1903

Can you all hear me?

December 17, 1903. The Wright Brothers wept.
They cried and they cried and they kissed their girlfriends. And their girlfriends cried because they hadn't been kissed in way too long.


I tried to save you a seat.
   I put my purse on one of them.
       My coat on the other.


Seat #1 was stolen within seconds. And the boy sat down next to me just to tell me he was on his way to Reno.
Reno? I asked.
Reno.
I pretended to know where that was. Because even though I've heard of it in books and songs and plays I still had to google it to know. And I wish I never had. I wish Reno had stayed this unknown place, that I knew nothing about. Please don't let anyone tell me where Atlantic City is.

Reno is in Nevada, he said.


Seat #2 was taken by the panting boy, still in his Sunday clothes.

He put his head on my shoulder and cried for a while. He didn't have to tell me. I saw. 
I saw them all running home from church in the cold and I saw him have to stop and catch his breath. No one stopped with him. 

He let me hold him as he cried because I know what it feels like to stop and wonder why the hell your legs can't keep moving. Run, dammit. Run. 


Seat #3 was taken by Orville Wright's lover from the diner down on 5th Street. Simply because she never gave a damn about learning how to fly.


make something up.
ESTHER.

How Things Used To Be

Dating in 1903

Waiting in line for 1903

Crying because of 1903

Up, Down, Gone.

No one ever taught her how to tell time. Or what how to read. Her lefts and rights and norths and souths.

And all the one way signs are facing each other.
"I'm just looking for which way is up," she says.

But everyone keeps avoiding eye contact when they walk down the halls. No one will tell her if she's standing on the grass or hanging from the sky. The world was never meant to be so cruel. 

"Excuse me but can you point up?"
That's a strange thing to ask, and strange things should be avoided, like eye contact. 
You'd think she would know which way is up by now when everyone keeps staring at the ground. 

But her only logic is that either the cracks in the cement or the lightning must be pretty damn interesting. But she can't tell which one.

"Up, is that you?"

Up is a little busy right now. 
Up doesn't care if you recognize her.
Up doesn't know how lost you are.

Up only knows which way she is, and that she has nothing in common with you.

ESTHER.

How to Shut a Door

If you're looking for a guide on how to open doors turn around now. You won't find that here. That's for someone else's blog. Probably someone who smiles a lot and wears yellow on occasion.

This blog is about shutting doors.
I've become an expert, really.

Step One is quite simple. You have to make contact with the door. This may even require getting out of bed in the morning. Maybe walking a few steps.

Just make contact.

Football players kick the door while lonely middle aged women kiss it.
The girl with hair down to her ankles just whips it around until it touches, just barely.
Moms with sleeping babies softly grasp the doorknob with one finger on their lips.
"Shhh" they say to the millions of teenagers banging on the door. Banging and screaming and just trying to get it to shut.

And now that you've made contact, take a breath.

Because here comes the hard part.

Step Two.

Push.




Esther.

The things we can't talk about

She died  to make you love her.

And you cried a little and told everyone that you loved her.

That you loved her and you don't know why she had to die.

Everyone's hearts break for the boy who loved the dead girl.

But we both know you're a liar.

You may love her now that she's gone but if you had loved her before she wouldn't be gone in the first place.

She'd still be here.

She'd still love you.

And you'd probably be ignoring her calls. 

(ESTHER.)

throw me away

I hate taking out the garbage. Because even though it's quick and easy it smells bad and it's a man's job. But I do it because I've pushed away every man that has loved me and every boy who has come close. 

I think I deserve to take out the trash.


ESTHER.

Ranch Dressing and Christmas

I used to remember my fifth birthday party. I had a barbie cake and I think I got a baby doll. But that might have actually been Christmas. I haven't thought about it in years.

I remember you.
But when I remember you it isn't your face.
It's fragments of sounds and images and words.

Fighting over Ranch dressing. It was Ranch dressing and I still remember that fight.

You had it hard growing up.

The baby screaming.

Baseball games.

Secrets. Stereotypes.

"Mom where's dad?"

Missing appointments and "i'm so sorry" notes.

Flashlights thrown through the wall and the ugly picture we had to hang to cover it up.

"Mom, where is dad?"

The baby is still crying and you're still not home and I'm staying up trying to get her down.

I was 13.

You were 46.

Promises broken and Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Crying and laughing and both at the same time.

Screaming. So much screaming.

"Mom where's dad?"

And I still remember making a family music video to That Way by the Backstreet Boys. But the Backstreet Boys broke up eventually and so did we.


 Esther.

don't ask me

I'm sick of people trying to one-up each other's Be The Change sob stories.

And vague "nobody loves me" and "how could you" tweets.


My computer is on 13% battery life and the charging cord is broken. So this is all I have to give you. This is all I have time to say.

I want to tell you that I never think about you as a human being, and I am so sorry.

Are you real?

I want you to cry on my shoulder and I want you to scream into me. I want you to tell me everything. What did you eat for breakfast this morning and when was the last time you cried in public? 

I'll try to stop judging the fact that Tangled is your favorite movie. Or that you don't know the difference between you're and your.  I might even be able to get over you playing sports. Can't you see that I'm trying?

I'd like to see a little effort on your part.

Forget that sometimes I glare. It's just the way my face looks. Try not to remember the that I snort when I laugh or my defensiveness. I never meant to be this way. I never meant to scare you. 

I'm sorry that I listen to Ke$ha and that I left your party 20 minutes after I got there to watch Survivor alone. 
I'm sorry I quit piano lessons 3 times.

I still don't know who I am. And I don't really know who you are. 

But I'm sorry if I scared you away and I'm sorry about this blog post and I'm sorry that I never knew you were real.

Boo.

esther.