Assumption

I am a jerky, college student. The kind that doesn't call her mom except on Sundays- if even that. For some reason, it never really crosses my mind to call, and apparently the same goes for her. This weekend, however, I got an unexpected phone call from home. Who would have thought they would call on a Friday of all things! Fridays are the busiest days of the week- or year for that matter. There are always deals to make people to haggle with...not to mention the never ending line of sleepover applications, pizza deliveries, and taxi services. I looked at the caller id on my phone. "Mom" it said. She was probably calling to remind me of a bill I forgot to pay or my wavering status with the nosey extended family.
"Hey," I answer, prepared for the worst.

Mom says in an unusually excited voice, "The kids have something they want to tell you..."

My breath catches as she takes her time handing the phone over to the privileged child who gets to share the news.

Meanwhile, on the other end I am thinking, "YES!" and "NOOOO!" at the same time. I have always had a ball being the eldest of all the many children, smiling with their triumphs, and crying when their day at school brought on tears. In a strong sense of the word, I am their second mother. So when my mom says, "The kids have something they want to tell you...," in that tone of voice, I can suppose it is one of two things: either my dad has had an accident transporting oil, or Mom is pregnant. My logic tells me she would not be talking about Dad having an accident so exuberantly.

Naturally, I am left to suppose the second option.

I would love a new, little, squirming piece of love to play with. Babies are the best thing in the world (chocolate following soon after). A baby would bring my family closer. My littlest troll, Sarah, would have a playmate until she starts Kindergarten next fall. Mom would quit her new adversiting-business-woman lifestyle.

On the other hand, Mom having a baby at 40 is rather risky, not to mention the extra load of worry it would put on her. I would not know this baby! This baby would not know me! The horror of the idea left me reeling. My brothers and sisters have always been the best of friends, but with me out of the house, how could the new one possibly be my friend?

The battle raged in my head for about 30 seconds before I heard a squeaky voice on the other end say, "Delli, we have a surprise! Mommy had..."

Wait a sec! Did I just hear 'had'? I've been gone a while but not THAT long.

"...kittens!"

Kittens. Kittens. My mother could not possibly have kittens. She is fond of the Tom that hangs around our house, but not fond enough for this.

"What do you mean, KITTENS?!"

"Mommy cat had kittens. Three of them. There's a black, a pink, and a blue. I named the mean one Delli. Dallin says the ugly is yours, but I said 'no the mean one' and I lost a tooth. And we are going to have a hike. Outside. You can come. My preschool teacher is Mrs. Beans. She is nice some times. I hit Micley in Sunbeams on Sunday. When are you coming to visit? I miss you. I miss the candy you give me..."

When she had stopped for a breath, I shook of the ultimate silliness of it all. Kittens. Good grief.

This Man

There was once a man who suffered from the absence of most of his teeth. His gums were the last bit of evidence the man ever had the tools to shape a smile, but were seldom used.
This man with no smile put all he owns in two plastic grocery bags balanced on either handle bar of his car/family/home- his bike.
Scary Jerry was what they called the man. I was not certain what his birth name was or if he even had one. I assume Jerry was a piece of his lost identity considering most parents are not so cruel as to christen a child "Scary." "Scary" was a title bestowed upon the man for lack of imagination by those less fortunate than himself. You see, they were not granted the privilege to ride a bike around the shady areas of town, but were forced to join the rest of the gas sucking population.
In my mind's eye, Jerry was decrepit shriveled as an apple with age. He was the timeless symbol of the crushed hopes and dreams keeping the majority of the world young and thriving. According to an experienced doctor, Jerry might have been a mere 35 or 40 years of age. In the prime of life!
Then I wonder, do people like Jerry have a prime of life or did they pass it up ages ago when they were 16 and just beginning to feel the euphoria purchased in a needle?

Forever Adult | Venture #2

A beautiful baby,
my mother says.
Fresh and pink
in ugly sunlight,
she said I was a beautiful baby.
I was
never
a baby.

A brilliant toddler,
my father says.
Tripping and content
in stupid frills,
he said I was a brilliant toddler.
I was
never
a toddler.

A confident schoolgirl,
my grandma says.
Sure and purposeful
in awkward braces,
she said I was a confident schoolgirl.
I was
never
a schoolgirl.

A supporting lifeline,
my best friend says.
Constant and solid
in my manic tears,
she said I was a supporting lifeline.
I was
never
a lifeline.

A tender angel,
my lover says.
Graceful and light
in my demonic hate,
He said I was a tender angel.
I was
never
an angel.

I have been forever an adult,
I say.
Scared to death
at the prospect
of being looked to.
Eldest of eight
role model
of seven.
I will forever be
the cringing
adult.

A Carpet Strewn

What hides this room I live in? Is it some seductive secret about my life as a Queen of my own planet, or simply the long awaited truth I have been looking for? Clothes are strewn over the carpet giving it the beauty of a thing unkept. However, my wardrobe is the simplest form of the clutter. Matters become more complicated as I melt into the books and paper smiling up at me from under the bed. Who knows what sort of criminal acts they could reveal?! Most prominent in this disarray is thumping of something enormously false. Could it be the normalcy I am trying so desperately to convey?
Typical to have a bedspread groaning under the stress of makeup, straighteners, and unmatched shoes, but what of the ticking smell of gun powder oozing from under the rug? How can I go back and explain the artistic display of blood spots? Much can belong to the room of the cluttered stranger. It could be a cave of secrets- discoveries I wish I'd never made. It this, perhaps, the reason a bedroom is claimed to be such a personal space- because it hides the stories I never told or is my bedroom really my own?

Joy

I am a photographer. Not with film or battery, but with my mind's eye. Some pictures I have are old with the forces of time taking their toll while other pictures are as fresh as the first day of Kindergarten. In a recent photograph, I focused in on one of those unlikely characters you hope you don't run into some time within the next millennia. Her name is Joy.
Joy is the oxymoron of her name. She is neither Joyous nor happy in any sense of the word, but she is one of my best friends just the same. I can't say I remember the day I stumbled across Joy to be completely honest, but I will say I remember the first impression she branded on me. Having raised herself from childhood- her father was a War Veteran and her mother died while she was still impressionable- Joy was not the product of some one else's ambitions, but solely her own.
As the years flew by, Joy became mine, and most everyone's peace of exoticness. She would tackle you without warning if you had a sullen look on your countenance or just looked particularly juicy. Joy was known for her vegetarian, flower child views, but never poked fun at as most people of her sorts would be. Clothes were a particular comfort to look at on Joy. Not because she was a monster underneath them, but simply because she sewed them herself in the manner best fitting her mood.
Our Senior Year of high school was the time we look back on as Japanese Anime time. It was the Friday nights after being out later than we should have, where Joy, the poorly drawn cartoon figure, and all of our acquaintances, or strangers for that matter, became one with story line and life.
Once, after a particularly daring night of trespassing on property and violating it, we were walking as quietly as we could back to our vehicles. Our skin turned cold as we listened to Joy whisper to herself, "I think I will scream." And I have not heard a more compelling scream in my life. We ran as though our lives depended on it, sweating bullets, while the porch lit up with the lights of awakened sleepers of whose property we had trespassed.
I was always aware as to who was calling me on the phone when Joy's voice rang clear on the other line, "Hey idiot." Strangely enough, this pet name of her's for me has become a part of me. I answer immediately.
When I hear the word Joy, I cringe and smile inside for the photo she has engrained in me. Joy is just...Joy.

Adell DeGraffenried | Introduction

To be precise, I was never at your Great-Aunt-Bertha's wedding, I do not have "one of those faces", and NO- I was not a part of the crusade to find King Tut. I am, however, an earwiggler.
My ears are my greatest asset and have been since that fateful day in 7th grade Algebra. I was playing with my rather juicy pencil, wondering what it would be like to be a beaver. This thought lead me to another thought (as thoughts often do). What if I were that stupid Disney elephant who could wiggle his ears? What would my Father and Uncle's reaction be? Most likely they would give me a ceremony of sorts, congratulating me on becoming a true DeGraffenried, and then initiate me into the clan. You see, we are prominate ear-wigglers in whatever part of the world we choose to occupy. I don't mean the grab-your-ear-with-your-finger wiggler. I mean a true, blue blooded, no touching your head, ear wiggler.
Anyway as I sat there in Algebra, wondering if I should get plugs to stop my brains from leaking out of my ears, it hit me like a manna from Moses: I was WIGGLING MY EARS!
It was my finest hour. I wiggled and wiggled. Subconciously I wiggled. Consciously I wiggled. I wiggled until I had the strongest ear muscles in the nation- (some day the world).
My dad looked at me with the expression of a moose seeing its calf grow antlers when I showed him at dinner that night. It was then I knew...I was the modern equivilant of that stupid Disney elephant.