Tough Choice

I was recently faced with probably the toughest decision of my life: whether to trust a stranger (a "babysitter", she called herself) with my 9-month-old child. While in the end I did, that is not the focus of what I want to say. This seemingly normal and standard procedure led me to an extremely important realization about life: there comes a point when you must simply trust. This game will not work without it. And in the end, it came down to simply that: trust. 

It's funny what the mind will do to you to help convince you of the 'legality', if you will, of your choice. My husband, being the MAN that he is, spent half the day coming up with ways to physically prevent the babysitter from being able to harm our child or steal from our home. I, on the other hand, went over in my head time and again every piece of information she had ever given me in my one previous conversation with her. Piecing the information together, detective-style, I came to the conclusion that she couldn't possibly be a professional criminal and probably was who she claimed to be: a "babysitter". In the end, we both left the house with our most-priced possession vulnerably at home because we trusted this girl. 

In this process, a question arose in my mind: is it possible to live this life without really trusting anyone? My conclusion: probably yes. But here's another question: what kind of life would that be? And is that a life worth living? Of course, I don't even want to think of possible consequences (and my fingers won't bent to write them) if our judgement had been wrong, but can I really imagine a life without trust? At some point, you must rely on your gut-feeling and do what feels right, even if your mind can't explain it or defend it. It's risky, sometimes too-risky, but necessary to live. Or is it?

A Little House (Experimental)

Across the street from me, there is a little house. And in that little house, lives a quiet little family. Not a big family, just a little one; mom, dad, and a little daughter. And the little daughter, she has many little toys. She plays quietly in the yard with her little toys and I watch her from my window. 

She has a collection of little dolls. And she arranges her little dolls everyday in the same order. Each day, she hands each one of them a little piece of paper with a little crayon and she instructs them to do something. She wags her little finger in a stern manner; she pretends to be their little mother. 

In the little yard where the little girl plays grow pretty little flowers. There are all kinds of flowers - roses, tulips, daffodils, and even little sunflowers. And the little girl, she loves the little flowers. She waters them from a little tin can and she talks to them in her quiet stern voice. And she brings each little doll to all the little flowers to smell them.

While the little girl plays in the yard with her little toys, the mother sits in a little chair, knitting little socks. She knits many little socks, and each one is of a different color. There is a red one, and a blue, a green, a yellow, black and even a purple one. Sometimes the mother lets the little girl play with the little socks, and the little girl puts the little colorful socks on her little dolls.

One time, as I was watching the little house next door out of my window, the father arrived home from work. He came over to the little girl and he lifted her in his arms. He gave the mother a little kiss on the cheek, and they went inside their little house. At that moment, more than anything, I wanted to live in a little house, with a little girl, who plays with little toys in her little yard, whose mother knits little socks. Isn't that what living is all about?

A Better Version

You say you love me, but do you really?
Even when I behave willy nilly?
(I have a tendency to be silly)

Let's suppose I believe you, what then?
Tomorrow it will start again.
I apologize in advance for calling you Stan.

Perhaps if you loved me just a little bit less
I would be encouraged to be less of a mess?
Although it would definitely increase the stress...

So I guess for now just let things be.
After all, we've planted a tree.
Here's coming a better version of me!

Fran 2 (FICTION)

The fact is, Francisca had never received a phone call from a doctor before; or at least, never for a medical reason. There was a Dr. Green in her life at one point (isn't he in every woman's life?), but that was brief and a long time ago. The memory of him certainly brought a smile to her face. He used to spoil her uncontrollably, with breakfast in bed and dozens of white roses (her favorite). The relationship seemed promising for a while, but in the end, Francisca came to the same conclusion she always came to: he didn't deserve her. 

Now, though, the call from Dr. Richards was of an entirely different matter, Francisca could tell right away. Firstly, it was his secretary who connected them; and besides, all Dr. Richards ever did during her visits is brag about his two boys - "my little men," he called them. She couldn't stand the thought of two brats running (around) her home, so she hardly gave Dr. Richards a second thought. Not that he actually made any suggestions of that nature. And besides, there was still the issue of Brian...

"Ms. Loft? Please stay on the line while I connect you to Dr. Richards. He has something urgent he would like to discuss with you." What could it possibly be, Francisca thought irritably. And why all the drama?

"Thanks for holding, Francisca," Dr. Richards pronounced into the phone. He seemed to have a somber tone, but then again, Francisca had never spoken on the phone with him before. "There is something I need to discuss with you. It has to do with the results of your blood test. Would you be able to make it into the office today? It's very important".

"Couldn't you just tell me over the phone?" Francisca asked frustrated. "I really don't have time for this."

"I'm sorry, Francisca, but I'm obligated by law to tell you this in person. This is your health after all. Please try to make it in today, it really won't take long."

"Fine," Francisca blurted. "I'll see what I can do." The fried food would have to wait for now. She cursed the law under her breath, disappointed that her day was ruined. Well, maybe I have time to look into one shop, or two, Francisca thought, as she turned away from the mall exit. 

Somebody like you (FICTION)

"You know, I could use somebody like you," she says to me, pressing her hand to my chest. I met Celeste two hours ago at the bar. Now, we are sitting on the couch, three feet away. We've been talking. I haven't done that in a long time. She's a nice girl, Celeste. But still.

I have a feeling this night will end the same way most nights do - at my place, with her but alone. It makes me sad. I hoped with her, as with all the girls I meet, it would be different. I've never met a Celeste before.

She's a beautiful girl. She stands tall, with all of her 5'4. She's strong and weak, all at the same time and I don't think she has used the same word twice since we've met. I think she's on a mission. Could I love her? Perhaps. Would she want that? Can't imagine that being the case.

"My place is just around the corner," I hear myself say. "Why don't we...". She waves me to a halt. "I need another drink," she explains, getting to her feet. "This round is mine."

Two hours ago, Celeste approached me, holding a Bloody Mary in her hand. The first thing I noticed was the celery stick hanging out, whose leaves nearly poked my eye out. Celeste wasn't fazed. She asked me for the time, and for the first time in my life, I think she was actually waiting to hear the answer. She seemed to have been waiting for someone; for a moment, I hoped is was me.

It took her 45 minutes to finish her drink; time danced to the beat of the music. I wanted to buy her another drink. She contemplated, really thought about it, and finally said Gin Tonic. It took her an hour and fifteen minutes to drink that one. I've never met a Celeste before.

Now she's buying me a drink; I guess this is a night of firsts. Maybe it will be different after all. I see her walking back, two glasses in her hands. She looks at me mysteriously; I'm not sure she's impressed.

"I could use somebody like you," she says.

Waiting to die (FICTION)

I lay in my bed, dead but breathing
A fact that I regret
You left my heart beating
You should have just killed me instead

You spoke the words so freely
Not understanding their worth
I stared out the window, unbelieving
I've loved you since birth

Tell me why you have done this
Why have you murdered me?
You have cornered me in, like a hunter
I have nowhere left to flee

I lay in my bed, dead but breathing
Count yourself, however, free
It will not be I who will judge you
After all, you owe nothing to me

Sadness (FICTION)

He walks into the room and abruptly closes the door behind him. Leaning against the door, he no longer has any strength left to hold back the tears. He is embarrassed, but not ashamed. What were the doctor's exact words?...Nevermind. It's painful enough without the memory. He slides his sleeve across his face, catching both tears and snot. He realizes for the first time that he is audibly sobbing.

He slides down to the floor and holds his face in his hands. He no longer makes an effort to control himself. The marble floor feels icy beneath his heaving body. He begins to shiver, not fully aware whether the cold or the sadness is the culprit. Does it really matter? He hasn't eaten in two-and-a-half days; he'd go for another week if it would change anything.

He looks around the handsomely-designed room. He has personally selected every article standing before him, yet it suddenly feels so empty. Dark and empty, just like his life.