The melancholic tone of the notes in your voice comfort me like the knitted blanket that covered my Nona’s favorite wing chair. My Nona’s blanket was earth tones, marbled with rich reds and deep blues. I will never understand why one covers good furniture with blankets and such in order to preserve its condition. What are they waiting for? When and for whom is beauty found worthy of a grand unveiling? The woven embedment of the comfort you provide shelters me from the chilly wind that carries loneliness. And the fibers of your words sing familiarity to me. Something like a Blue Jay from my childhood whistling a carefree pitch after the first spring mow. As a child, I loved to swing--the smell of fresh cut grass beneath me, the sun’s warmth on my brown legs, my fine hair tickling my exposed shoulders, the feeling of escape in flying…and that tantalizing feeling of fear in my stomach as it flipped when I swung too high, uplifting the legs of the swing set from the forgiving earth below. Life making its first of many introductions to an expiring innocence. The thoughtful effort you exert before your words tumble purposely from your lips brings tears to my eyes. It feels like baptism to my soul. This visual clarity--of your words dancing on dust particles--overwhelms me. I can see the curled tails of your g’s and your y’s swirling about. And your hard-dotted i’s and j’s makes my heart skip a beat. My love deepens like a cello’s bow sawing widely, searching for its deepest point—and it is at that depth where my empathy for you plants its roots. There, it grows stalk--immersing a piece of you far below the core of my existence. And I nourish you. I give you the hydration from my tears and I fertilize you with my experience. Together, a strengthened approach is afforded to accepting the meaning of life. We climb our hearty stalk--emerging from our souls--and offer patience to those pained by life, compassion to those weakened with despair, and friendship to those misunderstood. Hold my hand and I will draw pictures on your palm, like a child. Close your eyes and feel the tips of my fingers outline a home where you can rest. With me.

I might be the only American many of these people have met in real life. I live in the south of the Netherlands, Holland for the unfamiliar, or the country where Amsterdam is, for the less... culturally explorative.

While America has a huge presence from fast food chains to music and movies, shopping, you name it, a lot of the people in my town haven't been further than Belgium, if at that, which is the equivalent of a New Yorker having only been as far as New Jersey, a Californian having only been as far as Nevada, a Hoosier having only been as far as Illinois.

So yes, almost every day I am asked something about America and usually it's "Don't Americans usually just eat a lot of fast food?"

I can't help but laugh, because I really am not most Americans. Sometimes I tell them, in all honesty, I've eaten more fried food in my month in Holland than I had in my -just under- 25 years in the U.S. of A. Other times I go into a full repartee of my years as a vegetarian, vegan, or raw vegan, the six months I spent living off the grid, or the time I worked on a self sustained organic farm.

I've debated asking them if the Dutch really do keep boxes of flaked skin to save for later, as one of the Austin Powers movies implies, but I don't think I have quite the audacity to be that blatantly rude.

You know, I don't think we ever were in love.

There was never a spark between our lips when we kissed

Or a fire between our skin when we touched

My tongue never craved the taste of you and my nose never longed for your violent scent

Our hands never did fit together and my fingers did nothing but graze your surface

My mind never wondered what was beneath your clothes and my eyes never wished to look at you

I remember when we planted flowers together

You wanted to give them water

But I wished to feed them sunshine

We never did agree on what to give them

And thinking we each knew best, carried out our own plans

You watered the flowers and I gave them the sun

But I guess good intentions always have their counterparts

Because they drowned in the water that you poured on them

And I scorched the petals with sunshine

I guess none of that mattered though

Because the entire time they were dying of malnutrition-

We had planted them in infertile soil

Our love was never a coursing river.

Instead it was choppy and frothy like whitewater rapids

We were thrown from our tacky yellow raft and smashed our heads against the rocks

At least we added some color to the foam

With you the sun never did shine as bright as before

And the water never did look quite as clear

At least I could say I had someone of my own

But I never would have shed a single tear

No, I don't think we ever were in love

This was to be an entry in a recent challenge, however my wifi connection has decided it wants a divorce and refuses to join with me. I thus post it as an ordinary post.

Dear Stephen,

Hello, please let me introduce myself, I am a close friend of your Father and I am sending you this letter on his behalf, as the advice contained within it is what he needs you to hear.

Who I am is of no importance to you, you simply need to understand that this advice is for you, and only you. You are still too young to understand what is going on around you, so arrangements have been made for this letter to be delivered to you on your tenth birthday, when it is hoped you will fully comprehend the message it contains.

I am aware of everything that has happened to you in your life, and I know that deep inside you carry a great burden that was placed upon you by others. I know also of your immense feelings of rejection at home and of the nightmares that come to you in your sleep. I am also aware that you fear your Mother, and that you do not understand her violence. In this letter I will attempt to balance the turmoil that you feel inside, and allay your fears and insecurities. You must trust that everything that has happened in your life is no fault of yours, that is the single most important thing you must remember, you are not at fault.

The year is now 1962 and immense changes are taking place in your world, your body is awakening to puberty and you are growing taller and stronger than you have ever done. As you continue to grow you will begin realise that you are gifted with talent that hitherto you were not fully aware of. You must develop these talents as best you can as in later life they will reap you much benefit. You are a gifted artist and a natural creator, but it is not your love of art that will stand you in good stead. You do not yet realise, but you have an untapped resource in your natural ability to write.

You must hone this particular gift as best you can so that when the time comes your inner light will produce much success as a teller of tales. To this end continue your love affair with books and spend all the time you can afford in reading, continue to write in your diary as you have done for it's contents will become the basis for your first book. I know this sounds strange to you, but trust my words and listen well. You will one day gain great acclaim through your writing.

This is important. In four years time you be drawn to live a life in the military, refuse this and instead seek a position were you natural talents can be recognised. Seek instead a position as a reporter at a newspaper, while there your skill with words will flourish until at last you will gain the confidence you need to write your first collection of short stories. Do not follow the military path as it will leave you dejected and wasted.

In time you will come to terms with what happened to you as a child, and you will find forgiveness in your heart that will bring you inner peace, but until that time is upon you, bear no malice towards others for it leads to destruction.

I must now say goodbye to you Stephen. There is much more I could reveal to you, but as yet you are not equipped to deal with it. Be of good cheer and care for your Mother, the stresses placed upon her are at times too much. She loves you very much, but knows of no way to show it. Be patient, be understanding and trust that all I have said here in this letter is for you and you only.

In years to come my identity will become known to you, I trust you will not judge me too harshly for I mean only to give guidance.

Yours Always.

S.

My heart stills

A patient calming

Frozen seconds

My mind is faltering

All is silent

Except your breathing

A reassurance

You're still living

It's a modern and worldwide routine

To wake up and check what's on your screen

Open up, take a look

At who's on Facebook

Before you have started to preen

It's a custom that lasts the whole day

You're consumed while the train's under way

It takes some application

To get out of the station

While you're stuck in the App Store, I'd say

It's the same for both women and men

Getting off on an iThing based zen

The boss won't have words

He's been on Angry Birds

From half seven until half past ten

But what we do not realise

Is we're wired with no compromise

It'll take some real bravery

To escape modern slavery

Or we'll end up with Apple shaped eyes

So it seems that it's customary

And routine, who or where you may be

Be it paddy or phone

We're all smart but alone

Ooo hold on, that looks good, and it's free...