People’s Thoughts on Stuff

By Simon Jimenez


"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

                                                                                    -Margery Williams (The Velveteen Rabbit)



The pen made a warbled noise as I signed my name on his cast. It was a fine red ink smudge, with the first letters in my name in big curves, just so his eyes would go to mine first whenever he looked down.

The hospital room he resided reflected the colors of all the flowers he had gotten off its pasty white walls. Balloons bounced of the ceiling and circulated the room, all of them screaming GET WELL SOON in blue bubbly letters.

"Somebody's popular." I observed. "If I was in the hospital, all I'd get is a couple of matchboxes."

"Which are very useful," he insisted. "I could only be so lucky. No, instead I have to be liked by the thousands. I lead a cursed life."

We talked for hours. I never blinked once. Odd how even though I knew him for so long, I still felt the need to put myself down in order to make the mood less awkward. I hated myself when I did that, even more so when he laughed.

But it did put him at ease, which made our conversation lead to uncharted territories, starting with me.

"I hear you and Jackie broke up," I said.

He looked away. "Yeah..."

"It's funny... you guys were like, I dunno, Beavis and Butthead. What happened?"

He sighed, speaking in a voice that was uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn. "It turns out that Jackie wasn't looking for anything serious." He fiddled with his fingers. "And it also happens to turn out that I..."

"...was" I finished.

"Unrequited love sucks."

"Tell me about it." I blurted.

How do you mean?" He asked.

I didn't reply. I opted for a smooth subject change. "How did you hurt yourself? All people tell me is that you broke your shin."

He gave me a strange expression for an uncomfortable while, then shrugged. "Stress fracture."

"Running?" I looked at him lopsided. "That sucks. You love running."


"Is it true, that it was during your big race?"


Thinking about it, I’d never seen him run before. I heard stories about him, how fast he could go, but that was as far as my knowledge about him actually extended, which made him an enigma of sorts in my eye, and a hell of a lot more interesting.

I asked him anyway. "How do you run?"

He laughed. "What do you mean?"

"You know... how do you run?"

He grinned a fool’s grin, and looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his hand roughly against his neck. I watched his smile search for an answer, then turn to answer me.

"I go quickly, until the sweat begins to bead down my temple, sometimes leading into my ears, or down my neck. I run until I can feel my shirt stick to my chest. With each step... it’s like, I feel the adrenaline rising, my blood surging faster, like pistons on a train. I love the feeling of pushing myself, until it’s like I'm flying, like I am no longer chained to the ground." He breathed. "The one time in my day where I can escape, is when I run."

I blinked. "Why do you want to escape?"

He patted his cast. "Because they never give me a chance." He gave out a defeated chuckle, rubbing his eyes with his palm. "...never give me a chance..."


That was all I could say. What more was there?

We talked for a little bit more, about random topics, revolving around school, college, shallow stuff. I felt as though a lasso had been yanked on the comfortable air, leaving me shivering in my skin. I had suddenly become very afraid of him.

What scared me the most was that I didn’t know why.

"See you." I left quickly.

I'm willing to bet that I left him confused, and a little cold. He got over it quick, though. All he could think about as he looked out the window was getting back on that track and run, to feel the tar beneath his feet.

A breeze greeted me as I stepped outside of the hospital. I looked around, viewing the empty parking lot. I shook my head. I ground my shoes into the cement sidewalk, and ran. I ran all the way home. I smiled with a thought; that if I practiced enough, I could run fast enough to catch up with him, and see what it’s like up there among the clouds.


Jonathan the Loser

The moon was radiant. I could feel the love waves pulsate through the neighborhood. Yep, there was no doubt about it. Love was in the air.

It was Valentine’s Day night, if that makes any sense. Couples everywhere made sweet, hot, passionate love in their cars, their bedroom, the kitchen, the restaurant bathroom, in school, on rooftops, in all bodies of water, in an airplane, and yes, even during repeats of Seinfeld.

Yet, while everyone had their own person to be having wild dirty sex, I was left alone in my room, flipping through random magazines, looking at shots of models I wished I could go out with. I'd stop once in a while, and imagine what it'd be like to walk into school with one of those on my arm. Then I wouldn't feel so crappy during Valentine’s Day, maybe...

But that wasn't going to be happening anytime soon, and I knew that better than anyone else. Even my dad knew it. Once in a while, he'd put down his newspaper and say, "Don't worry, Jonathan. There's a person out there for all of us. You'll find yours. Eventually." He sounded so…. condescending when he said it, so I'd respond with, "Oh, like how you found mom?" That shut him up with no fail. I didn’t mind using divorce as an insult when I was angry.

It was just annoying, all this pressure to "be with" someone for Valentine’s Day. All my friends ask who I'm interested in, who I want to ask out, who I want to fuck. Normally, I’d just block those conversations out, thinking about something completely different, like what I want to eat when I get home. At the same time, though, the peer pressures weighed down on me, and the urge to be with someone for Valentine’s Day was stronger than ever.

It was too late, though.

Feeling crappy about just staying in home, flipping through what will never be, I got up and decided to go for a walk, thinking that would take my mind off things.

The air was surprisingly cold, causing goose bumps to run up my spine. I guess this was true February weather. The moon was a perfect white sphere. Perfect for all those lovers out there. I hated all those lovers.

I started my walk through the neighborhood. Glowing streetlights curved into open curves out toward the wet road. Every once in a while, I’d walk past a car shaking up and down, followed by a couple moans. Those just made me feel even crappier. I kicked one of the cars, making someone curse. I ran away.

I ran until I reached the neighborhood park. A wing set, a bench, jungle gym, slippy slide. No one in sight. Perfect. I found myself sitting upon the rubber bucket of a swing set.

When I was eight, I used to love riding on this old thing. Up down, up down. Nobody could beat my height. Legs in, out, momentum forward, then out again. Nobody could go further than me.

Now, though, nobody cared. Swings were big years ago. My momentum had run dry somewhere in between.

Yet, something about tonight made me wistful of “back then”. I lifted my feet, and pushed forward, allowing the swing to creak back and forth, my body carried by the light starting momentum. I smiled as familiar memories of me racing my friends came rushing forth as sure as the wind came rushing through my hair, as soon enough, I became a plane once more, the swing my propeller.

Higher, higher, I got closer to the stars with each push of air my feet managed. Loud creaks echoed off the empty benches and hallowed playground. The dizzying heights brought forth more memories.

I thought of mom.

“You ready, Jonathan?”

Only seven years old, I sat on the same rubber bucket, holding onto my mothers’ hands as she gripped the two parallel chains holding me off the ground. It was my first time, and I was scared shitless.

I shook my head. Of course I wasn’t ready.

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll hold on as long as you need me.” She rubbed my shoulder. “I’m right behind you.” My dad used that line on me with my first bike a year ago. I broke my leg. “I promise.”

I let go of her hands, allowing her strength to lead the swing measured distances. My eyes stayed on her the entire time, making sure that she would never leave. All she did was offer a smile, as she gave me this advice, “C’mon, Jonathan. You have to start moving your legs. You won’t get anywhere, otherwise.” 

This course of action would force me to turn my head, which I really didn’t want to do. But then again, my life at that time revolved around pleasing my mom. I moved my legs.

At first, I attempted simple kicks, or as much as my body would allow with my head constantly checking back on mom. Eventually though, I stopped looking back, and began to make calculated shifts in weight, feeling the momentum in my body. The kicks became leaps.

Soon, I forgot my mom was behind me, as I went higher and higher above the ground. I was leaving the world where people teased my weight, leaving the world of dad yelling over spilt milk, leaving the bad times and entering that brave new world.

“That’s it, Johnny! You see? You only needed yourself!”

That scream of joy belonged to my mother, but it sounded so far away, an echo bouncing off canyon walls. I looked back, and she wasn’t there. I stopped the swing with my seventeen-year-old feet, and looked around.

She was gone.

I sighed, getting up from my seat, and looking back at the moon. A cloud had begun to cover its edges, blurring the once white outline into oval fuzz. I rubbed my eyes, wiping the damp away with my sleeve.

Alone I stood in the park, next to the empty swings, blank benches and streetlights. The wind turned bitter, nipping at my ears like a swarm of wasps. I shivered, and turned back home, each step taken by me, and for me, all the way past the drunken lovers and lonely hearts. 



The waves creased and folded over the white sands of Tyche beach. Seagulls fluttered and squawked on abandoned beach chairs, huts, and sun umbrellas. What the brochures claimed as a place worthy of God’s dreams was in reality a lonely place, devoid of human contact, voice, or warmth. The typhoons made sure of that. Only a sole figure braved the odds, and stood at the edge of sand and water, peering far off into the distance; a horizon of clear water speckled with stars of light.

The figure –April- wasn’t looking out into infinity for purposes of introspection -as most characters in movies do when baring their soul- but rather in curious inspection. A sharp glimmer of light, the unnatural glassy kind, floated out in the distance. With deliberate sweeping movements it made its way to her position.

A bottle.

Thoughts of romantic messages stuffed in cola bottles from mysterious sexy Europeans flooded her mind. When she was still a young girl, April dreamed of being whisked off her feet by utterly romantic circumstance, taken away from this dreary life she called home. But April laughed, knowing full well her mother would smack her upside the head for such pointless notions. Like she always said, “If you don’t think smart, don’t bother ‘tall and take out the trash.”

The glass oblong bottle hit the shore with a soft thud. April twisted the cap off, summoned its contents with a tap against her palm, and out fell a rolled up piece of paper, brown, ugly and old. She frowned. If it was a love letter, the sender had to be at least a hundred years old by now.

Her small fingers slowly unraveled the cryptic parchment, and small words of ink and old cursive revealed themselves.

I am the sea. Ask one question, and I shall answer.

How odd, she thought.

April brought the bottle home to her family. Her little brother, Jesse, wanted to ask if the sea knew he peed in it when he couldn’t find a bathroom. Uncle Tim said that unless the sea could replace the broken radio which got destroyed by its damn high tide, he had nil interest in asking for favors. Father said that she should consider all possibilities before sending out a question, as this was a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ opportunity. After chuckling to himself, he added that she should ask which stocks he should invest in. Mother chased her out the kitchen with a ladle. It was time to take out the trash.

For days, April thought about the letter, and what she should ask the sea. Her friend, Davy Thompson, told her to ask who she’ll be married to in the future- not before giving her a casual wink. April found it much harder to concentrate in class, since all her thoughts were enveloped around the dried parchment which sat on her bedroom bureau. She was given a gift, a gift of knowledge on whatever she decided- Knowledge from a being which has been around for far longer time than any of these teachers. What did the teachers know? This made April’s decision all the harder. Her one question had to matter.

One windy Thursday, April found her question. A substitute teacher was taking over for Mr. Fitz’s English class. Instead of giving April and her classmates the normal busy work, he decided to perform an ‘experimental enrichment activity’, or so he said with his unusual lisp. He asked everyone to answer one question on a sheet of paper, to which they groaned and complied.

“Who am I? That is the question each of you shall ask yourself. Write whatever you think is best.”

April had no clue what to write. She looked at the papers around her. Some wrote their names, others their favorite sports teams. Davy Thompson wrote April Sommers’ future husband, and even announced his big plans to the class, to which she rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to write a throwaway answer; she had a strange desire to come up with the best response possible. But no matter how deep she dug within herself to find an answer, none were to be found.

“Well, April,” the substitute suggested, “what do you see yourself as?”

Easy. “A person.”

“Okay. But do you think that defines April Sommers?”


The substitute shrugged. “Then there’s your answer.”

But April wasn’t satisfied. That couldn’t be all there was to it. The definition of April couldn’t be that prosaic, right? Late that same night, she sat under her desk lamp in front of a blank sheet of paper, pencil ready in hand. She had planned to write what she knew about... well, herself. But nothing came to mind, just like before with the substitute.

She thought about asking the sea for her answer, but decided against it, resolutely so. She wanted to come up with an answer herself.

Who is April Sommers, she thought. She is a girl. But what defines her? The red ponytail cascading down her back? The fair skinned face she recognized as ‘herself’? Her perpetual annoyance toward Davy Thompson’s come-ons? No. These weren’t unique to her. Others had traits of her physical appearance- hell, people tell her all the time she’s the spitting image of her mother. Her feelings toward the world weren’t unique. She was sure others hated Davy just as much as she did. Did the answer lie in her name? No… the name was nothing but conditioning of the brain for her to react to those often yelled syllables: Ap-Ril. Then what was unique to her? Was she just so average that any other red haired girl could take her place in her family?

Not a pleasant thought.



As the school year progressed, the parchment from the sea became hidden behind piles of worksheets and textbooks. April found school to be getting the upper hand in the battle for her sanity, especially with the Biology project recently assigned. Normally, April would take all this work in stride, as she was good with handling multiple assignments at once, but this time was different. This time, she had a partner, and that partner happened to be the one and only Ryan Kaplan, the boy whose face could elicit drools from a church wife, or so they say. Suffice to say, he was popular, and April was supposed to meet him at his house on Friday night to work on the big project.

The fact that Friday night was the unofficial date night of Evans High did not slip by April unnoticed. 

Her mother and father were high school sweethearts. Apparently on their first date, they simply knew it was meant to be. Whether it was the greased up popcorn and old cola messing with their bowels, or the broken air conditioner in the theater, they felt something close enough to nausea to be called ‘true love’. April realized she wanted this. The connection.

April was unfamiliar with the world of make-up. She messed up the lipstick a couple times, and applied the blush hard enough to be considered blotchy, but with an hour of practice and many rinses, she got the hang of it. Her reflection did not reflect the mousy little girl in family pictures; the one with untrained hair and who bore into you with casual eyes. Someone else stared back at her, a stranger unwelcome in her home.

Her fingers touched her mirror-self. "Who am I?"

She rang Ryan Kaplan’s bell twice –twitch finger- and waited, nervously sidestepping every few seconds. The door opened, and there he was, windswept bangs, muscular jaw and all. She started to drool until he asked her, “Where are your books?”

Silently, she cursed everything in the world. “I can’t believe I forgot them…”

Ryan wore a bemused smile. She started shifting uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose we could pick them up,” he said. “Gotta drive Kristen home, anyway.”

April soon discovered that not only was Kristen gorgeous, tenfold more than her, but that she was also Ryan’s girlfriend- which was made painfully obvious as they arrived in front of beautiful Kristen’s beautiful home, her beautiful lips on Ryan’s in loving goodbye. April felt nauseous- not the true love kind- so she looked out the window until Kristen left, almost not noticing that Ryan’s girlfriend was saying goodbye to her until Ryan himself brought it to her attention.

“Bye.” April replied as if chewing on something sour.

The door closed. Ryan watched his girl walk all the way into her house before he said, “Sorry about that. Completely forgot we were supposed to meet.”

He didn’t sound sorry. “Oh,” was all April said.

“Where do you live?”

“Southside, couple blocks down from Roland Park.”

“Do you want to sit up here?”


Ryan shrugged and started the car. One thing April noticed during her starved depression was that Ryan drove really fast, never using his turn light to signal changing lanes. Through the rear view mirror, she saw his eyes, focused and controlled, looking at whatever necessary for him to look at, almost as if trying to block out her hostility. April sighed. Tonight wasn’t a date by any stretch of the imagination. She was acting stupid.

Ryan’s first reaction to April climbing into the front seat as he was moving full speed down the highway was to honk his horn, which started a chain of honking down the road. “Careful,” he said. She plopped in her seat, snapped on a seat belt, and looked right at Ryan Kaplan’s silhouette as it faded in and out against the neon lights of the city. They sat there in silence until April gathered enough remains of courage to talk.

“Who are you?”

A chuckle. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” She sighed. “Who are you?”

“Can’t really say.” Ryan glanced at her, and smiled. “What gives me the honor of being stumped by your question?”

Now that was something she wanted to ask the substitute teacher. “Don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about it for a while, and I can’t find an answer, which bugs the crap out of me. ‘Who am I?’” She scoffed. “Do you ever think about this kind of stuff?”

The car took a left turn, swiftly evading a pedestrian. “Sure. But, to tell you truthful, I don’t think your question makes much sense, no offense.”

“None taken. Why do you say that?”

Ryan squinted and scratched his head, thinking of the proper way to put together his words in a way someone other than he would understand. “Remember in Biology a couple days ago, when Mr. Moore told us that human DNA and monkey DNA are 98% identical? Well, all humans have the same DNA, so really, we’re all just the same copies, but different variations, labels.”

“You make it sound like we’re processed in a factory.”

“Well, it is kind of like that, with school, TV, advertisements, all that shit. But my point is,” The car made an abrupt break at a red light. He faced her. “If we’re all practically the same, the only thing that separates me from you or anybody else is the experiences we live through. Nobody can say that they almost drowned in Apollo Lake at the exact same spot, time and feeling of it all. That experience is mine alone.”

The red light flickered green, and April burst out laughing. Ryan was confused, and asked her what was up. “Nothing… it’s just, I never figured you for the whole philosophical type. It’s nice to know that you got some brains wrapped under that sexy face.”

“You think I’m sexy?”

“Everyone thinks that, Ryan. You know that.”

He probably did, the way he was smiling. But that smile slowly faded, and he glanced at April. “By the way you’re put together, I’d say you were expecting more than just Biology tonight.” April blushed. “Don’t be embarrassed. Most girls do this whenever we’re paired for a project. Hell, it’s how I met Kristen.” April rolled her eyes. “But none of the other girls sure as hell were smart as you. You get first place for that.”

“Yay.” said April, as if she were a drunken cheerleader.

They said nothing more. April stared out the window, at the passing city bridge billboards, which floated in the sky like monoliths from God. Larger than life people smiled back, beckoning her to try their new toothpaste. Who were these people? Nothing more than actors and models trying to make a living. They could be the most miserable people on Earth, for all she knew. But in that flash second the photographer counted to ‘three’, they were the happiest people she knew, or at least seemed happy, which to her was as good as it gets.

She looked back at Ryan, whose eyes were trained on the road ahead. He wasn’t smiling, but for some reason, she knew he was happy.

The car rolled up to April’s driveway. Ryan turned off the engine and unlocked the doors. “Here we are.”

“Listen,” April started. “Do you think we could-”

“Reschedule?” He shrugged and smiled. “Sure.”


The car left. April made a hot bath and soaked for the next hour. Ryan’s words tumbled through her brain. Nothing but our experiences defines us? That seemed wrong, and it probably was, but she liked the sound of it. Made her happy for some strange, inexplicable reason. She fell asleep in the tub, only to be awoken by sharp knocks on the door.

“Time to take out the trash.” Mother said.


Tyche beach was as empty as it was before. The seagulls still called the beach chairs and huts home. The sun shimmered against the water with the same spectral glow. The only thing different from April’s previous visit was the direction in which the bottle traversed, further and further toward the infinite sun. Her question was now out there, but if no answer came, she wouldn’t be surprised.

“Who are you?” The black cursive ink asked the sea as it made its way to the center of oblivion.


The Robot

Jem had no heart.

Beneath the wires and metal slabs that composed his ramshackle robot body, all that would beat was the pulse of a finely tuned computer, keeping him not alive, but operating.

Often, Jem would look out the wide master bedroom window and down at the kids in the playground who were around the age he was built to resemble, and he would feel something close to sadness, but not quite. Even he knew that the electronic signals from a CPU was nothing compared to a real, beating heart.

Not surprisingly, his favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz, with Pinocchio in close second. He would feel something close to hope when the tin man was told he had a heart all along, and when Pinocchio became a real boy. Jem was not real, and he knew blue fairies did not exist, not matter how many times he may pray alone at night under the sole comfort of a dim flashlight.

To occupy his days, Jem wandered the halls of the now abandoned mansion, only occasionally glancing at the giant portraits of his many former masters. Most were cruel, some indifferent, only one close to kind. But not quite. It was an unusual type of kind, one that Jem did not like, so he did his best to forget. 

In the dusty mirrors, Jem stared at himself, the tin boy missing an eye and ear, whose bolts were coming undone by the year. He used to feel something close to fear when he first noticed he was breaking down…but not anymore. Now, he was just lonely, rusting, and waiting for his power cell to run dry.

The rules were he could never leave, and he never did. For five hundred years, he waited, watching the sun go up, and down, and up again, feeling the dust slowly overtake his body like a death veil rising on the breeze.

His sight was the first to go, the ocular charger in his skull burnt out.

His hearing was second, the aural lining in his head faded and old.


On the five hundredth year, Jem lay back against the bed, and remembered what the almost kind master whispered into his almost real ear the last night he was there.

“You’re real and I love you,” said the man. “I love you so much.” His hand then did things Jem did not like, so Jem did his best to forget...but this time he could not, and as the computer in his body began to dial down, and as the world began to blur in a most unusual way, Jem cried for the first time. What came out of his eyes was oil, not tears, but he wept all the same.

“As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart.” Said the broken down television in the next room. “You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.”

Jem sobbed.

The wizard smiled. “A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.”

Jem realized he did have a heart all along, and now it was broken. He prayed to the blue fairy to come and take it away, but she never did, because there was no such thing as blue fairies or magical wizards. There was nothing at all, for Jem’s existence was ending, and all he could remember was how much the man loved him, and how much that love could never be returned, for robot boys do not love.



My mom finally died. I don't mean for it to sound like I'm happy about it. I’m just numb. I was right there when that beeper thing stopped... beeping. Her chest stopped rising, instead sinking further down into her ribbed body. She looked peaceful when it happened. I guess that's the most anyone could ask for when someone close dies. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I could see it all happening, I knew she was circling the drain, so I can't really blame it on shock.

Edith Moore was a good woman. A good widow, a good mother, a good Christian. She prayed many times a day once she found out her expected expiration date, as if she thought she could save her soul from paying for her life of indulgences by acting all pious. I didn't buy it, but hey, whatever made her happy.

If there's one thing I'll remember about Edith, mom, it'll be her eyes. Big blue oceans stuck in two wide white marbles, an oasis among the wrinkles of her sandy features. Many thought she was beautiful, but I didn't see it. I only saw her eyes, always mournful, mysterious, with a look that stings, no matter the occasion... I got my dad's brown eyes. Boring expressionless brown.

Dad. Where is he now? Would he care about mom's 'fate'? I'd like to think he would. Even among the numerous bad memories, there are speckles of good thoughts of their past together. Like when they gardened together, all their problems were forgotten, every Sunday. I'd help them ready the earth for new seeds to be planted. I had no idea what I was doing, and still don't, but mom and dad did.

It’s unfortunate that gardening was all that they had going for them.

Sometimes I wonder if there was anything I could've done to stop Him from walking away. All he said was "see ya" before he walked out with his big black suitcase. My mom didn't cry, not after she heard the news of his absence, not when she heard that he remarried. At least, I never saw any tears.


I talked to Gabby a week before the death. I wonder sometimes where I'd be without her. I only knew her for a month, but she's helped me stay solid through this whole thing. I think I’m going to ask her out. The conversation we last had has been playing and replaying in my mind for days.

I asked her what her mom was like.

"Like a big teddy bear."

I smiled.

"What was the first present you remember your mom giving you?" She asked.

A bag of seeds, I told her. Lilac seeds.

"I'm guessing you were expecting more?"

No, I never did. She was always into nature stuff. But those lilac seeds... we planted them together, in our front yard. It was November. They never grew, even though we worked so hard, watering, checking up on them every morning. She kept telling me 'Don't worry, someday they'll grow.' By then, though, I stopped listening to her.... I just turned up the volume on my iPod until I was out of high school.

Gabby stared at me for a good solid minute until she spoke again.

"Lilacs grow in the spring, Toby."


Maybe the reason I'm not as sad as people say I should be is that her death put a lot of thoughts in perspective for me. For instance, when I was leaving the hospital, I saw a painter out in the fields, with a completely blank canvas. He had so many colors on his palette, so many subjects to paint, but he didn't have a clue where to begin.

I feel like her death is like yet another blank canvas in my heart now, the frame of reference always there, but left for someone else to fill with their own colors.

People come and go in life, changing us forever. My mom made me who I am today. My Dad helped. She'll always be the frame to my heart, where others will paint their own influences from their moms, until we create one unified painting, one of hearts joined together, in mourning and remembrance of spring lilacs and wonderful love.

Here's to life and the seeds we tend.