Reach into that black hole, my dear.

It may suck you in —

at least it feels that way, I know —

but that’s where the juice is:

in the reaching,

not the thinking.

Standing on the diving board will only give you the shivers

& raise goose bumps on your crossed arms.

Spread them wide and take a flying leap.

You may smack into the water and have the wind knocked out in a

big belly flop,

sure,

but just paddle to the side,

climb out and up,

& try it again.

This time,

head-first.

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My first was a lovely, white, British thing, bought the way one should never buy: in the throes of passion, tinged with nostalgia. Recalling the romance of childhood, watching my dad work on his Triumph Spitfire, hood up, sitting on the fully exposed tire in a white T-shirt to tinker with the engine.

[And, I’ll add later, in typing this up, the memories of sitting sideways in the well behind the back seat, my brother and I touching toes and giggling. The memory of the sound of the engine alerting me that daddy’s home, daddy’s  home! Then running out to greet him, and begging to “drive the car” into the garage. He’d pull me up onto his lap and let me steer. For years I believed that touching the steering wheel was what made a car go.]

I paid the full asking price, then sold it, months later, when I moved to England for grad school, for less than half that.

2 out of those 4 months it was in the shop. But oh, the joy of driving with the top down, my red ponytail flapping like a flag behind me.

I’ll take a reliable, boringmobile that will get me from point A to point B with no fuss, over a sexy-but-temperamental convertible any day. But I doubt any other car will stand so brightly in my memory as that Spitfire, barely in my possession long enough to call mine.

Symbol of the foolish impetuousness of my youth.

Process Notes

I couldn’t contain my memories in a single card today, so broke my own rule and spilled over onto a second one. That’s the beauty of rules you make for yourself, though. There are no Self-Imposed-Creative-Prompt-Rule Police. 😉

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Your possibilities are so vast.

Infinite.

Endless.

I’ve sat here thinking

for long minutes,

at a loss for where to start,

which is silly, really —

all I have to do is repeat you,

& the thread continues,

unbroken.

You’re a lover,

a joiner,

like your cousin, And.

A little less fluid,

a bit more stilted

& socially awkward, perhaps,

or merely blunt.

But still, you link.

And you open up the world to us.

Long lists or short, you create space for

always

one

more

item.

No limits for you,

resourceful, pragmatic,

Also.

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As a child, I just knew that if

our house had an upstairs it

would be better, grander. My

life would be more like the ones

on TV. Later, it was the fancy

wedding that would make

these things true, the elegant

candlesticks and table settings

registered for at the shopping

center. For him, it was golf

clubs in the closet, the sailboat

he never had time to sail, the

vintage Porsche gathering dust

in the carport. In truth, an

upstairs makes it hard to get

around if you hurt your knee.

It turns out that little ranch

homes have their advantages.

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As a child, I loved baking with mom.

She taught me how to measure out a cup of flour,

tapping the fluffy pile with the flat back of a dinner knife,

then leveling the top with a satisfying swish.

We’d slice the butter at the designated tick mark,

then beat it to froth with an egg,

tapped carefully against the edge of the mixing bowl.

Measure vanilla & salt away from the bowl,

in case of spills;

mix in all dry ingredients,

drop by teaspoons on the cookie sheet,

greased with the butter wrapper.

Follow the recipe,

all steps in order,

& voilá:

cookies.

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