What I Do

I drive with a little person in my back seat. I look in the rearview to watch her talking to a graham cracker. I hear her singing softly her own lyrical version of our favorite band. She sends her requests to the front seat, "Next song, Mommy. B-head, good one Mommy. My song."

I stand in my kitchen and peel an onion. If it makes my hands smell bad, if it makes me cry, I don't care. I chop it and throw it in a pan of sizzling butter. And the garlic next. Many ingredients later I stand over the stove and slowly stir, stir. When it is time to eat I am already full from the smells.

I sit in a chair and face a screen, hands on keys, each day. I edit and resize. I drink coffee, and I drink more coffee. I pick up my phone and a tiny man is taped to the inside of the handset. A prankfull of plastic army men litter my work space in various poses of combat. One stands on the back of a black and white cow. Charge!

I open a bottle of beer and walk down plaid shag steps to the basement. I sit and play drums. I am an advancing drummer. I am done with Medium and ready for Hard. I look over at my bandmate on the futon, already asleep and exhausted from his day. He is an Expert.

I peel the cellophane from the pack, open, pick one, strike a match and smoke. Just this one night, and then maybe again on the weekend, and possibly another night after that. I sit on a wooden bench for hours and never think about the discomfort, while I drink and laugh and listen. I watch my friends and soak in their sounds.

I drive alone. I write snapshots in my head, grip the wheel and try to remember where I'm going. I get desperate for the night sometimes when I go from here to there. And sometimes I am in the moment that I never want to end.