just as she was about to say goodbye to her son the teacher walked over to the little boy and his mother.

"I'm sorry for staying so long but I just wanted to make sure he is alright. I know that all the other parents have left and I was just on my way out," the mother said as she reached out to give her son one last hug. Very quietly she then said to the teacher "He's just a little nervous right now. I'm not sure why. He's never shy at home and truthfully I have never seen him so hesitant around new people".

The teacher leaned down to the student, expecting him to look over so that she might talk to him. Instead, the little boy sat with  his eyes transfixed on the desktop, remaining perfectly still except for the short breaths that betrayed his apprehension.

"Aren't you excited about making new friends?" the teacher asked him in her most enthusiastic voice.

He offered no answer as she continued, "You'll learn how to count and I'll even teach you how to add and subtract".

Still no response as the little boy sat stoically, hands now thrust deep into his pockets without the slightest indication of showing any interest.

At this point the teacher tried rather unsuccessfully to repress a smile before saying to the little boy, "You can be a dragon".

The boy's head instantly turned as the confused look in his eyes was only surpassed by their unbridled curiosity.

"A dragon?" the boy said, unsure of what the teacher meant but too inquisitive to remain aloof.

"Or a knight, a prince, or even the king if you'd like," she replied, a clever grin that was requiring more energy to restrain now forming.

"No, I think I want to be a dragon," the boy said, albeit still confused. "But how, how can I be one?"

"I'll teach you. It's actually quite easy. A lot of people don't realize that you can become a dragon anytime you want". The teacher then reached out her hand and took a well-worn book off the shelf. "Take this book for instance," she said. "This book tells you all about how to become a dragon. It tells you how to breathe fire like a dragon, grow claws like a dragon, and even how to fly like a dragon. But no one ever bothers to read it. It's a shame really because it's quite easy to do, and as everyone knows...being a dragon is so much fun!"

The little boy looked at the slightly tattered book that the teacher now held in her hand and reached out for it in eager anticipation. Just as she was about to offer its pages he stopped, closed his hand, and said to her, "But...but I can't be a dragon. I don't know how to read." A look of helplessness quietly flashed across his face as the adventure that had just a moment before been in his reach vanished as quickly as it had arrived. His eyes began to swell with tears as his gaze met his teacher's, a gaze that betrayed his disappointment far more succinctly than the words of frustration other children may have chosen.

Just as his tears threatened to breach their boundaries and flow slowly down his reddened cheeks the teacher took hold of his empty hand and said, "That's what I'm here for. I'm here to teach you how to read. You'll read stories about dragons and knights, about courageous heroes and the beautiful princesses they rescue. You'll read about faraway lands, exotic lands where the risk of danger is never far away and the thirst for adventure is satisfied with the turn of every page. It's all in there. It's all found within the pages that your eyes will dash across as you become the characters that for a moment are the only fascination of your mind's eye. I'll teach you how to become a dragon...I'll teach you how to fly."

The little boy managed a smile while his teacher used a neatly folded handkerchief to begin wiping away his tears.

"And someday," she continued, "after you've read the words of all the great storytellers and have let the poets guide you through their labyrinths of beauty and suffering, you'll pick up your pen and begin to write too. You'll introduce your readers to an entirely new world of wonder where layers of prose merely serve as the stage upon which the timeless play lead. If you'll just trust me now, someday you will write stories that teach others to fly too"

The tears that earlier threatened to come streaming down the little boy's face had long since dried up. For the first time in his short life he realized the importance of words and the power they contained by those who could wield them. They had the power to comfort, to illuminate, and to inspire. Most importantly, they have the power to set people free from their own self-imposed limitations. It was a gift given to him by his teacher on that day, a gift this child would only come to fully understand many years later.

"I think I am going to like the first grade," the little boy said as he once again reached out eagerly for the book's welcoming pages.

The teacher placed the book in his hand, closed his tiny fingers around it and replied, "I think you are too Bobby"

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Every Sunday for the past ten years I have called my mother just to talk. It was a routine that started during my freshman year of college and has continued over the years as a way for us to keep in touch while helping me stay close to my family. This Sunday, only a few hours ago, I was speaking with her when she informed me that she had some bad news. Expecting that it would be some minute happenstance pertaining to a family member or friend of the family, I was somewhat surprised when she told me that my first grade teacher (Mrs. Blackmarr) had passed away last week. It was a tragic event that surprised many in my hometown and seemed to have come without warning. After going to the hospital last Saturday for unusual symptoms, she was diagnosed with liver cancer and was given a month to live. She died three days later.

Although I had lost touch with her over the years, I was still deeply saddened to hear of her passing. She was an exceptionally kind woman and always treated me with more patience and understanding than the six year old version of myself probably deserved. Her funeral is tomorrow and, although I will be unable to attend, I can at least offer what tribute to her I can through my words. It was in her class that I first began writing. She encouraged me to always be creative and never rebuked the often times strange and elaborate narratives that my first grade mind would create. If I ever achieve my goal of becoming a professional writer, my success is attributable in no small measure to her support. She was a good woman and will be missed.