Dark - Age 6 & 76

I’m terrified . . .

I’m lying on my back in bed, staring blankly upwards, wide awake. In reality, it doesn’t matter where I’m looking, since my bedroom is pitch black.

As far back as my young mind can remember, I’ve slept with some form of nighttime illumination. But not tonight.

Currently, according to my parents, the power is out at our house. And apparently, they don’t trust leaving candles in my room. I’m skeptical on both fronts.

I did enjoy spending the school day at home, and there is more snow outside than I’ve seen in my short time on earth. Snow angels, inflatable tube sledding, an ice block igloo; my neighborhood friends and I did it all today.

As a result, I should be tired. However, it’s hard to sleep when my tiny heart is beating so quickly in my tiny chest, that the whole bed seems to be is shaking. 15 minutes later, I’m shivering uncontrollably, despite hugging my favorite panda stuffed animal, and with multiple thick blankets covering my small frame.

Unable to last any longer, I cry out, a series of loud whimpers, followed by tears which I held back as long as possible. That should bring my parents, flashlight in hand, running this way.

. . . . . .

I’m tired . . .

I’m lying on my back in bed, staring blankly upward, ready to sleep. Potentially permanently. I’ve had a good run.

My hospital room is blindingly bright. Granted, my vision is so impaired these days, I’m unable to identify anything besides silhouetted shapes, and highly contrasted colors.

According to the stream of visitors I had rolling in today, the weather outside is frightful. A nor’easter, the first of the season. While my eyesight is severely diminished, my ears are still sharp. It’s really my only means of communication these days, and responses are limited, on account of a scratchy throat, attached to weak lungs.

Closing my eyes as tight as possible against the harsh overhead fluorescents, I let my mind drift back to childhood. Snow was an anticipated blessing back then, as opposed to an incumbering hassle.

I imagine myself in a snow fort cave hollowed out of a driveway snow pile. As I burrow deeper and deeper, the passage gets narrower, the temperature drops, and the ambient light fades. I keep exploring downward, even as my extremities become numb.

This is my time to fade away. I can feel it in my aching bones, and constricted veins. Bring on the darkness.

​

Veggies - Age 7 & 67

I’m hungry . . .

Looking down at my plate, a rainbow of bright colors, my stomach’s anticipatory attitude quickly changes. All items are vibrant. All items are smelly. All items are repulsive.

I know the hues I enjoy: bland beiges and dull browns. Pasta, hot dogs, french fries, ground beef. Meat and starch, just like my grandfather.

I have a limited vocabulary, but can still recognized a vegetable when I see one. They often have too many letters, and are hard to spell. Tomato, broccoli, zucchini. How many words even start with “z”?

I don’t understand why I can’t eat tube meats every day. They are tasty, predicable, and filling. Unlike these goofy, deplorable, plants. How many tantrums, and plastic bowls of salad, do I need to throw before my parents learn?

. . . . . .

I’m stuffed . . .

That was an excellent dinner. As I get older, I appreciate each meal more and more. While simultaneously eating less and less. At this point, I’m withering away to nothing. Impressive, considering how much fat, carbohydrates, and salt I’ve taken in over my life.

I look down at my plate, which is completely clean, aside from a small pile of wrinkled, dull green orbs. Peas. That’s one vegetable I’ve never come around to. Even if it is a staple in the homeland.

Shepard’s Pie is one of my wife’s specialties, and one of my favorite dishes. Good thing, considering how many times she’s made it over our nearly half-century of marriage.

A surprising revelation, considering the mushy slurry of organic material: potatoes, onions, carrots, celery, and those despicable peas. This dish is a perfect way to mask healthy vegetables under the cover of rich butter, savory meat, and aromatic herbs.

Shoveling the last forkful into my mouth, I push my nearly empty plate away, and lean back in my chair, savoring the flavorful goodness.

​

Water - Age 8 & 18

I’m drowning . . .

I should move my arms and legs, but it won’t help. I must be at least 10 feet underwater. There’s no chance I’m going to be able to get back to the surface before I pass out.

I don’t understand why my parents were so intent on these swim lessons. I don’t even like baths.

My muscles are atrophying, rapidly losing their functionality. My mind is shutting down, unable to orient between vertical and horizontal. My lungs are burning, but I refuse to open my mouth.

Light flashes across my eyelids, bright alternating bursts of white and red. I’m clearly dying, though my final placement in heaven or hell is apparently undetermined.

Just as I concede to my watery grave, a powerful hand reaches down, grasping my thin wrist. Seconds later, my head breaches the surface, returning from the cold depths of liquid, to the bright refreshment of air.

Through a combination of tears and condensation, I spot a few blurry shapes which I assume are my parents. They appear to be clapping boisterously. Good for them. I’m never getting in this pool again.

. . . . . .

I’m bored . . .

This is the fourth day in a row we’ve been at the beach. Granted, the sun, sand, and scenery, are all beautiful. However, I’m missing out on the main reason people come to the beach. The ocean.

I haven’t been in water deeper than the 18 inches accommodated by a kiddie pool for the past decade. But, the memory of that day still haunts me. Apparently, it’s not a genetic issue, since both of my younger siblings are currently swimming well outside the steadily breaking waves. All I can do is scowl at their bravery.

Getting up off my towel, and kicking the sand in frustration, with my head down, I clumsily bump into another beachgoer.

Looking up, my heartbeat quickens, and my eyes dial in. The young man I just ran into is tall, muscular, and tan. I’m so distracted by his body, that I don’t recognize his hair, or eye, color, features I usually fixate on.

In one hand, he’s holding a pair of flippers, in the other, a mask and snorkel.

I’m sure my dad figured out a way to set up this “random” meeting. He’s been trying to broaden my horizons this entire trip. I’m headed off to college in the fall, and he’s finally realizing this may be the last time we get to hang out as a family.

A half hour later, after some brief training, during which I inhale at least a gallon of sea water, I’m re-exposed to the watery wonderland that haunted my youth. Taking a deep breath before plunging down into the thriving wonderland of the coral reef, I realize what I’ve been missing.

Thinking back to those expensive swim lessons, which I hated, I realize my parents were just trying to help me out. Thanks dad, the fish down here are beautiful, and I’ve finally found my love of the water.

Bones - Age 9 & 29

I’m disgusted . . .

And appalled. And astonished. In fact, I might be sick.

Gathered around the weathered wooden picnic table are various members of my family. Not that I want to admit any genealogy. My dad, a couple aunts, three cousins, and several randos, who are no doubt somewhat related.

In the center of the table sits three huge paper tubs, one filled with butter-soaked yellow corn kernels, one filled with gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, and one filled with grease-soaked fried chicken. It’s the third bin that is the source of my repulsion.

As I scan the surroundings, my jitters grow. The crunch of cartilage as my father separates the wing and drummy at the joint. The crackle of thick breading as my aunt devours a meaty breast. The crack of bone as my theoretical nephew tries to extricate the last morsels of meat off the ribs of the carcass in front of him.

Unable to control my mind, and stomach, I swing my dingy skirt covered legs off the splintered bench seat. By the time I reach the hidden safety of the mesquite scrub brush, I’m dry heaving, and crying.

. . . . . .

I’m engaged . . .

And confident. And happy. In fact, I’m ecstatic.

Smoke rolls off the grill, an aromatic mix of lump charcoal, hickory wood, and pungent spices wafting through the warm Texas air.

Gathered around the weathered picnic table are a dozen patrons, dressed in various plaid shirts and floral dresses. Cowboy boots, turquoise jewelry, and various broad-brimmed headgear, are all prevalent.

The rodeo has just let out, and business is good. It’s been ramping up all summer, as word of mouth, and social media presence, for my new restaurant grows. We focus on comfort food: pulled pork, mac and cheese, boiled crawfish, baked beans.

But our specialty is smoked jumbo chicken wings.

Content with the crowd, and service, I transfer a hefty piece of chicken onto the paper plate siting next to me. Giving it a few seconds to subtlety cool in the humid air, I pick up the winglet and chomp down, my teeth quickly passing through the tender meat, and into the hard, parallel, bones.

I used to be repulsed by that feeling, but now, enjoying a product of my own efforts, these savory, smoky, wings are a glorious, delectable, treat. Plus, they represent my livelihood.

​

People - Age 10 & 60

I wish I was invisible . . .

What were the chances I’ll get selected? There are 28 desks in this classroom. And I’m sitting in the third row, two seats in. There couldn’t be a more non-descript location.

Apparently, it’s not my lucky day.

Rising slowly as my name is called, I’m already shaking. I know the answer to any question that may be asked. I’m the smartest person in class. And that’s what makes me so uncomfortable.

I have no friends. Parents look at me differently, even my own sometimes.

My teacher poses a simple question. My options for an answer are not so simple.

If I provide the correct response, I’ll continue to be shunned. If I hesitate, I’ll be interpreted as nervous and weak. If I refuse to participate, I’ll be disciplined by the administrators who run this lame school.

In this awkward, stressful, situation, all I can do is stammer out an unintelligible response, then sit back down as quickly as possible.

My self-confidence, and social image, continue to degrade.

. . . . . .

I wish I was visible . . .

It’s the first week of summer, and I’m already lonely. The students are my life. And their energy spurs my energy. There are several teachers at the Montessori school who are older than me, but apparently my time has come. The bell of retirement tolls early for some.

I have no idea what I’ll do with the rest of my life.

As a child, I hated interacting with other humans. As it turns out, now, I can’t function without them. Inspiring troubled adolescents. Innovative lesson planning. Interesting social experiences. These are the formerly terrifying activities which I now thrive on.

Being unable to have children of my own, this profession as an educator has become my outlet. I’m now in a similar role to the same leaders which I used to despise. It’s a labor of love, and a career which I’ve definitely evolved at over the years.

Maybe I can find an online teaching position. That would combine my passion for learning, with the introvert personality, which I haven’t shed to this day.

​

Biking - Age 11 & 11

I’m flying . . .

The feeling of being weightlessness is indescribable.

However, humans aren’t meant to stay in the air forever. And every object falls back to earth eventually. Apparently, gravity works. Despite my video game experiences.

Even before the inevitability of the hard ground arrives, I can tell this landing isn’t going well. My assessment quickly proves correct.

Nubby rubber bike tires hit firm dirt landing ramp. Sneaker clad feet miss flat plastic pedals. Padded leather seat hits surprised tender groin. Small gloved palms miss textured handlebar grips. Soft cheek flesh scrapes abrasive rocky ground.

The end result is inevitable, and painful.

Kicking my usually reliable 2-wheeled stead off my throbbing legs, I roll over onto my back and look skyward. At least I still have feeling in all my appendages. However, I haven’t gone completely unscathed. I can feel a warm liquid across my forehead, seeping into the unruly locks of brown hair tucked under my helmet.

Reaching up, I touch the injured area with my fingers, then bring these digits close to my still starry eyes for the unnecessary confirmation. Yep, I’m bleeding. Again.

. . . . . .

I’m landing . . .

It seems like I’ve been in the air for minutes. Arcing through the sky majestically on a flying mechanical Pegasus. But even this mythical horse needs to return to earth eventually.

Time to focus. This is a chance to redeem myself.

Squishy rubber tires hit the soft coarse gravel, rear wheel impacting just a split second before the front. The angle of the frame perfectly matches the downhill pitch of the slope. Stable and balanced, within a second of impact I already know the landing is clean. I raise my right hand in celebration.

This turns out to be preemptive.

A large rock, one of many in the dusty yard, looms right in front of me. Before I can get my grip back in place to control the handlebars, the wheel jerks to the left, taking my body with it.

A split second later, I’m back on the ground; the hunk of metal and rubber that was my trust mount now lying on top of me.

So close. Time to push this bike back to the top of the hill, and land this jump.

Toothy - Age 12 & 42

I look in the mirror, horrified . . .

The person who looks back at me is foreign, and robotic. Metal is not typically part of a human anatomy. But now, it’s a very visible part of mine.

The glassy reflection shows the same 12-year-old girl I was a few hours ago. Pale freckled complexion, thin boney cheeks, vibrant blue eyes, straight blonde hair, sparkling white teeth. At least they used to be.

A sparkle is still there, but instead of the pleasant sheen of enamel, the hard flash of stainless steel is revealed. Opening my mouth wide, the full extent of the modification becomes terrifyingly evident.

I’m hideous. How long do I need to wear these?

There’s no way I can go to school looking like this. My girlfriends will make a mockery of me, not to mention my enemies. My life is ruined.

. . . . . .

I look in the mirror, horrified . . .

The face looking back at me is the same mid-aged woman who’s wrinkles I apply generous make-up to each morning before work. But this mirror is small and round. And this room is small and foreign.

I’ve been putting this event off for years. Decades actually. Marriage changes people they say.

I try to relax, even though I’m lying on my back, with my head below my feet. Not the easiest position to control breathing and blood flow in.

A familiar song comes on over the invisible speakers in the sterile room. This was one of my favorite tunes back in high school. And the experiences in those halls are what initiated my current fears.

I haven’t been to the dentist in over two decades, since getting my braces removed. The stress of that experience was too much to relive. But with countless wedding pictures pending, my teeth need some shining.

Based on the yellow chicklets staring back at me in the mirror, a combination of extensive cola, cigarette, and wine abuse, the oral hygienist has her work cut out today.

Acne - Age 13 & 53

I’m beat . . .

It’s only the second week of practice, and we’re already going full speed. My legs are still shaking from the last round of ladders we did a few minutes ago.

Convinced my body has finally cooled off, I turn the shower knob, and the already weak water pressure ceases completely. The amenities here in the locker room, like most of this inner-city public middle school, are old, meager, and inadequate. But my parents definitely can’t afford to send me to a private institution.

I walk over to the cracked mirror above the stained porcelain sink. Reaching up, I wipe the steam off the glass. As the shortest person on the team, my head barely reaches the bottom of the scratched, reflective, surface.

My short stature, and frail frame, are definitely not a helping me on the basketball court. In fact, I’m going to be lucky to make the JV team at this rate.

My adolescent body has a lot of issues. The scrawny teenager looking back at me is a pasty white face and torso, with big ears, and visible bone structure. But the defining feature of the visage, which my eyes instinctively flit to, are the leaking, red, blotches which cover my cheeks and chest.

Rampant acne, which also invades my back, and other more sensitive areas. Despite taking 3 showers a day, and using a variety of medical products, I can’t seem to rid myself of this itchy, unsightly, disease.

Apparently, my pubescent hormones are simply too strong.

. . . . . .

I’m elated . . .

My life has been a roller-coaster, but I can’t think of a higher high that now. Looking up, right hand holding my lovely wife’s, the other points skyward, tracking the jersey with my name on it as it rises towards the rafters. After 20 grueling years in the league, I deserve a little celebration.

Looking over at my betrothed, my rock, my best friend, I allow myself the faintest smile. She beams back with her own rebuttal, offering up glistening cheeks, and alluring brown eyes. She’s been with me through thick and thin, success and failure, since we met in 9th grade.

A gangly, pimple-faced, boy of Eastern European decent met a chubby, awkward, Latino girl. Now she owns her own globally recognized cosmetics line, and my number is getting retired by an NBA franchise.

We’ve loved each other throughout; but have both grown into our bodies. Still, my skin is riddled with scars from my adolescent oily skin issues, and my wife has some persistent cellulite in her thighs. But our love, and motivation, has stayed steady for nearly 4 decades now.

The key to our success has been to face, and embrace, our fears.