The Cornerstone

Eliot

         I used to love this town. I loved in the summer when everything was full and warm, and the trees were finished blooming. When you could look out the big window in my house and not be able to see the road. I loved winter when it snowed softly and everything felt warm and smelled good. I loved being little and believing everything was real and everything was true and not having a care in the world. I loved the Elementary School in the middle of town, and the playground when the giant metal slide got slippery with ice. And when a teacher told us a giant rat lived under the stage. I loved playing Dinosaurs and chasing butterflies and pretending to eat leaves. Nothing was bad ever. I loved going to church in my pretty dress and seeing all the old people who had known me forever, and playing at Sunday school. I loved everyone being my friend, and babies in the backseat, and Zach and Steven eating flavored chapstick and playing pokémon and constantly feeling safe and right. I loved getting away with everything.

A Christmas to Remember

         I’ll always remember the first time my mom truly had to tell me something she knew would hurt me. I was nine, and it was Christmas Eve.
         We had previously been at my cousin’s house, celebrating and playing, awaiting the day where we could sit beside our loved ones and play with our new toys. Laura, Shannon, Kathryn and I were playing in the garage, when Laura says to me, “Diane, we found out something really cool today.” I question her and she tells me, “We went snooping in Dad’s closet and found all our Christmas presents, and stockings all stuffed.” I was only nine, but wasn’t dumb. I could put two and two together, and was told, by my best friend, that Santa Clause wasn’t real.
         It didn’t hit me until we had gotten home, and were sitting around our newly decorated table eating dinner. Mom asked me what we did at Uncle Tom’s house, and I tell her, “Laura, and Shannon and Kathryn snooped and found all their Christmas presents.” It was the first time I ever saw my mom speechless. She blinked as I continued to tell her, “Laura told me Santa isn’t real.” I was sobbing and my mother looked shocked. Ian, sitting across from me held back a laugh, but stopped suddenly when he noticed I was crying. And I sat there and cried, and asked Mom who ate the cookies, and she said she did, and a part of my childhood had died a little.

Adrian, Who Mixes His Languages

         He was popular and nice, and everyone thought he was funny because he mixed his languages. I knew him as Mexican Boy and then after because that was his nickname. We played strobe light soap opera when he tried to kiss me and Rese laughed and I wasn’t sure how to act. Everything was perfect on that trip; even sleeping next to the train tracks. I wasn’t upset that there were ants in my sleeping bag or Alex ripped up my pictures of Billie Joe because I had friends. The three amigos, Adrian said. There he goes again, mixing his languages that silly Mexican Boy, Rese would say, and we laughed and collapsed on the hard ground. Everything was perfect when we played with our trolls and sang happy birthday to Rese. And when we went to the beach and we played love and sand and water and naivety and nothing could go wrong ever. And I feel that way now when I think of Adrian, who mixes his languages and Rese who was my best friend and camp, and California, where everything is great and wonderful. And I’ll always remember the smell of ocean hair and the feel of skin on skin and holding hands and love, and friends. Love and friends and California and friends. Best friends.

California Beach Girls vs. Maine Beach Girls

         Laura says Maine beach girls are badasses because they have to swim in freezing cold water and California beach girls are posers because all they do is sit around and tan. They’re not beach girls, she says, they’re tanning stupid girls. And I laugh because I am a Maine beach girl and so is Laura, but she has never been to California where the water is clear and full of otters and sea lions. Where you can float and not have to worry about waves or surfers, because the California surfers are nice and only care about the beach and nothing but the beach. Maine surfers can’t read and don’t know how to surf in only the surfing area and not where people are swimming. California beach girls would never stand a chance here, Laura says. California beach girls go to the beach everyday because it’s priority not privilege. Because the beach is just the beach and doesn’t mean anything to them like it does to Maine beach girls. To Maine beach girls the beach isn’t just a beach. The beach is sanctuary. The beach is a part of them that’s been with them as long as their best friends and they wait all year to go there and feel the sea breeze on their face and smell the deep ocean. To run into the ocean in May and feel the cold on your skin and emerge breathless but it’s worth it because you feel a sense of safe, and you know that in that moment everything is perfect.

Wolf pack

Grandma is the leader of the pack. She and the four children, and their children. We’re rarely all together, and when we are, nothing can stop us. When it’s Mom and Uncle Tom, Laura and Shannon and I are inseparable and don’t care what’s what and we do what we want and are happy all the time. When it’s Auntie Denise everything is quieter, because Denise goes to bed early or works all day so Jeff and Kristin and I go downtown. Twice if Ronnie is with us. And Kristin isn’t shy with her Bacardi and cranberry and Ronnie and Jeff have a beer and it’s okay because we’re family. When it’s everybody, there are no sub groups and everyone’s together because it’s a luxury and nobody argues except Kristin and Grandma because they lived together one summer. During these times everyone is happy and the older cousins start drinking at 4, but sometimes come back sober because it’s just too much. Jeff comes with me to get a sub from the corner and Auntie Denise makes rice crispy treats and we all sit together at the beach all day in harmony. The waves hit our feet and Mom screams, Kristin laughs and Jeff plays Wiffleball, and I smile because I never want it to end, ever.

I Heard Through the Grapevine

         That you’ve changed. I heard that you lied to me. I know that you don’t really care and that one time you did, and that makes me sad because I miss you. Because just recently you told me that nothing had changed, and I could talk to you anytime but I can’t. I want to call you when I’m sad but I know you won’t answer, because you’ll know it’s me, and I’ll sit there like an idiot and wait and pray for you to answer, but you never do. I heard that you’re different, no longer waiting at the door for me, or tell me that you love me and that we’ll always have each other. I heard that you have new friends now. Ones who you’d rather hang out with than me because they’re funny and nice and charming. I heard it through the grapevine, and if you want to lie you should probably try and cover it up and not leave it out in the open. I wish you didn’t lie to me. I wouldn’t have minded if you didn’t tell me about it at all. I wouldn’t have cared. But I care that you lied. Do you remember when we used to play games, and trade and conquer, and get in trouble together? Do you remember that it wasn’t that long ago I told you, you were my best friend in the world? Do you even care that I let my guard down because I trusted you not to ruin me. But you did, you did ruin me. Does it matter that I would have given anything for you? Does it matter that I considered you to be like a sister to me? I know that it doesn’t because you sit there, across from me and smile, because everything in your life is perfect, because you have new friends now. Well nothing is perfect, because I miss you. And I tried to be mad and ignore you but I couldn’t because you meant so much to me and now you’re gone, and you don’t care. And when I try to reach out to you and you scoff and ignore it and I feel stupid and small, and incompetent. So I go back to my mind and I look at all the good times we had. And when you made a comment the other day and I said I was your best friend, I looked at you and wondered why because you don’t like me anymore, and maybe I’ll be okay with it someday but right now I’m not, because at one point I know we were close. You’ve moved on but it’s okay because I just wanted to say that I miss you. Do you remember when we almost dove? I was scared and I said no but you held my hand and said Don’t be scared, because I’ll be with you and everything will be okay. And we were so close. And I would have done it. I would have dove with you.

Is It School?

         No, it’s Jeff. He’s gone away. He left me last summer in July. When he held me and told me he loved me, but walked out the door without a care, and I tried not to cry because I wanted him to know I was strong, and that I could just stand in the porch and watch him leave me for months. And I’ve been okay because we saw him in December but only for a moment, and we haven’t seen him since. But I’ve never been okay, just talking on the phone or texting or IMing, because it’s not the same as being with him; laughing at everything, quoting Scrubs and going to Bob’s and being happy. I haven’t seen you for 5 months, Jeff, and the wedding isn’t coming fast enough. In 10 days, Jeff, I will see you. And probably cry a little because I’ve missed you so much. But I’m not sure about the summer, Jeff. If you bring her up I don’t know what’s going to happen. Will you just spend your time with her? Will you leave me alone and take her downtown and show her everything we used to do and laugh with her and kiss her and hold her hand, Jeff? Will you leave me to sit all alone in the cottage, waiting for you two to come back, and feeling left out even though you told her we are close. I love you, Jeff. You’re more than my real brother is to me, and I don’t want to lose you, Jeff. I want to preserve those nights when we watched 300 with Kristin and Ronnie and you drank and I laughed because we were having so much fun. Part of me knows we will always be close, Jeff and part of me knows that you will never leave me alone. But another part of me is scared, Jeff. I’m scared. Yesterday morning I cried and cried and my mom didn’t know why. And she asked me, and asked, is it school? Is it your friends? And I said no, no, no. I don’t know. But it was you, Jeff. It was you.

If I Were a Mother

         I would tell my daughter not to worry about other people before herself. I would tell her that there’s no sense in living in the past and to have few regrets because life’s better that way. But if I were a mother I know my daughter wouldn’t listen to me. If I were a mother I would tell her even if she didn’t want me to, because someday she might remember. When I’m old and dying I hope she’d sit with me and say, “Mother, I’ll try not to worry just like you taught me.” And I’ll smile and feel a little bit better because I’ll know that on that day when I thought she wasn’t listening, she really was. And when I’m dead and gone, she will tell her children just what her mother taught her. And her children might look like they’re not listening, but they really are, and she’ll know because she was just the same, and I was too.

If I Were the Right Kind of Daughter

         My mother would be proud of me. I would never make her cry or worry. I would never disappoint her. I would get good grades. I would help around the house. If I were the right kind of daughter my mom would never have to iron my clothes. She would never have to tell me to do something twice. I would clean my room. I would call my dad. I would be nice to my grandmother. If I were the right kind of daughter I would clean my room without being asked. I would do something right the first time. I wouldn’t get mad and yell at my mom. I would hug her everyday and tell her I loved her. If I were the right kind of daughter my mom would never worry about me like she does. She wouldn’t have to call Aunt Linda and cry on the phone and ask her what she did wrong, because nothing would be wrong. If I were the right kind of daughter I’d be perfect for her. I would never get below a C and always do my homework and never have a late assignment. If I were the right kind of daughter I’d appreciate my school and my life and never take my mother for granted. If I were the right kind of daughter I’d steer off my brother’s path and do something meaningful with my life. If I were the right kind of daughter I’d be everything that I’m not. If I were the right kind of daughter I wouldn’t be me.

Your Box

         The last moment I’ll keep of you is the time I felt as though I could have lived within you. When I knew I was so safe with you that I let my guard down because I thought I knew you. And sometimes I feel like I do, but I know that I have lost you. And it’s okay because I know you’re going to be happy somewhere else, and it’s okay, because I want you to be happy. I’ll be okay, because I care about you. I’ll always have the memories. You’ll live inside my box, and I’ll take you out when I know I can handle it. I won’t cry anymore because I’ll know you’ll remember me, at least for the time. But sooner or later we’ll both move on, and forget anything that may have happened between us, because that’s what happens. But I’ll have you for now. And I’ll care about you for the time, because for the moment I could never hate you.
         You know you make me crazy sometimes, but it’s okay because I usually enjoy it. You know I love the feeling when you tease me, and you know I love it when you laugh. And I watch you from across the room and you know, so you do something charming for me, and I love it. And you know how much you get to me, and when I fall for you everyday, and its okay because I know there’s something. And even though we don’t talk, I know we still will when we don’t see each other, because you’re you, and I’m me, and that’ll never change. And when I’m sad and I miss you, I’ll take you out of your box and lay you on my bed and remember you, and your box.

Deuce

         I never thought I’d want to leave this place. This house where I felt so safe and this town where I felt like I belonged. I thought I’d want to live here forever, and part of me is scared to leave someday, but I know I have to, because it’s right, and here is wrong. Eliot is wrong for me. I belong somewhere else. Somewhere where nobody knows me. Somewhere where I can start over and be whoever I want to be. Somewhere where there aren’t as many trees, or moose, or blueberries. Somewhere that’s not in the middle of nowhere. I know that I belong somewhere, even if I don’t know where it is now. I won’t strike out, I won’t fall, I won’t be trapped, and someday I will be able to go, and be proud to say I grew up in Eliot, Maine. And I will still laugh when people don’t know where that is, because I’ll never forget where I went to school, where I met my best friend, and where I had my first real life experiences.
         And I’ll return, when I’m older and wiser, to the place where I once belonged. And I’ll smile as I go back to the playground where Steven buried my love letter, or where I had my first friend fight. I’ll play on the tire swing and climb up the bubble, and pretend that I’m little again. I’ll act like I’m 7 and I won’t care because people will know that once I was that little kid, rosy cheeked and hungry for knowledge. People will remember me there, even if they try not to. I’ll go back and scream and laugh and I won’t care that people are staring, and children are crying, because that moment will be all about me. I won’t cry like I used to. Instead I’ll be happy about being older, and bringing my life experiences to the place where I had none. I’ll go to the soccer field and Mrs. Avery’s room and the cafeteria where chocolate milk came out of Sarah’s nose. And I’ll remember all the times I had there, and I’ll go to the nurse’s office, and the bus stop, and I’ll sit and smile, because I know that I have to move on soon, and this is the first step to getting there. I won’t be in denial, or depression, because I won’t regret anything about my childhood. Everything will be perfect again, just like it was when I was 7. It’ll be like nothing ever changed, because it won’t.