Gray sky, solo bird

This is the gray abyss I am presently admiring, just for some perspective. 

Gray days in Chicago seem perpetual. As soon as the sky teases you with some sunshine and rich blue tones hidden behind fluffy circus clouds, it immediately flattens to gray. The picture above is even more deceiving in the way that it tricks you into thinking that looking at these buildings, they have a warm tone. I can assure you they do not. Everything is overcast with gray.

But today, on this particular gray day, no shade of the sky will get me down.

I slept late because my class didn't start until three thirty. Slept might be an exaggeration- I laid in bed until about 2:00 and quickly readied myself and inhaled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before dashing into the drizzle. I was too excited to sleep. Not only did I have the jitters because I was scanning craigslist for the last pieces of bedroom furniture I need for my move, but today was my creative non-fiction writing class.

Yes. I was excited for my writing class.

Why might you ask? I was excited because this particular workshop is based around ONE essay. One eight page essay on anything we so desire to write about. Mine was about a childhood memory. We pass out our finished essays the week before, and then they are critiqued and analyzed by my professor and peers the following week. Well this, was my week, and I was more than proud of the piece I turned in.

I received an outstanding response to my essay. I provoked exactly the questions I wanted to provoke and created the exact feeling I wanted to create. Along with the comments in class, we also get back one page written review from each person in the class. I was hungry for these responses. One of my peers wrote "I find this to be the best work from the class so far. Keep up the good work." As the very last person in my class of fifteen to share an essay, what could be a more profound compliment? Or a comment from my teachers response, "This is wild and painful stuff. Thank you so much for bringing it in."

I often have people tell me that I am a talented writer, but it's in moments like this where I really take that to heart. No one likes to think so highly of themselves, but I was really moved that I myself could move others.

Now I am sitting in my mothers pajama bottoms, socks, and a tank top at my kitchen island, staring at the gray. In a little while I will be on the phone speaking to my potential roommate and discussing the exciting future that's nearly at our finger tips. Then I will probably call my mother and then my father to share more of my excitement.

Until then, I will listen to the gray.
Enjoy this quiet moment lit by overcast sky.




On a final note, I would like to share with you all the piece that I shared in class today. I don't want to prelude very much, only that I hope you enjoy it.

They Threw Roses

an essay by Emily Rose Darrow

          I hate this dress. 

I hate touching it, I hate looking at it, I hate being in its presence, and above all, I hate wearing it. It’s made of black velvet, which just makes me hate it more. Children wear velvet, and being two weeks away from eight years old, I no longer feel like being treated like a child. I hate the way it falls right at my knees and the way it contrasts so harshly against my white tights. It is a stiff triangle shape, so that when I walk, it stiffly shifts like a broken bell from side to side. I hate its high collar and precise seams. I hate its short sleeves and how they cut too close to my armpits. I hate the way the thing clings to my boyish adolescent figure. I don’t care what designer made it, or how much my aunt paid for me to wear it. If I could I would burn the damn thing straight off of my body and roam nakedly into the event it was deemed for; but in the midst of grief, I thought it best to keep my dramatic protests for another day.

My aunt from California is at the top of the stairs, she’s saying something to me but I do not pay attention; she is doing her hair. When she speaks it sounds like she’s pinching her nose; every syllable is drawn out and whiny. I’m told it’s a west coast thing; I can’t comprehend why anyone would choose to talk like they have a perpetual cold. We’re in the new house. I used to live in a town called Saline. We lived in two houses there. Each was vast and beautiful with cherry blossom trees, sprawling green lawns- one even had a corn field that stretched towards the horizon, and disappeared into every beautiful Michigan sunset. Then we moved to Dexter. I now live in a cookie cutter drywall dollhouse in a barren neighborhood. The trees are twigs, with three or four other little twigs jetting out of them; The walls are white, the grass is dead. People keep mentioning the “american dream” but all I see is my small yard. Everyone is getting ready. There is rustling, but other than that, there is silence. We’re primping and dressing our best; with the obvious exception of this hideous costume that I am sporting. I believe we all match in black attire, but again, I am not paying attention, so I do not know. I simply assume. 

I know we drove here, but I don’t remember the drive. This place is unfamiliar to me, my parents have never brought me here before.  I am standing in the midst of a large crowd. My whole family is here, even the ones I have never been introduced to. I run to my Aunt Kelly and Uncle Scott, I haven’t seen them in so many seasons. When I lived in California Uncle Scott would walk with me and my daddy down the boardwalk. I wore tie-dyed dresses and run to the beach to wiggle my toes under the sand.  Aunt Kelly would come to my house at the top of the hill that the sunshine always touched so tenderly. We had palm trees in the back yard- The grass was always green there. Aunt Kelly picks me up and smooths my hair. Everyone keeps touching me. I cringe. Who would want to touch this ugly velvet thing? I let them. I hate when I’m called a brat and don’t want to give anyone a reason to. They say they love me, “How are you sweetie? You’re so big! We miss you,” I nod “Fine... thank you... miss you too....” I can feel my lips forming these words, but I can’t hear my own voice. When I saw them I had so many things I wanted to say, but I think I want to be alone now.

The ones that don’t embrace me look at me like I am a ghost. They stare with wonder but do not touch. I reason they are the ones that must be noticing the hideous ensemble that I am suffocating in. I wander to the picture boards. There I am, there in that one; I touch my face, then the faces of my family- my mother, my father, my brothers. My finger tips linger. There are many photos I am not in, I don’t recognize so many of these faces I discover. Soon a voice rises over the quiet mumbles of the others announcing that “the service will now begin,” or something like that. I haven’t been paying much attention to anything today. I find my way to my parent’s side and walk through the open doors into the other room. We take a seat at the front pew. 

Everything blurs together; voices, motions, my breathing. Am I breathing? There are people up at the podium speaking. My oldest brother, Michael, is sitting next to me crying. At least I think he is- I am too embarrassed to look. I feel like he wouldn’t want me too, part of me feels like he doesn’t really care. My dad is rubbing my shoulder. Pews are horribly uncomfortable. So many noises around me but all I can hear is white noise ringing in my ears. My mother speaks to me directly, and I’m back in the room. “Emily, sit on Michael’s lap,” I scoot over and let my brother take me in to his arms. I tell him I love him, I don’t think he can hear me. He is sixteen, pimply, and my hero. Still, such a handsome boy; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry. My baby brother Byron is at home, they didn’t want to bring him along- I now realize I forgot to ask why. My other brother Justin isn’t sitting on the bench with us either. He’s in that box at the front of the room. 

          Everyone else refers to it as a casket; it feels too clumsy coming out of my mouth.

My father is the last one at the podium. Candle light is the only thing bringing warmth to such a large and cold room. I smooth my dress. The velvet feels like dirty gravel under my palms. How I wish I could slip out of the room and change into something more pleasing and cheerful. I fuss with the dress, like I can wipe away the aura of death that clings to it. My eyes are burning, I’ve forgotten to blink. I stare forward, but at nothing. I don’t know what my father has said to the audience that I am the front and center of up to this point, but I catch the end of his speech, “... and just like the song says, Justin, I hope you dance.” An audible sob escapes from the throats of these people I’m surrounded by. I am unmoved.

My parents, brother and I are the first to exit the church. Justin is in front of us. Is that really him? They put the box in the back of a long black limo. Black like my mother’s mascara lines, black like the clouds above, black like the velvet on this hideous dress. When we exit the church there are bag pipe players on either side of the sidewalk. They announce our  presence with the resonating sound of Amazing Grace. I hate this song. I think to myself. I feel increasingly important in a very small and dismal way. Friends and family part to create a path for us. We could have been on the red carpet; all eyes our way. But it’s just a rainy day in Michigan, our heels click on unforgiving concrete, and we move forward and thoughtlessly in black. Everyone is in black. My father is keeping my mother from collapsing. This is now how I will see her; I do not recall the woman she was before this moment, almost like that woman never existed. This is damage that I will never see the healing of. I catalog this song in the bitter corners of my brain. I will hate it as much if not more than the dress. 

This is the worst part of the day thus far. Michael isn’t here with us- where did he go? It’s just me my Mom and Dad. I feel as if I don’t exist in this moment. I am just an outsider looking in. The only thing I can hear is my mother sobbing. Not crying, I have heard her cry before. This comes down from her gut. She sobs, and sobs, and sobs. My father’s back is turned to me, I am sitting by the window. He separates my mother and I. Usually I’d be in the middle because I am the smallest, now that I can finally sit by the window without a protest from the adults. I find myself longing to be coddled between them. I want somebody to pay attention to me. I tap my foot anxiously. This car ride spanned lifetimes. All I can see is the back of my dad’s big, black, wool coat. I look out the window at the passing trees, small rain drops leave watery scars on the glass. My mother’s cries shred down the length of my spine and split me open. My skull, ribs, lungs, heart; exposed. I retreat within, trying to find comfort in my own soul. I can’t find it. I am empty, and open. 

          I let my mother’s cries fill these broken places.

We pull into the cemetery. Up ahead there is a large towering maple starting to lose it’s leaves to the bitter, early November chill. Below the maple there is a blue canopy overhead several rows of chairs. How are all of these people going to fit under this little tent? Each chair is facing the box, which is now guarded by silver bars. I was curious as to what it was sitting on now, because it was much too high to be resting on the wet grass. 

          I realize my brother is suspended above a large opening in the ground. 

I take in the scene, I continue to remain unfazed. The first row of chairs look fit for royalty. They have royal blue covers, posing a hard contrast against the simple metal chairs set up behind them. I am excited when I realize the “fancy” chairs are reserved for me. I am excited until I approach them. They are velvet. 

          My excitement evaporates like the vapors that escape my cracked lips. 

More words are said; I don’t even know who is saying them. Is this a pastor standing in front of us? Priest? What’s the difference? My eyes are open, but I see nothing. They begin to burn again. This is not a memory, but rather a time of complete worldly absence. Nothing is being recorded, nothing is being acknowledged. Suddenly I am jolted. The casket lowers a foot; everything that was still inside of me moments ago is now painfully and alarmingly alert. This coming to felt like going from the peace and weightlessness of being submerged in water, and then abruptly coming up and gasping for air. Cold, shocking, terrifying. 

There is screaming. All I can hear is screaming, but I am unaware of its origin. Suddenly I am airborne. Everything around me becomes a smeared color palette of blues, grays, greens, browns, black. As I become aware of myself again I realize I am in my father’s arms, now in the back of the crowd. I am the one screaming. “I’M NOT READY TO LET HIM GO, I’M NOT READY YET, I’M NOT READY YET, I’M NOT READY TO LET HIM GO,”

          Nobody stares, they just bow their heads. They are too embarrassed to look too. 

          I’m glad they are, I am glad they do not.

At some point I calm and am returned to my seat by my father. I am still sobbing violently. My small frame shakes under my dress. These seams are the only things holding me together. Suddenly a line forms in front of me, I see the faces of many girls Justin’s age. To me they are so grown up, so much older and mature. I suppose at seven years old it’s difficult to put into perspective how young fourteen year olds still are. I look at them pleading, wanting to be saved, but I am unable to form coherent sentences. I keep trying to call out- please help me. It was the only complete though I could form. Some of them touch me affectionately, some share their condolences. Their cheeks tear stained, eyes puffy; I begin to hate them as well. Does no one understand that I’m breaking? They all walk away, some look back, but only for a moment.

I realize the people walking by are holding roses and throwing them on my brothers black box. I am disgusted. Roses are my favorite flower, as I am Emily Rose and have always claimed that name so proudly. In this moment I detest those flowers and how they mock me. All these roses that so selfishly get to follow my brother wherever he is going, while this Rose will be left behind. I stare blankly at those flowers. I observe how their petals press and spread like velvet fans against the shiny enamel of the casket. How they begin to wilt. Rain falls from the sky; Gray clouds hang low, like the heavy hearts of those who have come here today. My dad picks me up, takes me to the casket; I throw my own rose. I would willingly throw my self along with it and let the earth take me, but my father’s strong arms clutch me close, he needs me. I touch the black box. I bury my head into my dad’s black coat. 

I curl into my black dress. I let the black cover me, comfort me, consume me.

Everything now seems to be moving in fast forward. I don’t know how I got to this place but I’m here. As I enter the building, I am still sobbing. Friends and family are already here, paving our way again, as if they know our hearts and minds are too clouded to know where we are going from here. My best childhood friend, Serena, is standing to the left of the crowd with her mom. I want to run over and hug her and to ask her to take me away from here. She had lived across the road from me in Saline; The house with the corn field that tickled the edges of the sky. I wanted to break the tight grasp of my broken family and throw off my black dress and lay in the fresh cut grass with her. Again, all words are caught in my throat and all I can choke out is more tears. She steps forward as I pass by and hands me a plush animal. Beanie Babies were my favorite to collect, and this one was one of the big ones. It was a white teddy bear with wings and a halo- an angel. She was beautiful, but I knew she would end up collecting dust. I wanted to tell Serena how sweet it was that she did that for me, thank her a thousand times, but let her know that this beautiful bear wasn’t black enough for the occasion. 

Suddenly the room has seemed to relax with a sigh, as if the worst was over. Is this a cafeteria? It must be, because there is a buffet and round laminate tables with cheap table covers. I’m wandering, the tears have subsided. I am not only unaware of when I stopped crying, but poses not thoughts at all. I might be floating. Suddenly I hear my name and my nerves burn in the places where someones hands have grabbed me. I come to and stare into the eyes of the devil.

          “How are you sweetie?”

          “Fine, I’m fine,”

          I speak lies. I am not fine.

She hugs me and makes a comment about how these are hard times but through love and support we’ll all get through it. That I’m a strong girl.

          I want to scream and spit in this woman’s face.

          “You might as well have put the bullet in his head for him you fucking monster,”