The Three Oddest Words by Wislawa Szymborska

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make it something no nonbeing can hold.

Nothing Twice by Wislawa Szymborska

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class this summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needles fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I still hear her laughter

I wish I could talk to her about my college roommates. I wish I could talk to her about anything.

I'm so afraid that if I stop constantly trying to relive our memories, I'm going to forget her. It's been two months, and I feel like I've forgotten so much.

Eighteen

In three hours and forty-four minutes (that is, 3:34am), I will never again be eighteen. Pretty profound-sounding, huh?

I've said this to a few people, but it bares repeating: on one hand, it feels like I've been eighteen for a long time, but on another, I don't feel old enough to be nineteen. Does that make sense?

Since turning eighteen - oh, that disasterous, glorious day - I've been to two states and six countries (California, New Zealand, Australia, Washington, Denmark, Norway and Germany, respectively). A lot of people have died, Grandma's being the one effecting me the most, followed closely by Kelsi's.

There are a lot of things I still haven't done. I've never drunk beer (not that I want to, although it is funny how being nineteen really only marks being able to drink in Canada); I've never successfully driven a stick shift for more than, oh, thirty feet - again, not that I'm in a hurry. I've never had a boyfriend or even been kissed. I guess I should be patient on those ones, too.

This is the first year I really haven't wanted anything for my birthday. And I guess that's a good thing, because it shows how much I already have. :) I have a lot to be grateful for.

For one last time, eighteen,
Andrea

Laughing

I'd just like to personally thank my awesome friends, Sheila and Kari, who made me laugh so hard tonight, with help from my cell phone and Facebook, respectively. It has been a long time since I laughed so hard. It was so much fun.

Thanks for making my entire day.
Andi

Insert Catchy Title Here

I just keep praying

Please, God, don't let anyone else I know die this year.

And maybe, all things considered, it's a selfish prayer. Because when it's your time to go, it's your time to go - simple as that. But when you look at everyone who's died this year - Grandma, Sheila's grandma, Aunt Ellen, Kelsi Cook, my mom's cousin, my mom's co-workers - it kind of hits you hard. Being the writer that I am, I'm cursed with the What If? game. I dare to fabricate hideous stories in my head of car accidents and hospital beds and other such things, even though they are the last things on Earth I want to happen.

Just one at a time, please.

Grandma

According to the new Britanica-Webster, one of the definitions of miss is "to discover or feel the absence of." I probably couldn't say it better myself. I used to throw the word miss around casually, but I never really felt it until Grandma died.



A lot of people have never met their grandparents, or only see them on holidays and special occasions. Grandma lived with us, so I saw her about three or four times a day for nearly half of my life. Dealing with the lack of her presence, the void where she used to exist, is the hardest thing for me right now.



I miss seeing her ball of white hair over her recliner when I walk in to give her her meds, or tell her the ball game is on or that dinner's ready. I miss her calling me, "dearheart" and painting her nails and driving her up Mud Mountain Dam Road. I miss her soft skin, her refusal to believe that Chester was anything but good, and the way she never admited she was less than five feet tall. I miss seeing her fanatisism for sports (especially Detroit), showing her my new clothes, singing "Baby It's Cold Outside" with me in my car, and that little giggle she'd get just before sharing something she knew she shouldn't. I miss playing solitaire on the floor of her old place, eating all the M&Ms in sight, and watching Mrs. Doubtfire together. I miss the train rides to Santa Barbara, her paying me to eat something I didn't like, and playing Gin Rummey til one in the morning.



I don't like having to pick out an outfit for her to wear in the coffin. I don't like bagging up her old clothes and organizing the hangers by color. As much as I like having her jewelry, I'd much rather see it on her.



I know that - cliched as it may be - death is a part of life. I know also that 86 years is a long time to live. I can remember having realizations in the past that she was pretty old and that death was a possibility. But that doesn't make it any easier. She was always healthy, and she'd been in the hospital before, so I wasn't too worried when they brought her to the hospital last Monday, the 19th. Twenty-six hours later, she was gone. It all happened so fast.



I keep remembering small, odd little moments of her. One was a few years ago, when she gave Josh Schipper a "lucky penny" at WaMu. I think she was also trying to set us up, because she kept telling him all these great things about me. Speaking of that, there was another similar time at the movie theater, when she started telling the owner a bunch of nice things about me, too. And when I told her how I had coffee with a friend I met at Green River who was home briefly from WSU, she giggled and said, "So, you had a date!" even though it wasn't. And when I got all dressed up for the Mardi Gras dance, decked out in Gracie's black wig, dark make-up, and Grandma's green fishnets and big gold belt, she called me a "Femme Fatale." Little stuff like that keeps jumping into my brain at the most random - or maybe not so random - times.



I wish she could see me go to college. Well, I guess she did at Green River, but I never even showed her my diploma. She always wanted to go to college. And I never showed her my Norway pictures. But I guess those "I wishes" and "I nevers" don't really matter now, do they?



I never told anyone this, except for Sheila recently, but after she had a mini-stroke (called a TIA) on October 15, 2004, I used to check on her every night to make sure she was still breathing. I had found her after the stroke, so I felt like she was my responsibility, in a way.



I guess I'm doing better than I was. I didn't cry at the funeral, or when people give me hugs or I read sympathy cards. But tears aren't the only form of grief. I think writing is a way for me to grieve, or at the very least, vent. So even if no one reads this, it's still probably helped me. And if you have read this, thanks.



Andrea

Life is Short

Many of you already know that Kelsi Cook was killed yesterday morning about 6:45am driving up to Crystal for her job as a Search and Rescue volunteer. There aren't a lot of details, just a few circulating again and again, so I'll spare you the unsignificant things.

It's odd what little things you remember about someone, regardless of if they've died or not. Here are things I remember about Kelsi.

Kelsi and I were on the same soccer team in first grade. I forget our team name, but our shirts were maroon. But I don't remember much about her just from that. Freshman year (I know it was freshman year because a bunch of us always ate lunch outside in this one spot) she was copying the odd answers out of the back of her math book and saying, "God, I love the back of the book." I remember wishing people wouldn't say God in that context. For the record, the first time I said God in that context was when I found out Steven Ackley died. But I really didn't see Kelsi a whole lot, until these past Fall and Winter quarters at Green River. She was usually with Sheila, and we'd eat lunch together, sometimes with two of their guy friends, whose names I don't know. We talked about Norway (she went in high school, I'm going next month) and she taught me how to say, "Do you speak English" in Norwegian (I've worked on it, too; phonetically it's something like "Snakkers du Engilsk?"). We talked about Rick Steves, apparently a travel guy with a TV show, and our parents, and for some reason I remember her telling me her parents dated for something like four years before they married. I don't know why I remember that.

But mostly, I remember her voice. I remember how attentive her eyes were when you were talking. She genuinely listened and cared about the things you said. And though we didn't have a lot of memories together, I think that's a very good, decent thing to be remembered by.

While I'm sad we didn't see each other much, I'm really grateful that we talked those two or three times in the cafeteria at Green River, because those are where my most meaningful memories of her took place.

I still haven't cried yet, but I've come to learn tears don't necessarily equal grief. Everyone copes in their own ways. Last night, I sat down in the shower and tilted my head in just a way that both my ears were filled with water, and with my eyes closed, I felt like I defied existance. More importantly, I felt calm, and I felt the faint feeling of knowing that - somehow - things would be okay.

So here is the part where I preach what people always say about death: tell those you love that you love them; never take anything for granted; live today as if there were no tomorrow, because one day, there won't be. But you know what? Cliches wouldn't be popular unless they were true. And I think Kelsi's death has made this even truer. Because that could have easily been me, or my father, or my best friend. And once I started thinking about that, I began to think about things differently.

So here's to you, Kelsi. I'm sorry we didn't have more memories together, but I'm thankful I got to meet you.

Love,
Andrea

Why Monday Was Certifiably Insane

Monday, March 10th was one of the weirdest days of my life.

When I woke up, the inside of my mouth tasted kind of weird and dry and faintly pukey, but I didn't think much of it because I tend to sleep with my mouth open, so it's usually dry in the morning. I typically make some toast to eat on the drive into school, but my stomach felt a little odd, so I didn't. The whole ride to school, I was worried about running out of gas, because I never let the tank get as low as it was. So that was my main worry, until, shortly after executing (that's how they say turning in driver's ed language) the hairpin turn coming up the hill, I threw up! WHILE DRIVING! Who even does that? Sure, lots of people get carsick, but they're probably in the backseat. I bet less than two percent of the world's population has thrown up while driving. I should conduct a study.

Clearly, my day was not off to a good start. Thank God I didn't get into an accident, though. After parking, I cleaned myself up as well as I could with a towel I keep in the backseat as an instant window defogger but knew my jacket (my lovely, black dress jacket, on clearance from Over the Edge - the only thing I can afford from there) was a goner for the time being. I called Sheila to see if she had an extra sweatshirt, but alas, she gets to school right as I'm leaving. So I went to class in my dressy tanktop, jeans, and heels (all but the jeans I was planning on wearing to my choir concert that night).

I felt pretty crappy and cold, albeit functional, in math. Promptly afterwards, I went to the bathroom and puked three times. This was insane. I haven't thrown up since second grade, on Mrs. Craighead's desk and, a few minutes later, on Tori Overman. I've been told that if you throw up on someone and they're still friends with you, they are the truest kind of friend. So Tori and Joe (my car) are apparently my true blue friends.

Choir was difficult, seeing as how my throat stung, but I hadn't missed a day of class all quarter (so I wouldn't have to take my final) and I wasn't going to let this stop me. Before I could get home and crawl into bed, I had to get gas, of course. After waiting in line several minutes (which wasn't too bad, as I spent the time belting Chicago songs - the musical, not the band - with my iPod), I ended up paying $50.05. There went two days of my paycheck. At least it was symmetical. I have a thing for symmetry.

I got home, napped, watched Ellen, and gave my mom her birthday present. It was also Osama bin Laden's birthday, but I wasn't exactly about to bake a "Happy Birthday Osama" cake, if you catch my drift.

That night I had my concert, which went decently, considering the contents of my stomach stayed there. Rendezvous was great, as always, but I liked both choir's songs from last quarter better. For anyone reading this, next quarter's will be show tunes, which I have no doubt will blow your mind, meaning you should come.

So, yay, that was my day. Sorry if I grossed you out. I just found it funny.

Andrea

Things That Never Die by Charles Dickens

The pure, the bright, the beautiful
that stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulses to wordless prayer,
The streams of love and truth,
The longing after something lost,
The spirit's yearning cry,
The striving after better hopes—
These things can never die.

The timid hand stretched forth to aid
A brother in his need;
A kindly word in grief's dark hour
That proves a friend indeed;
The plea for mercy softly breathed,
When justice threatens high,
The sorrow of a contrite heart—
These things shall never die.

Let nothing pass, for every hand
Must find some work to do,
Lose not a chance to waken love—
Be firm and just and true.
So shall a light that cannot fade
Beam on thee from on high,
And angel voices say to thee—
"These things shall never die."

This is by far my favorite poem. My choir sang it once. I don't care how old it is; it's meaning is timeless and true for everyone. Read each line carefully and you'll find something that rings true for you.

Kindness

Words are extremely powerful, in just about every aspect imaginable. They make you laugh and cry; they break your heart and they fill you with anger. They can brighten someone's day and convince someone to commit suicide. They can make you want to change the world. They can hollow your insides with pain and fill you with contentment. They can make you cry out with grief. They can overwhelm you with nostalgia, making you wish for a different time.

I think by now I've proven my point. I just want to thank all those who use the power of words for kindness. You never know how much good you're doing.

The older I get, the more I'm convinced that my mom is right: Life is all about the little things. That may sound simplistic and naive, but the world could be simplistic and naive if people didn't screw it up. Take joy in the little things, and life becomes more enjoyable.