A Moment Like This: Kelly Clarkson Shares a Very Awkward Family Christmas Photo

Ballerina

Ballerina–

My feet scream at me to stop.  They’ve had a long day, I know.  My feet scream at me to stop and my heart says more, more, more.  Its much more fun when I want to do it… than when I have to… it’s fun either way.  My heart says más, más, más and she’s dictating.  Relax the face and leg straight and smile; don’t forget to smile.  She’s dictating and I want to tell her to shut up, I know, I know, but I also know I need her.  It’s part of the discipline.  I’m disciplined but its more fun when I want it and not because I have to.  But I always want to, so it’s always fun.

Those who are watching watch in awe.  A blur of people in awe of me.  They watch silently as I dance.  My mother says it’s beautiful dancing; it’s spinning and twirling and prancing.  My mother says que lindó es bailar and that’s why I still dance.  My mother’s not among those people in awe of me but that’s not the point right now.  The point is I dance and I need to concentrate.  I concentrate on my timing and on not losing my balance.  I know it’s not the end of the world if I lose my balance, I’ll get up and keep going.  My cheeks will be flushed and my body hot, hotter than I already feel from the lights, but I’ll say to myself keep going.  And I’m going to keep dancing.  I know in the end they will applaud and smile and throw pink and red roses, and white ones too.  I know I may have twisted my ankle and I might have broken my toe nail—my ribs will be aching from being lifted and pulled and tossed.  My big toe nail understands because he know it’s a discipline, my ribs too, they understand.  It’s a discipline they admit.  My feet are lucky my shoes are worn in.  They know the best shoes are those worn in.  The best shoes are the ones frayed at the point, the ones where the fabric is strained and fuzzy, the fibers struggle against tear as the shoe drags and presses against the stage.  The best dancers are the ones that are worn in.  I’ve been worn in a long time.  A long time ago I started dancing and twirling and prancing and spinning.  I knew I wanted to do this when I realized I was good.  I’m not good at many things pero si se bailar.  I know how to dance because my mother wanted me to.  My mother used to dress me in tutus of gold with dust-coloured speckles, rosy tulle skirts with lacy hems.  Sometimes dresses of ivory-white.  Vestiditos blancos that my mother loved.  My mother’s not among those people right now but that’s not the point.   The point is my feet only fit in ballet shoes, my feet don’t know much else.  My feet will get their rest one day.  My mind worries about what’ll happen once the dancing stops.  The dancing will stop when no one wants to watch it anymore.  One day they’ll want to see another mother’s little ballerina dance.  Mother’s little ballerina is bailarina old, without her mother.

Word Games

“Okay.  You can go first.”

 

I can’t remember why we started playing, boredom maybe, because we don’t have anything to say to each other, maybe, or perhaps there’s nothing else to do in my apartment or maybe because it’s what you always suggest whenever things get quiet, because you say you hate awkward silences, although to me there’s nothing awkward about silence with you, and when things are quiet you say let’s play.

“H-O-U-R.  That’s fourteen.”

 

Can it be one o’clock already?  I want to say I’m tired, I want to go home, sleep in my own bed, watch my own t.v., brush with my own toothbrush.  The seconds tick with my heart, I feel every one of them going by, wishing they would run, not walk, behind the last, and with every second that passes I’m punching myself for not saying what I want to say, which is that I’m tired, and, well, can I go home now?”

“Q-U-I-L-T.  Sixteen there.”

.

That Sunday we spent the whole day spread out 6on your bed, under that awful blanket you wove during some phase you were going through that didn’t last, thankfully, making silly faces and pinching each other until one of us laughed, it was usually me, and making forts from the blankets on your four-poster bed, the only reminder that the day was ending was the fade of the yellowy shadow on the ivory-white walls of our fort, and the smirk on your face, the pout of your lips as you said you had fun but you had to wake up early the next morning, and my dread at the elevator ride down unto that lonely lamp-lit street.

“H-A-N-D-S. Ten.”

 

I stand in the mirror and I look at the change in the lines of my face, the pockets under my eyes, like little corn puffs hoping to be stepped on, gifts from the strains of loving, I guess, something like haggardness consumes me, or maybe it’s the heaviness of the metal and rock on my finger, wasting away at the skin around it, that every day at 4 I take off, just to see what it feels like to be me 6 months ago, and every day at 4:03 I look at my face, hopeful for the change back to me, terrified instead at the face that greets me, and I know it’s too late, the skin on that finger is raw and scarlet hot, now it just needs something to cover the red.

“A-M-E-N-D-S and S for H-O-U-R-S.  Twenty-six.”

 

The time we broke up, that was hard, it had only been two months but still, it was so much more than two months, it was whole days of talking and laughing and singing our favorite songs until our throats were raspy-dry, and when we had no more breath to talk, we went to bed, I, in those smiley-faced pajamas you bought me, and you in that white lacy nightdress, the one you wore when you didn’t want to sleep, and we went to sleep, only we didn’t sleep, so when you told me you wanted to break up I reminded you of those days precisely, the ones spent in islands of snowy-white sheets and books and cd’s and eggs and oatmeal, those days I had with no one else, but you said those days were just the problem, that we never did anything else, and I knew it wasn’t true but I shut up.  Two Sundays later we were back to building forts, we put the cotton walls back up, we opened the shades to let the sun warm our skin, and two Sundays later we were saying the word ‘love’, yeah, that dreadful word ‘love’.

“D-O-T-E.  Ten for me.”

 

The morning I loved you I found it in the oatmeal you sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, the oatmeal that never came out that way when I made it, I found it in the sweet smell of your hair, in the stubble of your unshaven chin, in the rosy pinkness of your lips as they kissed my eyelashes, and in the sultriness of your voice as you uttered that love word, that charming little love word.

“P-A-C-T-S. Eighteen.”

 

You were sitting with your body slouched, your hands in your laps, your thumbs battling each other under the table.  I hadn’t thought it through, what I was going to say, but when I was sitting there with sweaty palms I wished I had planned something out.  After a glass of wine, you with your thumbs there, still twiddling away, still slouched over, your brown eyes, brown tree bark, looked up at me as I dropped the tiny size 6 ring in your open palms and confessed you were the girl I wanted to marry, that if you should say yes I’d be perfectly happy, and almost immediately you nodded as a whisper of a yes emerged from your pretty mouth, that lovely mouth that kissed my hand, and agreed to be mine always.

“P-I-N-E.  Seven.”

 

I can still feel the grass scratching on my skin, its smell of dirt and mint—just a little bit—the way it felt when you tickled my nose with it, my ears, the edges of my mouth as I pretended to sleep, knowing every time I closed my eyes you would start again, trying not to smile or laugh, because even though I called you annoying, the truth was with every kiss of grass against my lips and cheek came a new set of exhilarating goose bumps, and those walks we took that weekend in the woods, pretending there were bears and wolves, that the trees were our homes, the pine cones our food, our telephones, our hairbrushes, our remote controls until it got cold and we were tired of pretending, and I counted the hours until Sunday night, realizing we still had a lot of time.

“H-O-M-E.  Nine.”

 

Behind you hangs the picture I remember I took of you and my father, an older me, except for the nose, standing together in front of his house, your arm around his waist and his over your shoulder, pulling you closer, the house behind covered in droplets of rain, dewy pink petals scattered on the grass below, the rain from the night before had weakened to a mist, and the sun was just waking from its stupor, your eyes were squinted, your forehead damp, your body slouched with one leg crossed decidedly in front of the other, and I remember thinking that’s how we would look years from then—you and I—you with the same face, except the youth in your eyes would be faded.  That weekend you met my father, that was the weekend I had made my decision, it’s when I’d hoped you had made yours of maybe sticking with me, and I thought I could see traces of it in your smiles, but, I couldn’t be sure, who ever knows with you?

B-E-C-O-M-E.  Thirty-six points.

 

I wondered what he would be like, your father.  I could picture the same face as yours, scarred with age, weaving lines writing the story of the sadness in their eyes, of losing love too early, I imagine, so it was no big shock to see how much alike you were, and then I couldn’t remember why I had been so nervous the week before, fussing over what I would have to talk about, thinking of ways to get out of going, each excuse more irrational than the last, I think you noticed, too, because you kept saying how much fun we’d have, that I’d love it, the house, with its unkempt exterior, its shabby shutters that opened to let in the creeping sun, the curious willowy branches that tickled my forehead as they kissed me awake, and the light breeze that pushed them in, encouraging their curiosity, with the sun as their accomplice, which I did love, but more so for the corners of the house where I could smell your childhood, damp wooden blocks and cheerios, where I could hear the sound of the creak of the wood floor your mom would’ve made as she placed one delicate foot gracefully in front of the other and your father’s laughter from rooms away, and where I could smell his banana pancakes but know that he made oatmeal too.  I remember when your father told us he’d be giving us the house, if we were still us by the time it happened, the disguised delight in your voice as you protested no, no, really, it’s fine, I couldn’t possibly, and your pop, he would hear none of it, it was for our future, he’d keep saying, but every time I pictured future me, future us, future house, a rush of panic-flavored bubbles rose in my throat, whose bitterness eventually faded, with time, leaving only anxious tarty-sweetness.

“R-I-G-H-T.  Eleven.”

 

Exit on the left, I remember it said.  There were two miles left until our exit, you were switching radio stations, why hadn’t we thought to bring c.d.’s?  Oh yeah, you were tired of us always listening to the same songs, that’s what you said when I suggested we bring a c.d., you said we always listen to them, them being the band on the disc, so I said whatever, just like that, because I knew it would be an argument, and then you would start listing all the other things that we always do, and I would say so what, it has nothing to do with music, we’re talking about music, not other things, and you would say it’s all the same, and I would shut up because you made no sense, it wasn’t all the same.  Exit on the left and we had two miles to go.  I don’t remember when it was, somewhere between those two miles left I suppose, that the two cars in front of us collided, it seemed so blurry then, as it always does, but the last thing I saw were your eyes on me—that dark brown over creamy white—the birthmark under your right one, and your frowning eyebrows as you looked at the road, that look that made me turn and see the two cars in front of us were merging into a big blob of metal carcass, and the quickness of my beating heart as I swerved to avoid the catastrophe, half of whose beats were threatening to kill me if you got hurt, the other half grateful that you weren’t and that we were okay.

“W-A-G-I-N-G.  Fourteen.”

 

The moments before you picked me up for our first date, as I was getting ready, I remember thinking what a mistake I had made, the truth was I didn’t really want to go out with you, I had the whole date already imagined in my head and it was lame, but because the weekend before when I met you, you looked handsome in the darkness of that foggy night, because you were enveloped in foggy mystery, but also because you said something, something I can’t remember now, that made me laugh, or maybe it was because I had just practically inhaled three rum and cokes, that I decided to give you my number, and now there I was, in pretty pink lipstick so you would look at my mouth when I talked instead of at my breasts, instead of at the pretty waitress with one button missing, instead of at your watch, staring at the street waiting for you to pull up.  I expected a call from you to come downstairs so you wouldn’t have to park, when I saw you get out of your car and walk into my building, and a minute later you were knocking at my door, and then I couldn’t remember why I’d regretted saying yes to our date.  The second time you knocked at my door, we went to a bar with an old jukebox and drank beer and vodka as we went through the playlists, picking out our favorite artists, and the ones we hated whose names I can’t remember now, and played them all until the owner chased us out, that night we sought refuge under your flannel sheets.

“B-R-O-W-S-E-D.  Fifty-one.”

 

I don’t know what made me think to look through your phone that time.  I was never a victim to jealous, but something about that day, that hour, that mood you were in, and the way your eyes kept going to that stupid phone, I just couldn’t wait until you left the room so I could see what was inside that phone, and then I wish I hadn’t, because when I saw what I wish I hadn’t seen, and confronted you about him, your dismissing shrug dug deep into my ribcage, it was nothing, you said, just fooling around, none of it was true, plus, why was I looking through your phone, I had no right, but you said you would forgive me if I just trusted you more and I said okay—the truth was I wanted to trust you more.  In the following days I debated breaking things off, after all you lived too far and your apartment had this weird smell like you always burned your food because you couldn’t cook and you laughed at everything that wasn’t funny and your favorite thing to do was shrug, but you did laugh a lot and it reminded me of my father and the way his laugh made everyone else laugh too and I couldn’t forget that, or rather, I didn’t want to and I decided to take a chance.  Regret? No, no regret.

“W-A-G-I-N-G.  Fourteen.”

 

That night I knew what you were going to ask me before you asked it but I didn’t know what I’d say, I figured I would know when I answered, so I sat there thinking of that future that was being made for us, for you, for me, wondering what I was tasting in my throat now, the sour taste of unease at what you were about to ask or that of bitter longing for the things I had 5 months ago, or both, yes both masked by a sweetness that comes from knowing our white walls wouldn’t be coming down, and when you dropped that little ring in my hand I nodded, that’s all I could think of doing as images of white gowns, purple flower arrangements, china patterns, and somethings blue and somethings borrowed clouded my mind; you knew I hated planning.

“V-I-O-L-E-T.  Eighteen.”

 

In late May the streets were filled with color, the rain from the weeks before had sprung orchids and lilacs that street vendors were waving in the faces of passersby. On the walk home I grabbed a purple bouquet matching the color of that dress I knew you’d be wearing, to put in a vase at the center of the table where you and your parents would be eating, where I would finally meet them, but when you rang my doorbell you were alone, your parents weren’t coming, not tonight, your father had been called in to work and your mother wouldn’t come without him, so I set the table just for us and complimented you on your dress as you ate in silence, disappointment evident on your face at the evening not going as you planned, and I knew how much you hated to plan things.  Maybe it wasn’t disappointment that night though, because you never did plan that evening, not really.

“V-E-I-L.  Seven. Why didn’t you tell your parents about me, about us?”

 

I remember the night you said it might be a good idea if my parents met you, after all we were engaged and they should know that about their daughter, in fact, you recalled, you hadn’t met more than two of my friends, and all I could think of was the past few months, the Sundays spent sleeping in, the Wednesday night dinners, the Saturdays spent with your father, all of my days the color you, realizing I had forgotten everything else but I nodded, that’s a good idea, I said.  The truth was, I didn’t recognize myself anymore, everything the color me had faded, leaving only ugly, faint blotches on our newly painted landscape.

“P-L-A-I-N.  Eight”

 

The rain is pouring now and it taps hard against the window, yelling furiously to be let in, but inside the air is stiff with silence.  You say nothing, do nothing, just play your words and twiddle your thumbs, that’s your defense, but now I want to be the one to hate awkward silences, especially with you, and there are twenty something letters left but no more words to put together, and you won already anyway.  It’s your turn to take the elevator ride down unto that lonely lamp-lit street, call me when you get home.

“Can you go home now?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sound Advice

It’s not easy, this place, you know.  You’ve got a lot to think about, girl.  It’s like… you think it’s just about the getting paid part, but it’s not.  It’s also the being humiliated and seriously naked, part.  About being ogled by men like that—you see them over there?  And no one will ever take you seriously, you know that right?  The good thing is, the money’s good, girl is it good.  And for girls like me… well that’s about as good as it gets, you know.  But not for a smart girl like you, a good girl.  No, you should go to college, yes I’m sure of it.  You don’t want this life, you know.  It’s good money, yes, but then forget about a husband.  You’ll want to marry a gentleman, right?  No gentleman will ever want anything serious to do with you.  He’s going to find serious somewhere else.  Now me, I’ve been smart enough to avoid gentlemen.  Gentlemen hurt you.  And trust me, you don’t want to be hurt.  I haven’t been hurt, so I don’t know what it feels like, but I heard it’s not good.  And even if I have been hurt, well, I know I wont go down that road again.  The good thing about working here is the money’s good.  And you get to dance.  You like to dance, don’t you?  Well, you’re going to do a lot of dancing here, trust me.  And you’ve got to take your clothes off, you know that right?  Okay, okay, just checking, relax.  I’m thinking about leaving this place myself, though.  I should go to college, you know.  I bet there’s plenty of girls my age there, in school.  You think I’m too old to start? Forget it, don’t answer that.  I know what you think of me.  You don’t want to work here, you don’t want people thinking things about you.  In fact, I’m thinking something of you now and you haven’t even started.  I’m just kidding, don’t get so offended.  Although… you should probably get used to feeling offended.  You’ll be offended loads here.  Especially you.  Because you know, you’re a catch.  That’s why you should go to school; find someone to love you and take you home.  Home to meet his parent.  Because you know—working here—you won’t be meeting many parents.  I guess that’s another good thing; you don’t have to impress anyone, you know.  The money’s easy; not much thinking involved now is there.  Plus, it’s real good money.  Well, I don’t know if the money’s that great.  It may not be all that worth it, but it’s an honest living, you know.

Candle: 40

40.  Take off the zero and just leave the four, please.  40.  Forty years of unproductive life, decrepit living.  The candle 4 is my enemy, but we are so alike—dilapidated, colors fading away at the edges, sprinkles of false hope to make us look brighter than we are.  Make that four look like something else, why don’t you?  I don’t remember the last birthday I had and was actually happy about it.  I don’t remember those birthdays I used to plan for, feel excited about, plotting this bar or that bar, shots are cheaper here, girls are cuter there.  It all seems so distant now.  I wonder what I’ll feel like ten years from now, when that four is four no more but five, now six.  The candle is burning, the wick is wasting away, mini bits of black dive into icing.  Time to blow out the waxy drip, time to make a wish.  Take off the zero, transform that four, cut it in half, I beg you.  I know you’re thinking oh, how dramatic I’m being forty is young still, and you’re probably right if it were anyone else, but it’s me—40 year old me, career-less little me, wifeless old me, loveless pathetic me.  So please, chop off that zero and make me four again.   I’ll close my eyes and blow out those miserable candles—zero first, then four, and I’ll make that wish and you’re going to oblige, you hear?