Puddy Loves Applesauce

I dropped a plastic container of blueberry applesauce on the floor today. It cracked open upon impact of the hardwood floor and splattered everywhere. I dropped down to my knees and stared at it for a long time, I think, expecting some sort of truth to be spelled out in the mess as the Be Good Tanyas were playing on the Ipod, but the only revolution I came to was the title of this post. I believe I am going through some sort of quarter-life crisis.

Sing Me To Sleep

She picks up the pen. It's brown ink never touches the page. Trainers laced and ready, she turns back to the door. She holds the brush and stares blankly at the canvas. She reads the words that dance on the page, but they refuse to dance in her heart. Nothing. Empty. An unplayed piano dying to be touched. When she strains to listen--really listen--she hears a chord, a single note, a distant tune she swears to have never heard or maybe to have heard time and time again. She needs to hear more--more of a melody that she could sing herself to sleep with. Palms flat and ears pressed against the door, the tear running down her cheek is warm with hope and cold with the impatience of reality. Something bigger, something more has to be out there.

By The Dawnzerlee Light

My favorite holiday is the Fourth of July. I love, for starters, that we call it the actual date. Very practical of us. I am moved internally by fireworks. I don't understand them completely, they scare me, but they are beautiful, just the same. They are art for me. I love that you spend the holiday with people you want to spend it with, instead of being forced to socialize with awkward extended family members. I even appreciate the meaning of it all--celebrating freedom. I think of Grandpa. My grandpa. This man, who in my eyes, is a champion of freedom. Grandpa lives in a real small town with nothing going on. He used to work as a guard for a medical prison and even farmed quite a bit. He seems to know, like my dad, everything about anything that grows or makes animal sounds. He taught us the workings of a creek, how to pick walnuts on his farm, and even how to wildly sled in the bowl of a shovel. He was a student at SMSU. He has three children who've all gone on to have their own families. He's this quiet guy who has lived a quiet life, but he actually did a stand-out job for the freedom of our country, for the world. He went off and joined the Army in 1941, during World War ll. He never talks about any of this-he's the picture of humbleness. I can imagine him young, strong, brave. He drove a tank for a while, but shortly joined an elite commando unit known as the Darby's Rangers. He won a silver star for bravery...my grandpa who used to wear high-top Converse All-Stars in the creek. He was injured, but snuck out of the hospital, hurting, because he saw his unit marching away. He left before they got all of his information, so he was only recently awarded a Purple Heart. He was a hero in Normandy. We have book with this picture of him, wielding his machine gun, kicking in the door of a German bunker. That is brave. I was so proud of myself recently for being strong enough to confront one of my best friends because she hurt my feelings. I know nothing of bravery. We have books and newspaper articles and hear testimony of his gallantry, but to me, he's my grandpa used to buy me savings bonds for Christmas. When those fireworks are shouting into the night sky, my tears are for my grandpa. I'll always be proud.