It was only a string, an eight inch strand of leather.

I watched her as she navigated the throngs of kids milling through the hallway. I had been looking for her all day. Her eyes never left mine as she crossed over to me, her smile bright and infectious. She was practically running as she neared.

I barely knew her. She was the friend of a friend. We had only just met on Friday night, but I had not stopped thinking of her since. It hadn’t really been a party, just a gathering, but I found a slow song on the radio so we could dance, rocking slowly to some undoubtedly great George Strait song. While we danced, she cried... it was the song, she said.

Me? I couldn’t even breathe. I simply waited, amazed that someone like her would run through a crowded hallway to get to someone like me. “Hold out your hand,” she said as she approached. I did as instructed. I could not stop staring. Her eyes were so bright, so alive, so sure! I had never seen eyes shine like that before. She tied the thin strand of leather around my ring finger. “I made it for you in Home Economics. Now you are mine.”

That said she walked away, but she did look back. When she did, from over her shoulder, I saw it! It was right there for the briefest instant, right down below her surface smile! Finally I saw the crack of something familiar through the lipstick and the eye-liner. It wasn’t just me, after all! She had it, too! She hid it well, but it was there, lying underneath. I saw the doubt hidden inside there! The fear! I saw the shy girl with the brave face wanting to be loved, needing to be accepted. I saw someone just like me behind her mask, and I knew it was that “hidden her” whose trust I wanted to win. I felt a need to protect that “insecure her” that she had walled up inside her. I could be her “safe place”.

That is all over now. She and I grew up, and apart. School years fly with their pageants, parades and proms. I lost her to the years, and years later I lost that leather ring. It survived our time together though, as we helped each other through life’s most difficult days. Through those years she brought or bought me many richer and sweeter gifts, but nothing she gave me ever meant so much as that sliver of leather she knotted to my finger in a sophmore hallway, and in so doing tied around my heart forever. It was only a small token of youthful love, but it gazed up at me from that finger as she had when she first tied it on me, like a lioness staring into my insecure teenaged soul until it whispered back,

“Yes... now I am yours.”

I’m on and off. I should be on, but I have off, but I’m putting in an effort. full force. Spending hours Putting time. each day, multiple hours. I want to learn something. I need to start. I really want to start asking for help. I have a hard time asking for help. I always felt like I can’t. I don’t have the right. But I think the problem is I have the same problem. Should I drop or should I keep going? Should I break? Sometimes I feel. Other times I don’t. I need… I need… I need... more. I need… family... friends...help. They're not gonna judge me? They just want to help me? Especially, me. My little brother- all the things he does- brings me joy. I moved away, I miss him. But moving...one step closer... improving who I am. Who I wanna be. My little brother- see that I am trying- see I am trying for you and myself.

This piece was inspired by a video my brother posted. Feel free to comment and critique him: https://youtu.be/BOxDTrWnKdU i am sure he'd enjoy the feedback. He's got an artist soul just like the rest of us. I just hope he can nurture it.

My watch!

Where the hell is my watch?

Ticking,

Somewhere it will be

Ticking.

Not digital

But with hands that move

Ticking off every second of time,

As it passes me by.

How will I know

How much time I waste

If I don't find my watch,?

What will I look at

Without actually seeing

Without my watch on my wrist?

How will I see

How much I have missed

And tick off my list

Of undone tasks

Not done on time

If my watch isn't there

To show me it pass?

Where the hell is my watch?

I’ve lost a 5-dollar note...I’m constantly reminded of its crispiness, its smell, its crackle...I’m sensually devastated. I’m sure whoever found it, has spent it on a coffee, or just neglected it, basically done something meagre. I’m gonna have to forget you dear note, but...inspite of not being a lot, you had....Ed Sheeran’s autograph. :(

I lived in warm climates all my life except for one place while I was a teenager. I grew up in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops and never gave much thought to what I wore. I am not color-blind or lacking decent taste I just always cared more about function than form. That may be how I wound up with several hideous but comfortable sweaters when we moved to a place with actual seasons. Out of all of them the ugliest one is still fresh in my mind. Its shape was actually flattering, the problem however was the picture. It was a black background and against it taking up about half of the front was the profile of a human face in red. It actually gets even better, floating in front of the face is an apple in the same red, I still grin at remembering it. My older sister won best dressed in high school and when she came to visit from college she was mortified by my attire. Secretly her disgust rather pleased me, it wasn’t why I wore them but it sure made it more fun. Eventually it was time to go again and it was back to a warm climate. After moving I didn’t give the now unneeded sweaters any thought. It wasn’t until years later when packing for a trip to somewhere cold I realized I couldn’t find my beloved, hideous clothes. To be fair my mother hated my clothes too, she however had the sense not to mention it, she would just cringe at the sight of them. To this day neither one will admit it but I am pretty sure one, or both of them conspired to purge my wardrobe behind my back. I like to think they (or she?) donated my things instead of tossing them in the trash. That somewhere out there someone is torturing their family with a red and black 80′s reject sweater.

I was eight when I held my first baby (my little cousin). It’s also when I received my favorite stuffed animal of all time, PJ. He was a dark brown dog stuffed with beans or rice that eventually started leaking through holes my mother would sew shut for me. He had white ears that turned gray over time and a black nose which he lost at some point in our short life together. He was well-loved…

When I was 16, my mother, PJ and I did a “grand tour” of Europe: England, France, Switzerland and Italy. In Italy, during a flurry of packing for an early morning departure, I left PJ snuggling under the sheets in a hotel in Florence. We were on the bus traveling to our next destination when I realized he was not in my possession. I was devastated. I cried for hours that day. When we stopped in Assisi, the tour guide, Francisco, said he would call the hotel and see what he could do. Our fellow travelers tried to comfort me, Miss Sunshine, saddened that my customary smile was submerged in tears.

We arrived in Rome in time for dinner that evening. During the meal, just before dessert was served, Francisco proclaimed victory: The hotel where poor PJ had been left behind had found my well-loved friend and sent him along with another tour group heading in the same direction. They had arrived just minutes before and dear Francisco had PJ in his hand. When he held him aloft for all to see, the room erupted into laughter. They couldn’t believe the sad excuse for a stuffed dog was what had caused the ocean of tears that day.

I didn’t care. I ran up to Francisco and hugged him as I grabbed PJ and hugged him, too.

Sadly, a year later I left him tucked in a bed in Petersburg, Virginia and though my mother tried to retrieve him, that hotel said he could not be found.

I like to think another little girl in need of a silent friend that swallowed tears and comforted broken hearts found him and loved him well.

An inmate figured out the code to the doors. One of them escaped because he watched us punch in the six digit code. He made it to Burger King.

Management decided to change all the codes.

In my pocket I carried each door’s new code (It was against the rules but how could I remember?).

I lost the little piece of paper I kept in my pocket that held all the codes.

Oh shit.

I prayed it was in the laundry.

So far no one had escaped the unit.

Yes I will replace it.

I got a free pass from God. It wasn’t me.

The washing machine had clumped paper in it with the reminiscence of the codes.

The codes will live a better life elsewhere in the future.

There will be a time when we progress via technology and the codes are useful to a more primitive environment of security.

My grandmother offered for me and my now husband to use her wedding band. I was very pleased as my grandparents had the long and happy marriage to which I aspired. The problem is that I have very small fingers (ring size 4) and it wasn’t the type of ring that could easily be resized. My husband had a jeweler friend build it up from the inside and it fit me decently though it was a little loose, especially after weight loss and in cooler weather. I loved that ring because it was a connection to one of my favorite people. After my grandma passed away, wearing that ring was a reminder that a part of her would always be with me.

One day, I was driving home after a long day at work. I opened the window and I thought I felt something slip off my finger. I looked down at my hand and the ring was gone. I immediately called a friend at work, hoping I had left it there. Several people in the office looked but nobody found anything. I looked on the side of the road where I first found it missing, I called the gym where I worked out, I searched the garbage cans at home, my husband took the seats out of my car, and I did several more searches at work. Nothing. I was devastated.

Months later, we finally called in an insurance claim. I picked out a new ring, custom-made, much better suited to my small hand. I still hope upon hope, that one day it will just turn up out of the blue. It’s been 8 years since it’s gone and I’d give anything to have it back.

Manta wasn’t lost in the traditional sense, no, she lives in my closet now on my shelf. But her life as my travelling stuffed animal is no more.

I purchased her on a school trip to the aquarium, with my own money saved up from chores. A nearby student sneered when I picked up the little grey, white-polka-dotted stingray, saying it was for kids. And I guess 14 isn't really a kid but I didn't care. Manta was perfectly sized, big enough to give hugs and small enough to not be noticed by strangers. I was struggling to make friends on the trip, but now, Manta was my friend. She also wore my sunglasses better than I did. One specific photo of her with my glasses is lost in my old laptop, but that's another story all together. I declared her one of the few precious things I would bring with me to college when the time comes.

When I returned from my 3 week trip, Manta in arms as I walked off the train, I discovered my family had adopted a dog.

It was hate at first sight between him and Manta.

He ate everything and anything, tearing through my sister's toys and brother's legos. I kept my door shut out of fear for my belongings. He was bigger than what my parents expected too, and soon he was able to reach our counters.

One day I came home from who-knows-where to find the dog on the coach, ripping Manta apart.

And I screamed and yanked Manta out and washed her "fur" and observed sadly that her cat-like eyes had been yanked out. My brother returned her eyes later that day, but it was hopeless.

I kept her eyes next to my bed, as a reminder to find a professional who could sew Manta back together, but after a few years they've hidden under the clutter of work. I can't find her eyes. They are lost.

And so Manta remains in my closet, also lost.