Memory a powerful force, evoking both nostalgic bliss or traumatic fires for those who remember the past. It possesses the ability to transport us back to places we left behind years ago, reconnecting us with the demons we flee from or the joyful heavens we long for.

When I was around 11 years old, I moved from a rural farming village on the outskirts of the city to the bustling urban landscape. Despite the relatively short distance of fifty miles between these places, they existed as separate worlds with distinct identities.

A few weeks after I arrived in the city, I began attending school.

The experience of learning my numbers and ABCs for the first time felt magical as if I were sitting on the wings of a dragon, soaring to the ends of the world. A fire ignited within me, and hope exploded in my mind. I couldn't quell my thirst for knowledge, constantly reading and thinking until the next day of school arrived. I would wake up before dawn, eager to go to school and feel a pang of sadness when it was time to return home. I yearned to spend all my time in the classroom, absorbing information and immersing myself in the school environment. My hunger for education was insatiable because back in the village where I grew up, there was no formal schooling. Our existence revolved solely around inheriting the traditions of farming. If it weren't for my grandmother, that would have been my destined path—a transition from one form of darkness to another.

The world we inhabited felt confined, like a tiny eggshell.

Raised by my grandparents, I formed a special bond with my grandmother. She was my favorite person, always delighted to have me by her side. She would narrate fairy tales to me, both soothing and spooky, and I cherished every one of them.

She often spoke of the worlds beyond our village, telling me, "One day, you will leave this forgotten place and venture into the city!"

Whenever she mentioned my departure, a smile would light up her face, as if she held the entirety of my future within her gaze. The thought of leaving her behind was daunting, but I listened intently to her words, yearning for the day when I could take flight on her wings and witness a different world.

"Are you sure I won't be here beside you?" I would inquire, tinged with both sadness and excitement.

"I am sure!" She would reply, her happiness undiminished. "You will leave this place, attend school, and forge a better life for yourself!"

Sometimes, I wonder what emotions filled her heart during those conversations. Was she as sorrowful as she was content to let me go? If she was, she never revealed it.

And so, one day, the dream transformed into a surreal reality that I struggled to comprehend. A feeling of excitement and fear combined as one, a butterfly feeling fluttered inside me.

Soon when the day arrived for me to leave, tears streamed down my face, knowing I wouldn't see my grandmother or hear her enchanting tales each night. It felt as though I were leaving behind a vital part of myself, for she was the only person I adored, and still do.

Now, as I sit here and look back, carried by nostalgia and walk on a memory lane, I keep wondering about that’s happened a long time ago and my heart is filled with laughter and loss as all seems a distant memory, yet still brewing inside my head.

Midnightink 7-12-23

What does it mean: dishonored in today's America? Some would say breaking the law and being a criminal brings dishonor but to what degree do you have to break the law to be included in the ranks of dishonored?

Pedophilia would earn you the title of dishonored in most American families. The murder of an innocent or a shooter in a random crowd, these all seem that would definitely list you as a dishonored person. To be truthful it does not seem honor means much in American culture and society. The definition of dishonored is bringing shame or disgrace on: "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor "fail to observe or respect (an agreement or principle): "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor”

1. refuse to accept or pay (a check or a promissory note): "Payment was by a check which was later dishonored "Refuse to accept or pay (a check or a promissory note): "Payment was by a check which was later dishonored" to observe or respect (an agreement or principle): "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor "

This is what the dictionary states is dishonored. It is just depending on the community depends on the infraction and if in fact, someone has dishonored another or himself in some way.

It took an entire desert to contain his shame.

So he went there to wander, dark-hearted and despairing because he had just abandoned himself.

Not 2 days ago in a noisy saloon hotel room, he and his boy sat together, ignoring the sin surrounding them. Of course, he never intended to avoid it, they stayed at this particular establishment on their way, specifically because of the reputation it gained among the men for the nightly activities which took place in one of the rooms for a fee, which he had prepared a day or so earlier through the sale of a couple of items of clothing that no longer fit the child. Maturity pays.

So they sat on the edge of the bed, and he read him passages from the Bible. A continuation of a new nightly ritual he had developed in the hope to teach the boy to read and fill his head with some sense, both of which he had not prioritized himself growing up. And he asked him:

"Why doesn't being good make me happy?"

It never failed that a stumper would come out of that boys mouth just before bedtime. He never had an answer for the kid, his mother always did.

He hung his head and kissed him, left him alone in while he went to partake in earned company, and he fell asleep in a strange woman's bed while the place was robbed by a violent man,

and his son was left for dead.

There is lots of movement and cigarette smoking

at regular intervals when the adults all convene and decide to

"step outside" and the screen door slams shutting out the winter

while a multicolored christmas tree sits and stares silently at me

and I wonder what nicotine is like.

And the smell of smoke on a denim jacket hung on the back of a chair

still reminds me of my dad as if it were him walking through the

front doors of the hardware store I'm working at, and not some

random stranger.

And they're laughing in the kitchen about something I wish I understood

as I watch his face light up and control the narrative,

his brother and sisters all competing to make him laugh,

his mother in the living room with me just sitting

and we all said thank you for the meal.

Coffee is eventually made which triggers yet another sojourn to the driveway

I couldn't even stand the smell of it then,

and I follow them outside, not particularly unwelcomed, just to stand in the cold and

listen to them talking

about work, and kids, and making jokes

with not an ounce of tension anywhere

and I see snow blowing through under the yellow glow of a street light

and it was just as cold then as it is in my heart tonight

I hear a dull bell ring out behind my eyes

which makes a lingering, painfully nostalgic drone

that does not fade but gets louder, and it makes everything gray

and lifeless before me

except for that moment walking back into the house and it's so warm

and a Christmas Story is on the TV again for the 5th time today

as one of them offers me a plate full of cookies

with a look which holds me with a casual and undying affection

that had been the tether keeping me held to the ground

for many years until I purposefully cut it

and even though it is always still there,

there is a part of me that is constantly looking for something else to ground me

as if that wasn't enough.

My soul would like me to say we but I am just of flesh with touches of my souls embrace. I, of flesh, can do but so much outside of what our Earth will let us. I, of electric matter, can think only as far as our star has stretched. But my soul, my soul knows and feels everything as it was birthed.

I, of flesh, know of my soul only because she is so close. But my soul anguishes over how I can forget. How I can forget myself. But I’ve only just been here once what am I forgetting?

I know my dear soul, she had so much hope for me. And now she sits small and dwindling and I cannot shake her awake. Dear Soul, I know I dishonored what we promised when we first balanced on our feet.

Please dear Soul, you can‘t leave me. But she says she must try again and soon we’ll meet.

"So, what do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm an office worker. I just sit in a cubicle all day, look over spreadsheets to make sure there's no error, and pour the boss coffee whenever he demands it. What about you?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. I just sit in a lair all day, look over my spy cameras to make sure that my minions are not befriending the hero, and pour myself a cup of tea whenever I run out."

"That sounds... pretty boring, actually."

"Yeah, I know. I am the most feared villain in this part of the... what did you say?"

"I say that your job sounds like it sucks." The civilian takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't villains usually come up with intricate plans to rob a bank, or run an underground cartel, or order assassins on the hero, or anything cool like that?"

"You make it sound so easy." The villain shakes his head. "Do you think my lair cleans by itself? Every day, my idiotic minions would do all kinds of things with trash besides throwing them away. They would fold classified documents into origami and throw them across the room, take pot shots at the waste basket, or write secret love notes to pass them around."

"You know, that sounds like exactly what happens in my office." The civilian goes to the coffee machine, which has a huge block of rubble crashed into it. "Too bad that everyone is dead now. I really can't believe that you ordered an attack on this building, caught the hero by his neck, only for the hero's friend to revive through the power of friendship, erupting another explosion that ripples through the building, makes you drop the hero into safety, while you yourself gets trapped under a rubble alongside me."

"Oh, shut up! You're just a plain office worker. You wouldn't...sniff...know what it's like." The villain is on the verge of tears. "Do you know how much time I spent making this plan? Months! For the last 6 months, I have been taking intel on your company. I know that this place is only used for buying and reselling bamboos, which the hero is weak to; I know that the hero passes by this place every 4 weeks because he needs to visit his family; I even know that your name is Jeff because I memorized everyone's name and face. And now, 6 months of work, all for naught...sniff..."

"Jeez, you're pathetic." Jeff, the office worker, takes another sip. "It sounds to me that you're a bit of a perfectionist, as well. Who would ever waste this much time to get something right. You're a villain! You ought to have fun in your job. If it fails, that's fine! Just as long as you have fun in the process!"

"But...sniff...if my plan fails, then my minions would hate me..."

"Idiot! Your minions already hate you for making them your minions!" Jeff shakes his head. "In fact, everyone in the world probably hates you right now."

"Then... what do you suggest?"

"Do what I do: whenever I get to my cubicle, I purposely make the spot as messy as possible to upset the next worker. Whenever I check my spreadsheet, I would purposely make some right values wrong so the next checker would have something to do. Whenever I pour coffee to my boss, I would mix milk with the coffee, even though my boss is lactose intolerant!"

"Jesus... You're fucking evil!"

"Says who?" Jeff takes a sip but stops. He looks at the villain, and the villain takes a look back.

"You know, my office could always use a perfectionist." Jeff says. "Absolutely nobody cares about the job, so error appears everywhere in the paperwork. If you work there, I'm sure you would get to the top in no time."

"Not a bad offer. I could also use a substitute in my lair. My minions are saying that I am only putting on a farce on how ruthless I am. Recently, some of them have gotten so bold that they are taking breaks without my approval."

"I actually don't have a family anymore. They all died from your last attack. Once our company's building is rebuilt, no one will notice if I am gone."

"I actually do have a loving, caring family, but they have been upset recently that I've turned to the dark side and refused to contact me anymore."

"..."

"..."

"Wanna switch?"

"Hell yeah!"

Our mats are on the ground. I clutched Mabel The Chimpanzee as Mackie rummaged through her threadbare backpack.

Mackie: I dunno where Blankie is.

Me: I dunno. I don’t see it.

Mackie: Someone took it. MS. GRETCHEN, SOMEONE TOOK BLANKIE.

Ms. Gretchen pulls her face from the papers on her desk and gives Mackie a solemn I’m-Done-With-This-Bull**** stare.

Mackie: MS. GRETCHEN—

Ms. Gretchen: Yeah, alright, just gimme a minute here, Mackenzie.

Mackie: SOMEONE STOLE MY BLANKIE.

Ms. Gretchen: Alright, AlrIGhT, just be quiet a minute.

I give up on Mackie and the blankie dilemma and lay flat on my mat.

Mackie: mmS. GrEtChEnn…

I began tossing up Mabel up, just below the desks. I was an active child, and I was getting the itch to move.

Ms. Gretchen: My golly, Mackenzie, what is the problem.

Mackie: I found my blankie.

Mabel was reaching greater and greater heights; within a few seconds I had her soaring above the desks.

Ms. Gretchen: Thank goodness, Mackenzie. Alright, everyone, time to be quiet. We’ll get our movement in during recess right after this, so please, please just be still until nap time is up.

With avid concentration and a rush of adrenaline, I was propelling Mabel into the air with a force I wouldn‘t have imagined possible. When Mackie settled in next to me, she gave a little “oh”, the type indicating one has recognized and is appreciative of a very good idea.

Ms. Gretchen: ALEXANDRA K—

Mabel came crashing down, un-caught. Ragged breathing and heart shaking, my sense quickly entered fight-or-flight mode. I was a goody-two-shoes, teacher-pet-with-a-dash-of-selective-mutism type kid. The kid where any and all forms of punishment were the Anti-Christ of my very being.

Ms. Gretchen: —NO THROWING THINGS IN MY CLASS. 5 MINUTES ON THE BENCH AT RECESS.

I kept my gaze averted from Mackie, in shame. We, without speaking, chose silence. Mackie slept, but I was not a sleeper-child. Even in my youth, perhaps more so, my brain was a rapid transit system of interactive and busy thoughts.

My thoughts: I would not be subjected to such unfairness, I could not stand for such punishment. It was not fair, not at all. But I am timid. Talking back is unacceptable—I know this.

Mackie snored and drooled beside me.

My thoughts: I have a plan. It is brilliant, but will it work? That is the question.

Olivia: SHUT UP, AMELIA.

Ms. Gretchen: OLIVIA—

Olivia: She’s PUSHING me, Ms. Gretchen, it’s not me! It’s her, not me.

My thoughts: This is gonna work.

Ms. Gretchen: 10 minutes on the bench at recess, BOTH OF YOU.

My thoughts: We’re gonna have to sell it though. Really sell it.

All was silent for 4 minutes and 50 seconds. I assumed the nap position.

Giggling erupted from the front of the room. I recognized the giggle instantly.

Ms. Gretchen: Who is that?

The giggling ceased.

Ms. Gretchen: WHO WAS THAT?

Silence, once again, took control of the class.

Ms. Gretchen: Fine. But if it happens again, YOU WILL NOT GET RECESS. AT ALL.

My thoughts: We must play this right. Everything, perfect.

I allowed myself one more adjustment, and then assumed the most comfortable position. I relaxed my face, peaceful like death. Steady breathing, stillness.

The class was still scared of the threat of no recess. Silence prevailed.

After a lifetime of minutes—

Ms. Gretchen: Alright kiddo, nap time is over. GET UP, grab your mats and everything else and put it away. Only once your space is clear, you may exit for recess.

Footsteps patter in every direction.

My heart pumped with more adrenaline. But I remained in the perfect sleeping position (PSP) as kids thumped around me.

Mackie: Get up, Lex. It’s recess time!

It took strength, but I remained in PSP.

Ms. Gretchen: OLIVIA. AMELIA. DO NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM. Come here. Get over here and wait for me to get my things.

More kids tumbled out the door. Mackie gave up and began to put her things away.

Quiet began to take over the room as the echoes of children thumping dissipated. The door closed and only a few footsteps remained.

Amelia: What about her?

The footsteps halted for about a half a second.

Ms. Gretchen: Just leave her. She’s sleeping.

My thoughts: It worked. I have the victory. I AM VICTORIOUS.

The door closes as Olivia, Amelia, and Ms. Gretchen shuffle out of the room.

I waited a few minutes. Silence prevailed.

Slowly, I sat up. I smiled.

Me: We did it, Mabel. Ha ha, we did it.

Suddenly, the door whooshed open. I slammed down back into PSP.

Amelia: Ugh, I don’t see it.

Clanking, huffing and puffing came from the cubbyhole area of the classroom. After a minute, quick feet scrambled in the direction of the door. The door opens and closes again, and silence dominates once more.

My heart beats in terror.

My thoughts: That was a close call. We must be more careful. Much more careful.

My ears kept watch. I played with Mabel close to the mat, in the ready position for re-assuming PSP.

No more interruptions disturbed me and Mabel.

After some time, there were rumblings of shrieks, yammering, and giggles approaching.

Ms. Gretchen: Alright kids, LINE UP. LINE UP, EVERYONE. RECESS IS OVER.

The door pushed open. I was on the floor in PSP, prepared for the arrival. I did not awaken with the noise. There would be no indication of my deception. I was to be in the deepest slumber, through and through.

Kids rumbled and tumbled through the room. Backpacks were flung about, and excited yammering persisted. Through the noise, the fumbling and crinkle of papers could be detected.

Ms. Gretchen: Amelia? Can you hand these out to everyone?

Olivia: What? Why does she get to do it?

Ms. Gretchen: Because I said so.

Amelia: HA.

Olivia: That’s not fair! THAT’S NOT—

Ms. Gretchen: Just give her the damn papers, Amelia. Split them in half.

Amelia: That’s not fair! Why does she—

Ms. Gretchen: GIVE HER THE PAPERS. HALF. NOW.

Angry crinkling sounds were made.

A shadow appeared above me. I had been detected, at last.

Ms. Gretchen: Oh, my, she’s still sleeping is she?

There was a light tapping on my shoulder.

Ms. Gretchen: Alexandra…? Alexandra, nap time is up. You missed recess.

I arose, a gentle lifting of the head followed by a push with the arms. Eyes half-open. I angled my head upwards, the effects of adjusting to the light after an extended nap.

Me: Oh.

Ms. Gretchen: It’s time to get up now, Alexandra. We’re coloring now. Would you give her a paper, Olivia?

Olivia handed me a paper. Ms. Gretchen led me to my seat, and I sat.

I smiled.

Olivia saw me smile, turned to Amelia. Amelia furrowed her brow.

Amelia: I saw.

Ms. Gretchen: Stop talking and get to work, Amelia.

Amelia stared at me, transfixed.

I turned to my crayons and drawing.

And I smiled.

My most vivid first memory.

The scheme.

I recall that one Sunday night when I sat at my porch, looking at the snow, covered in my blue coat, pondering about when I had first laid my hands on a keyboard, age twelve. It was cold, I was shivering, it was dark, and I was Sixteen. It was around nine in the evening, my parents would not arrive until nine-thirty, my sister was out with her friends. I remember those nights, when I was young and insecure, when I felt that the worst is yet to come, when I couldn't even talk to people my own age. I had a hairstyle that had a slight quiff to the left, like a 1950s office-man. The snow falling off the ground was the only thing happening in my surroundings, everything else was pitch-dark, the streetlights weren't working, the neighbors are asleep, and the light bulb up above my head was turned off. I recall touching those piano notes for the very first time, from the very first F to the very last. As I played those consistent notes I wondered when I had first seen a keyboard.

"We're leaving", was the first thing I had heard when I woke up. It came from the mouth of my mother, who at that time wore a black dress, touching the ground. She said that she had left money at the table, that I should order food later. "Mom", I began to ask, "why did we never buy a piano". "Why do you ask such a question my dear", she responded. "I'm just wondering why", I told her. She then told me, "We never knew you wanted one".

Back when I was fourteen, I often had dreams, dreams of me as a baby and an elderly person. It showed me a crying baby me being comforted by a weak elderly me. There were no other people around except for me and me.

It was during that year when I decided that I wanted to work-out, talk to kids my age, and study the piano. Eight grade was nearing it's end and I was eager for summer vacation to commence. But first I had to present a report of Shakespeare in front of the class. I prepared by taking down a couple of information that was not found in my textbooks. I also made a printed down a couple of pictures that I hanged in the board. My last name starts with the letter A so I was the first to present. My heart kept pounding when I was in the center, everyone was looking at me. One boy said to make my report long, it was boy number two. For a large part of my presentation I kept making mistakes. Instead of saying King Lear, I accidentally said King Pear, though I did know an awful lot about literature. When my report was done my teacher went in front the class and guided them about what-not-to-do on their reports.

When summertime came I was faced by the heavy burden of my thoughts. I ran for about thirty minutes when I had read an article saying it was bad for your health. Instead I did pushups and pullups, but after that I read articles saying that one should lift weights first. I did not have any weights but my father did. When he was at work I snuck into his room. There were two dumbbells and other things I don't know about. I lifted the dumbbells for about thirty times and lifted the other things too. I looked at my body and saw how it's very disjointed, I looked fat in the mirror but many say I was skinny. Then I heard the sound of my parent's car arriving, I walked out of that room and I never lifted any weights again. In fact I never did do any more 'work-outs' at that age except that one time when I had to carry a big box to our garage.

I decided to instead pursue my second goal which was socializing. I read countless articles regarding the subject. In my free time I would walk to the park and observe the people talk. They often talked about useless things like marriage or exercise, but the younger ones talked mostly about events and such. So I had practiced in my room by looking at myself in the mirror and stretching my mouth in order to create a smile. But when I walked to the park again and tried talking to a group of boys all they said to me was, "Aren't you that creepy guy who stares at people".

The rest of the summer I just did what I had did in my previous ones, watch movies, read books, and listen to music. It was only towards the end of the summer that I had remembered that I wanted to learn how to play the piano. When I told my parents about it they said they couldn't afford it.

When I was twenty-one I had a date with a girl I had met at class. Her hair was curly and dyed in the color orange. She also had a mole on her face that was color orange.

"What's your name again", she asked me.

"I never told you", I said.

"Well, then tell me"

I told her my name.

The time progressed and we continued to converse. I had thought it was going well and was very shocked when she didn't answer any of my six calls that I had made to her. What I did in order to cope was went outside, where the first few snows started to rain, and walked endlessly in a circle down main street, where the lights often didn't work. I suddenly stopped when I recognized her face. She was playing the piano at the same bar we had went in.

I remember being forty years old, what it feels like to feel useless. But I remember when my child was to be born. My wife was making my breakfast when all of a sudden her water broke. I immediately started the car and raced to the hospital, forgetting to turn off the stove. My wife sat in the back seat, breathing fast. I told her to calm down. I loved my wife and she loved me, something I thought that would be impossible when I was younger. It was beautiful being in love. She was the only woman I ever loved in my life. So it was a big deal to have a child, to start a family. I drove her to the hospital.

"I'm nervous", she said to me as she was being taken to the operation room. My only response was to kiss her on the cheek, then soon after she was taken away from me.

I waited in the lobby for a very long time. I remember when I had first met my wife, five years earlier, one afternoon when I was walking in the town, with nowhere to go, and an orange-haired girl who broke my heart. I remember the first time our eyes locked, her bluish eyes locking into mine. She too was walking, though I'm not sure if she had somewhere to go. We first spoke to each other, a week later, when we met at a grocery store.

"Aren't you that man I saw last week", she said.

"Yes, I am", I told her.

"What's your name", she asked. I proceeded to tell her my name.

"Nice to meet you, I am Sarah"

It was taking too long, she was at the operation room for a very long time. I walked to a nurse and asked her if I could come inside with my wife. She told me I was not allowed. I then went back to my seat and continued to wait for her. I closed my eyes and dreamt of one of our days together. It was a normal Saturday night, back then she was still only a girlfriend. We were watching Saturday Night Live.

"This is awful", she said, "I mean, this used to be good".

"Want to change the channel", I replied.

"If you want to"

I began browsing the channels, her head was deep into my shoulders. We began to watch a movie, it was about a dying old man who begins to forget his memories. Halfway through it, when the old man was asleep and a nurse was taking care of him, my wife began to ask me;

"If you became old, would you still remember me"

"We'll grow old together, you'll be by my side"

"But what if I wasn't", she asked, "What if something terrible happened to me"

"Don't think about stuff like that"

"If you were to die first, I'll be sure to remember you"

"I hope so"

Then came the next scene. The old man was playing the piano. He played Chopin as he tears slowly fell from his left eye. I remember all those times that I wanted to play the piano, from when I was six until now.

"We have to get a piano', I told my wife.

A doctor came out of the emergency room. He had on a facemask, which he began to remove.

"How is the baby", I asked him.

"I'm sorry Mr. Abrams, we did everything we could. She had a miscarriage and died afterwards. I offer my deepest condolences to you and your family", was what he replied to me.

I remember when me and my wife were at the music store, browsing for a piano.

"How much is this", she asked the salesman.

"That one is Six Thousand Eight Hundred Twenty Five Dollars"

She looked me in the eye. I looked at the piano. It was a majestic figure, painted in brown.

"It's beautiful", I told them.

"It's the only one in our store", the salesman told me.

"Are you sure you want this", my wife told me.

"Yes, I have been wanting to play the piano ever since I was six years old and I never got to"

I began to sit at the stool, cracked my neck, and took a deep breath. I looked at those notes, the same notes that played on and on the piano. I then touched a single note, which was note F Major, using my right hand. I then began playing all the notes from start to finish.

"We also offer piano lessons here", said the salesman, "It's only 200 dollars".

"I think I'll take just this one".

I remember playing all those notes when I first got it. It stood near the couch. In my spare time, which was not very much, I played singular notes in the piano. My wife would often watch me and ask me about why I don't take piano lessons. As time passed by I would often use it less and less. I was often at work and when I would arrive at home I would often see my wife playing a song and singing along with it. When she died I had to sell the piano to pay my bills. I had never encountered a piano again until many years later.

I recall last week, Sunday morning, I attended my cousin's funeral. I wore a black tuxedo that I never used before. She was to be buried at the Saint Augustine Cemetery, right next to the Saint Augustine Chapel. There stood a piano at the chapel room next to her black casket. The choir sang in an acapella since there was no Pianist to do his job. Just as my uncle was saying a eulogy, the chapel doors opened and revealed a stout young man. He ran through the side hall, into the area with the choir, sat next to the piano and took a deep breath. The first note that he played was F major, what followed then was a series of notes that formed an intense tune for about four minutes, afterwards the Pianist started playing another one.

I was awoken in my deep slumber by a young man and a young woman, it was night but I wondered why is the sun up. The young man greeted me a Good Morning. The young woman told me that she bought me my lunch. It was roasted chicken, mashed potato, and orange juice. There were also two blue pills sitting next to the plate.

Jazz music was constantly played throughout the next few hours. I had only realized now that I was sitting in a white bed, covered in white blanket, wearing a white shirt, in a room painted with white paint. The two young people that had come earlier did not close the door. An orange-haired woman with a mole was dancing, she is old yet she is dancing. Then two young men arrived and held her hands, led her to a room. I looked around me once again and realized that my daughter wasn't with me. I shouted her name, 'Nora'. Another young woman arrived.

"Yes", she asked.

"Who are you"

"I'm Nora Mr. Abrams"

"You are not Nora, I'm looking for my daughter, she is also named Nora"

"But Mr. Abrams, you have no children"

I was in the lobby, remembered what I was; a sad, lonely, wrinkled, old man. I was in disbelief as I remembered all those things. A piano-man started playing, he wore a black suit and was not late, there was also no choir. I remembered the first time I had seen a piano. It was when I was six years old. My parents took me and my sister to a high-end shopping mall. My mother was with my sister, shopping for brand new clothes. While my father and I went to a 'hobby shop', it sold guns. I was outside the shop while my father was inside, in awe of all those guns that he saw. Then I heard what was the most beautiful tune I heard. I tried to track it down, where it was, like smelling a chocolate after eating a meal. I kept walking towards it's origin, not minding the people also walking towards their own destinations. Then I saw a man dressed in a tuxedo playing those wonderful tunes, it came from an odd looking thing like a table that produces music, a piano it was. He continued to play music until he saw me. He asked me if I wanted to try. Before I could, I already heard my father calling out my name.

I walked to the piano-man in the black suit. I stopped and looked at him play for a while. Then I asked him, "Can I try playing that thing", like my six year old self would have asked if the man didn't already.

"Sure", the man in the black suit replied. He stood up and left the seat open. I sat in it. I started to play all the F notes.

"Do you want me to teach you", the piano-man asked.

"That would be very nice", I replied.

9 pm. Family sitting around enjoying each others company. The light from the day has disappeared and the stars are out shinning upon my rustic farm house. My heart beating to the rhythm of the conversation as we pass jokes along in a joyous manner. My two youngest brothers asleep for the night, all tucked into their cosy beds with the sound of laughter rising throughout the hall ways. Light peaking underneath their doors from the hallway light and their glow in the dark stars easing the petrifying darkness. My older brother cracks a joke about our country's leader and little me struggles to understand the humour. My younger brother has awaken from his slumber and has made his way to the top of the stairs. Struggling to adjust his eyes to the light, he missed placed his footing and his head leans back to see the tiled ceiling. The moss green carpet not breaking his fall, he slides down the entire stair case, his back and head hitting every single gruesome step. The thumps and shrieking making its way into the living room, my parents rush to see what the problem is. My older brother and I stare at each other confused and waiting for the cue to come assist in the situation. My father comes in, brother in arms, and lays him on the couch. I run to the freezer to grab an ice pack and my older brother grabs a soft pillow to put under his head. My youngest brother still fast asleep in his room, not even stirring. My father proceeds to ask the standard questions, what is your name, where does it hurt the most, and asks what happened to cause such a ruckus. My brother answers each question hesitantly and explains he just wanted to come down and join the "party". Everyone laughs at that answer and my mother makes sure he is alright. We finish off the night by playing a round of uno and then went up to bed to try to get some sleep after a night of laughing and shock. I lay down on my cosy bed, looking up at the ceiling wondering what we were going to do at school the next day. My big teddy bear tucked into my arms and my night light projecting a blue radiance that covered my room. My eye lids getting heavier until I am fast asleep, resting for the next day ahead.

In the night when sleep abounds me not

eternal, ethereal, ethanol, ethical, and etymological questions

my skull aflutter

Opppa, hoppa, the stallion intellect proud of mine

stamps all over the plebeian plethora of pneumonia thought

a mind, oracle, over the above, the up and upper

am

I

hovering above dirty plebs

in such night

Until I step for a hoi polloi glass of water

and bump

with my sprained foot

into my bed

and only

one

only one

thought prevails then,

luminescent overall

Where the xxxk are my slippers?