Natalie

You were always so picky,

filled with such high expectations.

You went on dates,

said they were lovely,

didn’t return a call.

We never thought you would be

satisfied.

You were always like Jane Austen,

waiting for dashing gentlemen

to arrive on their fine horses.

You wanted charming,

but not cocky.

Intelligent,

but not arrogant.

Caring,

but not clingy.

None of them could be your Mr. Knightly.

Then he rode by,

swooped you up in his arms.

You didn’t reject.

Like Eleanor,

you gave into sense.

For he’s the smile on your lips,

the rhythm to your heart,

the life to your eyes.

Your everlasting happiness.

Within

Ringlets of honey brown

spring from above that olive face.

Those green eyes shine with life

as that smile begins to curl,

unleashing laughter.

Within that face is a girl.

A girl whose heart is as sweet

as the color of her hair.

As she laughs,

she peers into the mirror.

She quickly quiets down;

She is silent,

again.

Within that laugh is a girl.

A girl wanting to be accepted,

to be part of something.

Pressure.

Pressure to succeed.

Pressure to be perfect.

Those green eyes shift

from friends’ perfect grades

to their low B’s.

Within those eyes is a girl.

A girl who longs to be important,

to be someone.

Where I’m From

I am from bouncy balls,

From Little Debbies and Pillsbury layers

I am from the house on the corner.

Maroon, hilly, smell of chlorine in the backyard

I am from buttercups and daises,

the great magnolia

that blooms ivory buds annually.

I’m from lasagna and olive skin,

from Johnny and George.

I’m from the notorious dog owners

and the never on times,

From quality is better than quantity

and God is bigger than the boogie man.

From

the car that smashed into the house and the piano that slid across the floor while Natalie was in the bathroom.

the magician who amuses so many.

A chest lies in my parents’ room

filled with memories of long-lost friends

and baseball games

and birthdays.

Pictures may fade to gray

but our family will last

forever. 

A Room of Gratefulness

            Though it’s rather small, our kitchen is the homiest of the rooms in the house.  It’s like a photo album, full of memories.  The mustard colored walls and roughly painted cabinets give it character.  While my father occasionally reads scripture aloud, the refrigerator hums and the tea pot whistles as if they agree with the word of the Lord.  Often on Fridays’, my momma rolls out her sourdough and stirs the boiling sauce while the sausage sizzles in the iron skillet.  I always snatch some mozzarella.  My dad, too, picks at the cheese, but he grabs it less surreptitiously than I.  The whiff of homemade pizza baking in the oven is a blanket, warming smiles and spirits.  Everyone is happy, grateful, and blessed to be part of such a loving family.  We end the night with comforting thoughts and heaps of laughter.

Letter to Mr. Hugo

I know, I know. It's been a while. But it's not like anyone reads it anyway. I just enjoy writing, I guess.  Well here's my letter to one of the greatest writers, Victor Hugo.  However, I must confess that I have never read all of Les Miserables.  I do know the full story, though, by listening to the soundtrack for 15 years. I also watched the movie, and I know, it does not do the book justice. Someday I'll have time to sit by the fire and actually read good old Hugo. Here we go.

Dear Mr. Hugo,

            Every time someone mentions your masterpiece Les Miserables, my eyes water. Well, maybe not every time.  It does have a great effect on me, though.  I cannot think of a more complex novel, filled with freedom and enslavement, love and hatred, death and rebirth.  The characters are so genuine and have such depth, especially Jean Valjean and Fantine.  Their lives of suffering are so dreadful and somewhat painful to read, yet are very powerful stories.  Often when I listen to the soundtrack and Fantine sings “I dreamed my life would be so different from this hell I’m living,” I cry.  I simply cannot imagine a life where I am so desperate that I must sell myself as a prostitute.  Fantine sacrifices everything she has, her dignity, her lifestyle, her beauty, and even her life so her Cosette can be taken care of. The irony is the innkeeper and his wife treat Cosette like a slave.  They express the selfish heart of man.

            It’s incredible the way you reveal God’s love and grace in countless situations ranging from the bishop forgiving Valjean to him sparing Javert when he had the chance to kill him.  Without forgiveness and mercy, this world would never move forward.  This story always encourages me in my faith.  I am less likely to give up hope when I think of Les Miserables.  The fact that Fantine continues to love God even when she is in the deepest hole and nearly dying, encourages me.  I used to be one who was quick to judge others, but this book has helped me to see them from a different light.

            Also, I have learned not to take things for granted all the time.  I am so blessed to live in the Land of Opportunity with an abundance of food, and I have clothes to keep out the chill.  For centuries, the citizens in France fiercely fought for their freedom.  Even though they were poor and had next to nothing, they sacrificed what they did have.  I’m thankful that I live in a free country where I don’t have to be afraid to stand up and raise my voice.

            Of course, every good story needs a love story.  It just doesn’t always have to be a romance between two lovers.  You clearly illustrate the love of the father.  Even though Cosette is not his own, Valjean cares for her as if she is.  He makes sure no one harms her as long as he is living.  When Marius is hurt and close to dying, he prays for his safety and explains that he is the like the son he might had known if God had granted him a son.  He is willing to die for Marius. 

            One of my favorite characters who grows and develops throughout the story is Javert.  When he was first introduced in the story, I hated him.  He was mean, callus, cruel, and I found nothing to like about him.  But as the tale goes along, he grows to realize God is forgiving.  Valjean finally has the chance to fulfill his vengeance and to take Javert’s life, but he simply lets him go free.  At this point Javert realizes the beauty and sincerity of God’s amazing grace.  Though it is his duty to find Valjean and to arrest him, he believes this man is forgiven and therefore struggles deciding between duty and justice.  He cannot live with this controversy and kills himself.

            Your book has made me such a different person, Mr. Hugo.  I have read countless books, but none are as clever and as moving as Les Miserables.  You have shown me the realities and the horrors of this world. But you have also shown me that there is always hope and that the love and grace of God is unending.  Thank you so much for this.

With all sincerity, 

Joanna Bernardini

My Child

There’s gypsy in your veins, child.

You dance wildly across the field,

swinging your hips,

raising your arms

with such ease.

Your form so effortless,

a dance strung together

purely by your imagination.

No expert can compare

with your passionate

sense of beauty.

With a daisy tucked behind your ear,

your auburn locks fly freely

as the gentle wind

burns your cheeks rosy pink.

You resemble a flower child,

peaceful and carefree.

Your green eyes shine,

reflecting off your

satin, ivy dress

that flutters while you twirl

round and round.

With wild weeds,

you create ornaments

that you insist I wear.

I willingly let you

place the homemade tiara

on top my head.

You smile with

such great satisfaction,

it sends chills to my ankles.

Your laugh echoes,

a sweet ringing to my ears.

Forever you will

reside in my heart.

To the Fish that Run Away

          Not too many people are fond of the reek of fish fry and grease, but I am.  It reminds me of my great grandparents’ lake house in Horseshoe, Arkansas.  Whenever my Pop fries bacon, a memory of Nana floats back to mind.  With one hand on her hip, the other clutching a rusty spatula, she flips catfish and crappie in the propane deep fryer.  She binds her left hand fingers around her right wrist in order to remove the heavy skillet from the fire.  While the fish sizzles in the fat, she rolls flour and corn into balls with her fat-knuckled, arthritic hands.  She smiles at me, her gorgeous gray eyes express a kindness only grandmas possess.  “Give me some sugar,” she says.  Knowing exactly what she says, I wrap my arms around her frail body and press my childish lips to her wrinkled yet soft cheek. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by her perfume, a powdery-sweet scent. 

            I’ve always had a strong bond with Nana.  For one, we share the same name.  Hers being Francis Louise and mine, Joanna Louise.  When I was born, she insisted that I be called Louise.  Though only four feet and eleven inches, she was a little ball of fire, a Death-ah-Blow as PawPaw would call it.  She refused to take no for an answer.  Three days later (and only one after her birthday), I was given the name Joanna Louise Bernardini.  Cradling me in her loose-skinned arms, she whispered in my ear “I love you Louise. You’re mine.” Since my birthday was so near hers and I carried her middle name, I was considered her favorite. 

            Sometimes I can still feel the chill of the autumn wind blowing in our faces while we stand on that ramshackle dock and simply admire the view.  Golden and carrot colored leaves dance beneath the almost red Sun and the wind whistles above the white capped waves.  During the summer we go fishing with my brother Jordan and PawPaw.  With my construction site colored vest, I sniff the gasoline that rises when the motor erupts.  Ducking our heads, Jordan and I bend over so to not be knocked out by the heavy hooks that hold the boat in place.  While the boat cuts through the slimy algae, my brother and I keep our eyes peeled for turtles and tortoises.  Before we exit the mouth of the canal PawPaw slows down and eases up to the side.  Crawling out and fiddling with thickets and branches, he manages to acquire a twig of juicy blackberries.  Even though they stain our fingertips, we love them. 

            Once near the lilies, Nana reaches over and pulls a pad three times the circumference of my face and plops it on my head.  I resemble a Munchkin.  I always want to ask her questions like “How do fish breathe?” and “Where do they sleep?” but she constantly shushes me.

            “Hush child.  If you don’t be quiet, the fishies will run away,” she often said.

            “But fish can’t…”

            “Shh!”

            I never understood how fish ran without legs. 

            Nana and PawPaw never fail to catch, but I am lucky enough to have one nibble on my line. Many times my heart jumps from excitement and I begin to reel in my pole, only then to realize my hook is caught on a log or tire.  Jordan’s catches appear like Russian nesting dolls; each one comes out smaller and smaller.  Once the Sun’s rays stretch for the horizon, we head back, and Jordan makes sure the hefty catfish doesn’t flop out while it breathes heavily. I snack on the berries.

            While PawPaw demonstrates to Jordan how to properly cut open a catfish, Nana assists me with setting up the croquet equipment.  Even though it hurt her back, she played with me every time I asked.  Of course she let me win.  I knew no one more altruistic than her.  She was the essence of a caring grandmother.

            Often I think about her.  I miss her smile and the way she squeezed me with her arms.  I miss sleeping in the pull out couch and watching The Ten Commandments with her.  I miss the story of her and PawPaw’s engagement: how she was crawling out from under the house and PawPaw replied “Do you cook too? I’m gonna marry you.”  I miss the fried catfish and hushpuppies that she made for the fourth of July.  I miss the endless hours of croquet and fishing. These are only memories without her by my side.  Sometimes I tilt my head to the sky and say “I love you too Nana. I’ll see you when it’s time.”