Yes, really.

Dear Emma,

You are not always right. Especially, honey, you are not always entitled to the best. Remember, you wrote this down too, "Always be nicer than is necessary."

And I guess if you can't, if you just can't reel it in, lay on your bed more. Cut ties. Eat alone. Read. Make et cetera your hobby.

Okay? Okay, there there. Chin up. Everybody loves a happy face.

Love,

Walked through an estate sale today. Some objects were labeled, like summer camp, in the old-fashioned cursive of an old man afraid of losing his things. Chet Gibbs. Quiet belongings waiting for something else to happen. Curios, colored glass, teacups and saucers with gold rims, huddled together. Masking tape price tags with penciled numbers. A cowboy calender from some bank somewhere, worth keeping for the pretty pictures.

Little Canoe

A muse like myself.

I should be happy with my little canoe. I mean, some people got yachts of grief, you know? Takes knowing miserable to stay floating on the happy. Like spoonfuls of old medicine, I guess we learn from our past. I mean, I do. I learn from my past.

I anxiously fear the day that I realize an old heroin addiction is passe, blase, and not enough fuel for the fire that is a writer's wellspring. Dip into that old self-hatred, those old balled up hands, closed up face, mouth slammed shut. Ugh.

Okay. Another day.

And some remain.

I find, most of the time, it's easier to walk away, gun cold. I'm good with words, see, and I just hate to hurt feelings. It's that damned need to always stick up for the under-dog.

Even the ones I tie to the tree myself.

~~~

He swayed, one foot to the other, a boat in dock. I closed my eyes and imagined that sweet wet sound of tiny waves on worn-out wood. My hands were on his back where his kidneys lay underneath. His were on my spine, warm on my small bird bones. Eyelashes up like shutters, I noticed our eyes were the same shade of blue. I thought of siblings and knew I loved him just as carelessly.

Eyes cast hell-ward, we wait for it to rain. Nate says, imagine the best possible outcome. I picture sitting at the edge of a lake. Cold sound of water lapping, my thumbs in my palms, shadowed in eyelashes. Lonely like a pall-bearer.

There is a too-tight scarf of worry causing a pain in my throat. I'm not really sure what to do about it.

Chin up.

I get less dramatic and more funny as I age. This I call grace. Also, the people at my work thought this was my 21st birthday. Smile and nod, smile and nod. Eat waxy cake standing up, shift from one foot to the other. Say, "Y'all are so thoughtful."

No one likes a miserable mess. Everybody loves a happy face.

HELLO INTERNET MY NAME IS EMMA.