Nathália

Querida, Nathália. Ai, meu deus. Eu quero você aqui comigo. Eu preciso você aqui comigo. Quando você falou tchau pra mim e um beijo, eu chorei pra muito tempo. Eu não acredito que você não está aqui. Quando eu chegei em nosso apartamento, eu fica muita triste por causa sem você. Eu não quero começar falando em inglês. Agora, estou pensando em Português, mas eu mora com uma menina que é muita chata, então eu não posso falar ou escrever muitas coisas direitinho sabe? Mas, eu quero escrever por sempre. Especialmente de você. Especialmente. Porque você é uma pessoa muita linda. Dentro, em seu coração, e exterior. Você é muita linda. Saudades. Ai, meu deus. Muitos saudades. Em meu carro, eu tenho nossa música, e quando eu comecei o carro, eu chorei pra muito tempo. Eu quero você aqui. Você precisa ficar aqui dos Estados Unidos. Especialmente comigo. Meu namorado, eu, e você. Que Legal!! Quando você vai voltar pra os Estados Unidos, eu quero morar pertinho de você. Se você quer, pode morar comigo. Você é minha irmã. Minha melhor amiga. Verdade. Ai. Você é sempre em meu coração. Pra Sempre. Meu amor, muitos beijos pra você. Te amo. Sempre, te amo.

History

My fingers trail down the old yellowed pages filled with calligraphy letters, filing perfectly straight across the pages, row by row. The damaged hard cover has water stains splotched in imperfect circles and the cloth cover had a worn-out texture. I turn to the next page, and the stiffness of the paper, cracks. I held the book up to my nose and breathed in, taking in the different scents. That ancient smell. The one I search for in every used bookstore. This book, in the history section, was probably the oldest of them all. I can't see something more interesting to me. People say they don't like History, but they like stories don't they? Who doesn't like stories? History is just that, a story. One story after another. Maybe it's because the stories are old and nonfiction, but instead of thinking that way, think of it as an adventure. Put yourself in the shoes of the characters and yourself in the settings. Ask questions, and think of what you would do in that situation. Agree or disagree with what has been happening around you, and explain why. History is a beautiful thing that made you the person you are, through either reading it or because you would not be living the way you are now without the past events that has changed all of us forever. For me, it's both. I love to read history, letting the words overflow inside me. Keeping the quotes in my mind, remembering why that person wrote that quote in the first place. Letting their words inspire me, and help me in my choices and thoughts, letting them live through me. I will never take for granted the lives that were lost, the sacrifices made, the pain and suffering that others went through, so that I could have the life I live today. I put down the crisp twenty dollar bill on the counter in front of me. That bill is brand new and straight from the bank. Nothing like the book I'm holding. Not as significant now, but later, that twenty dollar bill will be older than this book. It's history in the making. Not far from now, someone will be talking about that twenty dollar bill, the same way I am talking about this very book.

Far away, but always there...

Have you ever missed someone so much it hurt? Missing someone is so much worse then I thought it could be. The few memories we have, but great ones, the feelings that were there from the start, the late night chats on the phone. Poems, coffee, books, bread and jelly, camping, cooking, touring cities, honesty, iced tea, Luxor's grass, touches, texting, and the list can go on. What is it with falling in like with someone? It's an amazing feeling, but when the distance is between you, it just seems so wrong. At the same time, so worth it. I can't imagine someone, or this feeling, any better. I feel like I'm dancing with the stars, speeding around corners with the wind, floating in water. It's so unreal until I see him again. He's always in my mind and always always always in my heart.

Floating

My hands flow up toward the sky while the tips of my toes on my left foot smooth the ground around me in a half circle. I arch forward then arch back, hands falling to my sides. Dancing. An art that is much more beautiful then words can explain. The grace and technique never fails to impress. When I dance, I feel like I'm lost in my world, where it's okay to be lost. Where I can be who I am and do what I want to do without failing to impress. Once the beautiful sounds of Bach or Debussy start, and the lights shine down on my winter snow skin, I feel the power and I begin. Flowing, with the music and never backing down. My body turns gracefully, almost perfectly. My hands slowly move in a motion so smooth, it's hard to take your eyes off. While my hands are above my head, I look up and play with the light between my fingers. How relaxing this dance is. Memorable. The music is slowing to an end. Next thing I know, I'm leaping across the stage, landing almost silently, and then I'm turning. Turning and turning. A low gasp escapes from my mouth, because now, I'm not turning... I'm floating.

Process

Kneading my fingers through the thick dough, making sure it was mixed thoroughly. That wasn't the issue, for it was mixed well enough. The feeling of the fluffy mixture between my fingers, edging into the tiny lines of my hands, and molding to perfection, that's why I kept massaging the dough.

I always enjoyed life, but I never enjoyed the small things, that later on, mean such a great deal. Why would a combination of milk, water, flour, and other ingredients mean so much to me? It's the feeling, the process.

Growing up, it was always, who could run the fastest, or reach the highest. It wasn't until recently when I picked up an old book and felt the edges of the too thin pages, that memories and thoughts bubbled inside me. This paste I'm rolling, is bringing thoughts of the process of baking, to my mind. You start out with a few ingredients, when you combine, mix, roll, rise, and bake, it turns into a filling treat. This nothing dough represents the process of things that might take a little effort, but are a good thing in the end, and also worth it.

Not too much can ruin this sweet bread. Unless you are either a jam person or a jelly person. For me, Jam. You can't go wrong with the low to none corn syrup and natural ingredients. It just adds more excitement to the jar, when seeds are spread thoughtfully throughout the container.

So why am I looking out the window and smoothing the dough still, while I'm craving the the final product? Because, while I look out the window, I see the plants, and the birds feeding their young, and the bees surrounding the sweet honeysuckles, then I realize, they are all a process. Everything grows into something bigger, and I'm just starting.

Wandering

I never thought that I could feel the way that was explained to me so many times in my life, through books, stories, movies, and life experiences. Telling no one why I feel this way and how, is almost impossible. But I stay silent. Instead, earphones are filling my ears with sweet symphonies, making my thoughts wander and my eyes stare up at the orange sky from the early morning. I can't remember the last time I had my back against cool grass, that shimmered green and yellow in the morning light, while letting my mind take control of my body. Everything seemed to wiggle out of the deepest parts of my mind, and onto the grass beside me. I felt relieved, but also scared. Scared that the truth would be in front of my eyes, and it wouldn't be what I wanted it to be. What is this? What are these thoughts? It's sad to think about the things in the past, through hurt and tears, that apply to your current life. Then you have to make a judgement. Judgement. Judging what could turn out different than the past memories, but that is more likely to turn out just the way it was before. I turn my head to the side, letting the blades of grass scrape my neck and cheek. I open my eyes to have my thoughts wander again. Memories flow, making it hard to control. I have been controlling them for far too long, so I let them take the reigns as I try to focus on what all the flashbacks are telling me. I realize they are not telling me anything, that they are showing me my weakness. My mind wanders back to the blades of grass that stay still. I wish I was more like a blade of grass. Bending and shaping to whatever is upon it. The only way to break it, would be to snap the blade. Interesting. The symphony stops, and the wind rushes around my body, filling every curve. Sweeping across me, and my memories are returned to their own corners of my mind. I stand up and start down the dirt path, while the sun still rises behind me.