|You know you want to learn.|
Painting NightsDear Emma,
The truth is I'm not a painter.
The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.
You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter. You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty. Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.
When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.
Just to keep seeing you. Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.
I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around
GrasshopperIn the sixth year of my life there was a neverending heat; mom told me
that weather like this is what people call an Indian summer
I asked her if that meant that we need to move into a tipi
but she just laughed and ruffled my hair
That summer dad took off the training wheels in my bicycle, he told me
that I have to learn to ride without them before school starts
I cried endlessly after falling and getting a scratch on my knee
but he kissed it better and ruffled my hair
The last night of the vacation we all went to the lake together, they told me
to be quiet, like a mouse, so that the fireflies may dance in peace
that small clearing was lit by both glowing and twinkling lights
and my parents held me tight and ruffled my hair
Another thing I remember is the constant chirping of that heat, someone told me
that it was the singing of a bug that was looking for a partner to be with
the whole summer I tried to find one, but they always escaped me
and while I run across the fields, the