Plastic & Paper: Variations of Silence

I’m standing at Border’s Books. I can’t afford the five books that are in my arms. I wish they had lay-away. At the register, I quickly chose two books. One book is about love amongst the landscape (what does that mean?), true love, I guess and what it can endure. The other book is about "loving where you’re at" and in order to find happiness one must not disregard the questions of their heart, or as the author states, “Learn to live life with the questions. Learn to live them out.” People are making money of this...and I'm supporting it!

In line, a couple behind me makes small talk, but I get the feeling they actually want to be heard. From the genetics of their conversation, I know they’re dating, I’d say, probably somewhere in the first six-month stretch. He’s the dominant one in the relationship. She teases him about various things, trying to soften him, but he remains positioned. He tells her she carries too much plastic. I move my neck around, as if to stretch, smile, and see he’s referencing to her credit cards; they are both peering down into her over-stuffed, small Coach handbag. The city of Fresno keeps Coach in business. She tells him that he needs to recycle the magazine he has in his hand and not let it build up dust with all the magazines has bought.

Silence returns.

All of us wait for the line to inch us forward. I hear her say, “Not everyone is that fortunate,” then, back to whispering lovers. What are they talking about?

I stand self-conscious in shoes; my skirt feels suddenly too tight. I turn to look at them. Her boyfriend stares at my chest. It’s a rude stare—past the “1-second rule,” which places him in the “pig with no manners” category. Covering my chest with the books, I pin my eyes on the carpet. I stand frozen, only my eyes dare to move, ever so slightly, on the two colors of threaded on the carpet.

Essays

I'm emptying boxes from one, two, three moves ago, and finding essays over twenty years old. I sort through the pages--nothing is consistent--everything from ruled notebook paper to bound journals; their titles are young and trite and stuffed with cliches'; all the voices wild with raw hope. One day, I know someone has to sort through all of this. As I create 'shred' and 'file' stacks in the center of my dining room floor, I wonder what would be the advantage to keep them, even with the possibly of never returning to them again?