Your philosophies change as quickly as the adolescent sky

Every last ethic and choice hyper analyzed as a verdict on life

And I found your indiscriminate indecisions intriguing at first

Waiting to jump into ideas with new white tennis shoes like mud puddles

Hoping to grab your hand on some worldly adventure

All grown up and nowhere to go

Until the dream has ended with little memory of what was before I lay me down to sleep

I thought they would carve an icon of us

Just to make us immortal in the morning downpours

Right after the words of the poets crumbled into the sea

Like some trite ending jumping in with the mermaids

And when the men stumbled back from the progress of the times

They would ask how on earth we ever made it past all the rock walls

Looking into each others eyes without blinking

That was how it was supposed to be

And when that adolescent sky fell down on us

I turned over to nurse your wounds and I wondered

What it was that made me think you were stronger than Sampson and twice as wise

And what was it that twisted my sheets up with my own stomach and blood

And made me forget that the sun could’ve burned up a week ago but nobody noticed yet

My hands calloused and my white legs peeking out of a pink silk skirt

Aged hardness, going stale while waiting for my first kiss

Ship’s captain, crew, and vision all at once while you go stare at your navel

Do a few more yoga poses, it’ll be good for the relationship

As I man this childish weather

My lord, my eastern lord, who was to show me the world and offer arms from that sky

The time I dared to look into the moon in search for our faces

Was the day you left, unapologetically

Vanishing from the tempest like a ghost ship in the desert fog

And I am alone sitting on top of a bridge staring at the night sky

Watching it change, once again accepting

That I didn’t know there were so many shades of blue

Chapter 2

For Roy’s tenth birthday he received an apple. Other children during that era would receive a pear or, if things went extremely well, an orange for Christmas. But for his tenth birthday in Oklahoma, an apple was a treat. After dinner, he thanked his parents for the birthday gift and then retreated to where he and his brothers slept, thinking about what to do with such a treasure.

“What are you going to do with that Roy?” The eldest brother bent over to tie his shoe on his way out of the home.

“Don’t know. Look at it I guess.”

“Can do more with an apple than look at it, stupid.”

“You can?”

“Sure.” Roy had never seen anyone eat an apple much less an orange. The same food went in and out of the family’s dugout and it was never as sweet and juicy as an apple. The food he was used to consuming was never fresh enough, or of that matter, there long enough to go bad. So the idea of Roy having to consume his birthday present or else it would quickly go bad was utterly foreign to him. As always hey was unsure as to whether his older brothers were setting him up to succeed or fail. The wind blew up the dust outside their home in the ground while Roy stared his brothers down very carefully.

“You could cut the apple in half, eat some and then use the rest to trap something. I did that one year.”

“Maybe it’ll be something you can skin.” As this was said a rat scuttled across the dirt floor and into a hole in the wall. The idea of getting something from the apple he could keep appealed to Roy, though he did not know why. The rat’s tale was the last visible thing that disappeared into the hole. All the boys knew it would be back later in the night.

Roy put the apple on the shelf so that he could look at it has he was getting ready for bed. He rubbed it with his sleeve as he saw his brothers do so to make it shine all the more. He would do exactly what his brother JR suggested, eat half of it and use the other half for a trap outside there home. The thought even crossed his mind that the trap might not catch anything at all. The Oklahoma weather was so irrational that a rainstorm could come down the field and wash the soggy apple away. Then he would loose half of his birthday present and nothing to show for turning ten. But this concern only lasted for as long as a lightening flash was in the dark sky, and then it was gone as swift as it came. Before he dropped off to sleep, he would say a brief pray to the God of Sunday that it would not rain. Roy breathed in the exotic apple once more and heard his mother discussing something with his sisters. He shut his eyes and pretty soon there was silence.

Two very dry days later the boy’s prayer proved to come true, for lying in the trap was a brown rabbit, full of use and solutions for the entire family. The day before his father helped him slice the apple in half and quickly bit into the half that was to be eaten. Such a juicy taste was unexpected so he nearly started choking from the surprise. His teeth went into the crispy pulp and his eyes lit up. He felt as if he could taste everything about the tree, where it was, the exact color of this bark, even what color it’s leaves would be that coming autumn. Somewhere, their were people who ate apples everyday, Roy was sure of it. As soon as school was back in session, he would ask his teacher if there were people who ate apples everyday. He went outside of the dugout, the June sun and red dust somehow feeling less assaulting as he continued to chew the fruit.

After he got the trap undone, the boy examined the rabbit up close. And it was a big one, at least in his eyes. She was beautiful and Roy could not wait to show it off to his parents. The pelt alone could maybe fix a fair price in town, or could be used to make muffs. Possibilities spread out beside him like the red earth. He gathered up the rabbit by her neck and ran back towards the dugout.

When he reached the wire fence, the boy stopped dead and thought he saw something. But just beyond something he felt he shouldn’t see, he saw something that any boy would track with his eyes even after a big catch. A single car was coming across the horizon toward the dugout, kicking up all the loose dust until something like a dragon’s tail followed behind it on the dry plain. The boy ran past his mother weeping to greet the car coming up the freshly baptized road.

When Roy reached the car, the eldest two brothers rushed out of it. He raised the rabbit up to show off but Jack and Nehimia rush past with such force that the ground nearly escaped their feet.

“Mama!”

Roy, the car, and the bunny, all were left in the settling dirt as Mama rocked JR’s body back and forth. She saw a trickle of brown run out of her son’s mouth as a declaration of defeat. She had seen her son fall at the garden gate just after she found the empty brown bottle in the cupboard. But no matter how much she screamed the Oklahoma sky was the only thing that answered back on the plain. She would later consider it an act of God that her favorite sons brought a car home that day. But that would only be considered a blessing in their home for only a few years until she would curse the day the vehicle entered the home because it would eventually take her two favorites in a trade off, the life of one son for the two most valuable boys in her mind.

“We’re gonna carry him inside Mamma. Let go of him. Grab his feet Jack.” Nehimia threw his arms under JR’s shoulders and lifted.

“Look what I caught.” Roy ran over to the four and proudly lifted the rabbit for display.

“Not now Roy” Jack grunted.

“But I caught it with the apple I got for my birthday. I think it will weigh-.”

“Roy! Enough!”

“JR…” Their mother wailed to an absolute shrill pitch. “He drank the entire bottle and…”

“What bottle Mamma?”

The woman crumpled onto the dust again.

“What bottle Mamma?”

No answer, only another wail.

“Jack let’s get him inside.”

“But.”

“Roy!” The two carried JR inside while another trickle of brown rolled out of his mouth.

“Help Mamma inside Roy.”

He didn’t really know how to help a woman walk, particularly one that was currently incapable of taking care of herself, or him for that matter. This was his mother, the one that helped him by regulation and even duty. He tried to put his mothers arms around his neck but was unable to pick her up. Every attempt to do so failed until his brother came back outside.

“I’ve got her, go inside. Now.”

When he reached the inside of the dugout, he thought it was strange that JR was spread out on the table rather on the palette where he slept with the rest of the boys. Roy went to close the dugout so the dust wouldn’t get in as always.

“Leave that open! We need the light.”

The ten year old sat down in a wooden chair, as much out of the way as he could get in the tiny room. Mamma shrunk into the corner, the dust of the walls rubbing off onto the shoulders of her dress.

Nehemiah ran back out to the car and started it, Jack was behind him and both went off, leaving the boy with a sobbing mother and a brother in the middle of a suicide attempt.

After a moment the sobbing stopped and except for the Oklahoma wind, all was silent. He carefully walked around the wooden table and looked at his brother in the silence. The corners of his mouth were now the same colors of the wood he was laid upon. Years later, that table would become an operating table yet again in his cabin in Colorado. Of course Roy would be both patient and doctor within the same instant.

He tried to think of something to do or say in the loud silence. Something just to end the awkward stale stillness. And then, suddenly, the silence ended for him. JR’s body hiccupped, groaned, and then finally heaved until brown vomit gurgled and slipped out of his mouth like a start of a stream. JR kept heaving an d gagging with no sign of stopping. It was unnamed panic, like he knew there was trouble without being told that this was bad.

Without thinking Roy jumped up on the table and rolled his brother (eleven years his senior!) onto his side. With that, the vomit spilled out of his mouth and onto the dinner table in a brown pool. When he stopped, Roy climbed off the table. He knew his mother did not like it when he was on the table like that.

“Maybe we should give JR a glass of milk Mamma.”

“What do you mean?”

“You give me milk when I feel sick. Maybe it will help JR.” Roy sat down next to Mamma for some affection. There was none given.

“I think he’s too sick for milk.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped.

“What else can we do.”

No answer.

“Can we just try the milk?”

There was no answer to that either. Mamma and son stayed on the floor watching brother and waiting endlessly for two more.

The nearest doctor was sitting down to dinner with his wife and girls when the brothers banged on his screen door. Previously that day he had delivered a baby and called the time of death on a woman who was glad to finally be going home.

“Doc. It’s JR. We don’t know what’s wrong but his mouth is all brown and he collapsed.”

The doctor was sitting down with his first dinner with his family in forty days. The wife had just finished putting his plate on the table when the screen door was banged on. As soon as she heard the bang she quickly picked up the plate again, knowing what was coming next. She often felt that this man was not her husband but she was married to every person in the town.

After their father left each of the girls burst into tears for missing him. The wife tried to relieve her own stress in herself. She watched the three men drive away to save another young man while his girls were growing up missing another.

By the time the three got to the dugout over an hour had passed and in that time little had seemed to happen according to Mamma. They were still hunched in the corner and the patient was still sprawled out on the would be dinning room table. The doctor was little above the native medicine man down the trail to the family as he walked around JR’s sporadically twitching body. Checking things in his body and around his mouth, until he starting listening and feeling. Trying to decipher what the body would whisper to him in one fortuitous moment. Mamma got up and walked to where the brown bottle was and offered it as a wordless explanation. It made a hollow clink as she placed it on the table in front of the doctor. He examined the bottle and sniffed at it before pronouncing the judgment and solution in one sentence.

“Do you have any milk?” But Roy had already ran off to where they kept it.

Mamma was stunned. How could a ten year old know the cure for iodine poisoning? And how could she have questioned the wisdom the Good Lord so clearly sent her in the form of a boy? When she tucked her youngest son in that night she couldn’t help herself.

“Roy Boy, how did you know about the milk?” The blonde headed child turned in the opposite direction as if in protest.

“Don’t know. Just did.”

It was a small explanation to offer. But then again as they once learned in Sunday School, most people don’t get explanations after miracles of any sort. That was the difference between a myth and a miracle, one let the act just be whereas the latter attempted to justify and support the unimaginable mercy with human facts. Her youngest son knew what it would take to save another son and she did not believe him. Her husband later that night would tell her not to worry about almost missing a miracle. The kid just took a lucky guess, that’s all.

It was a few days before JR was back to normal. Nobody asked him why he decided to drink so much iodine and the word suicide was certainly never brought up. JR was just the son that never called attention to himself. It wasn’t even until he started school that the family even realized they needed to name him. Nobody knew what ‘JR’ stood for. And I’m not sure anyone thought about it long enough to realize it could stand for anything. But at long last Roy had caught Mamma’s eye as a potential young man. She had always known he would grow up, as all of her sons up until this point did. But now it was clear to her that God liked this child for whatever reason. He might be a store clerk or something other than a dirt farmer in the community.

Perhaps if God kept liking Roy for long enough he would be able to get out of Hastings, Oklahoma and lived where people ate crisp, red fruit and drove an automobile every single day.

I wear the top button of my jeans unbuttoned at all times. For most women, this would make me a slut, but in my case it just makes me pathetic. Today, I have funky red hair, I’m 5’ 2”, one hundred pounds, a 34-C, Banana Republic size zero. I have blue eyes, eyelashes so long I can’t wear sunglasses, lovely skin, and a smile that never stops. I’ve been schooled in classics, theology, philosophy, Spanish, Arabic, ballet, athletics, kinesiology, theater, karate, and politics. I’ve traveled to 14 counties, broken 5 international track and field records, and taught school in Mexico.

Like what you’re reading? I’ll go on. I’ve got a cute butt, an absurdly long tongue for cocktail party tricks, a set of wheels custom made for me, and a great sense of humor. I’m an hour glass figure, a la Marilyn Monroe, very flexible, and ready to embrace the true meaning of freedom.

All of this and I’ve never been asked out on a date.

Which doesn’t mean I don’t any action. Every time I go to the airport, I get pulled out of the line and patted down by some security guard, their gloved hands running up and down my most intimate areas. The last time I was in Boston, one hefty, uniformed individual whispered into my ear “this is my favorite part about my job. I’m so good at it,” as she rubbed her hand up the inside of my leg.

Come fly the “friendly” skies.

After nearly twenty-one years of living with a disability, I am still constantly amazed by how sexually frustrated young disabled women are. I’ve seen girls with all types of disabilities burst into tears and held them time and again as they sobbed, “but I’ll never have a boyfriend.” Often it seems as if perceived asexuality is the greatest disappointment from disability. I watch young women yearn to feel beautiful, desire a man’s touch, wish to have the freedom and confidence to invite him back to their room for the night. Just like all women, we too crave to feel cherished.

It is particularly difficult to watch idealized images of love, even though my mind knows that these ideals will falter, fall flat on their faces, and cause more heartache that I can ever imagine. I remember coming home after a bridal shower for both of my hall counselors last year and sobbing in the shower, “I want to be loved like that. I want to be held like he holds her. I want to be someone’s sexual dream. I want so badly to be given dishtowels by my best friend and be excited about them.”

Perceived asexuality does have a wonderful advantage though. I may cry every time I see Cyrano de Bergerac, but I am able to take the time many girls primp and throw themselves ruthlessly at guys to truly excel at everything I wish to do. And I know I have given desire that only certain guys are man enough to fill. True, pure, hunger is made to be satisfied.

Unlike many of my disabled peers, I know my inactive romantic life is actually not my fault. Indeed, it’s amazing how guys who do not know about the disability will give me compliments without hesitation. (It is important to note I use the term “guys” here, because males this shallow are not men.) On the way back from church today, I looked out the car window to see a car full of guys whopping and yelling at my eye contact and wagging their tongues at me. In Switzerland this summer, during a particularly hard evening, I opened my third story window and stood alone on the balcony to watch the sunset. Within a few moments, a Swissman walked by, stopping to stare at me. He yelled up, first in French, then in Italian, and then in German. After all attempts failed, he tried English.

“You are the most beautiful vision I have even seen. I wish I had a camera to make your picture. May I came up to see you?”

Unaccustomed to such attention I always smile and back away, knowing that mystery is more romantic than exposure.

I am beautiful. I am sexy. I will be cherished by a man someday. I don’t need to waste my time with false lovers, for I know I have these characteristics, even if no one else suspects it.

“God’s in an Art Deco mood today.” The sky was a perfect split between pink and blue. Airplane trails had streaked across the sky, and light sprayed over the earth as the sun rose to reveal its full shape. Every day has its own smell; today it was particularly overpowering. The morning air filled one’s lungs and scraped the old air from the inside. It was not a typical springy morning with birds and fresh creek water flowing against age and towards romance. It was more. But not in the car. The car air was stale despite the dawn. It had become difficult to move as the two drove throughout the night only to have more hours of driving ahead. They had fallen into silence for a few minutes until now.

“Shut up.” The intimacy of the car had annoyed her long before now. Yellow lines passed them at a constant beat. Buh-bum. Rest. Buh-bum. Rest. Buh-bum. They had become hypnotic to her as if the yellow lines acted as a baby mobile. She had a good mind to crash the car. At least that was she could get some sleep. She turned on the radio.

He kept talking about life and goals and fluff over the music. She gave up trying to drown him out and turned the radio off. Shaking her head, she rolled down the window to wake up. The fresh air rolled over her body and achieved its desired effects. Except now he started talking about how wonderful the morning wind was and gifts and such. She was losing her patience fast.

“I love long car rides. They’re so intimate. I always feel as if I know the people inside and out when they’re over. But I feel like I’ve been talking the entire trip. What about you?”

With that, she lost her temper. “Do you have to simplify everything like a two year old?” The car ride had suddenly become much more uncomfortable as the sun rose high enough to annoy. It was low enough not to be affected by visors. Where were her damn sunglasses? She continued her rant. “Name one thing that is beyond your understanding. Everything always turns out just joyfully in your mind, doesn’t it? Listen, in eighty years you’ll be gone, and nothing you have done will matter. That is the only thing that’s simple, predictable, and universal.” She stopped and tried to catch her breath. Her lungs pushed out until they touched her ribs and then collapsed to the motion of the lines on the road.

She almost regretted her explosion. Seeing him with his head rested on the back of the seat, his eyes closed, and his face beaming in the sun made her feel abandoned. The drive had gotten longer and her words hung in the air like a burlap curtain. She wasn’t even sure that he had heard her sine he just sat and stared at the sky. She gritted her teeth and clutched the wheel to straighten her spine. The stillness was deafening as they drove, and time sulked in between the cup holders. She wished he hadn’t told him the truth. He opened his mouth, thought, and then closed his lips again.

“Death.”

“What?” she snapped.

“Death isn’t simple.”

“Death is the simplest thing humanity knows. You simply stop breathing. It’s the end.” She had found her sunglasses and opened them with her teeth. They rode again in silence towards the end of the horizon. He pursed his lips in thought. Looking out the window, he could see her expression in the reflection. Her brown were knitted, and her neck was out stretched like a bird’s. He leaned his head against the glass. The sky now had wisps of clouds stroked across its canvas as if the bristles of a paintbrush had just barely tickled its edge. There was no other car in sight as she hit the gas and the engine roared.

“When I die I want someone to year bright yellow to my funeral. As a celebration.”

“This is depressing,” she shot back, flipping her head so hard to look at him that her sunglasses nearly fell off. She had meant to signify that the conversation was over, but that never stopped him.

“It really is so much bigger than us. I think that is why we think death is so frightening. The fact that at any moment we can be gone is humbling.” She didn’t want to answer him. The silence made the moments lag as the yellow lines spurred past with increasing intensity.

“Kind of a shitty grand finale, don’t you think?” she found herself saying. It was the fact that she even answered that annoyed her. The last thing she wanted on this car trip was to get on a carousel ride the same argument up and down. Turning around and heading away from their destination wasn’t an option. Here they were, in the middle of their trip, where it would take just as long to go home as it would take to get there. Well, one thing was for sure, she was not going to allow him to make this drive into some sort of triumphant conversion experience where she came out with some balanced new attitude. It was either because she was so tired and her eyelids throbbed or because she was so irritated with her company, but she really wanted to crash the car. She could grab the wheel and fling it so the small car would flip so easily. There were wire coat hangers, cigarette lighters, tools, glass windows. At that very second the vehicle became a suicide machine.

“Well, I guess death is never considered as a possibility,” she blandly stated.

“Everyone thinks the sun will rise tomorrow. Nobody can prove it.”

He looked back up to the painted sky and began with his own wide expanse of thoughts. He curled up to the side of the car and squashed his cheek against the window. His thoughts and opportunities made the blue sea above them seem like wading in a tear drop. A hawk flew over the car and into his sight. It spread its enormous wings and floated, suspended in the sky. It glided just over his head so he could see the mouse struggling in its mouth. He could practically hear the small creature struggle in the sky. If freedom came it would only result in a plunge. The hawk tilted, turned away from the car, and soared away from the road.

She squinted from the glare on the road. Putting down the visor to shade here eyes, she took a deep breath and relaxed. The lines had begun skipping playfully along the road. She slowed the car as another came over the horizon. The lines ahead shifted from the heat. Her eyes rested on a lump in the middle of the road. As the car edged closer to the lump, she could make out where the fur had turned gray and the scrawny rat tail had flattened against the pavement. Flies had begun to collect on its rankling intestines. The festering eyes were staring at the sky. Sometimes she wished she weren’t so observant. The car sped past, and it was gone as soon as the intensity was at its maximum. The road was clear and now touched the end of the sky.