pomme

She loved a boy once, but that was a long time ago. She loved his blueberry pancakes and the way he forgot to dot his "I's". That he'd bring her an apple and leave it on her desk in the studio. No note, just an apple, but she knew it was him.

He is gone now, but she thinks about him every so often. Like when summer turns to autumn and when the first snow falls. Or when she eats really great bruschetta.

Philadelphia Story

Once I knew a boy from Nashville who fell in love with a girl from Philadelphia. It was the end of summer and he was going to be driving from Tennessee way out west for school, far away from his family and far away from the girl he knew he loved. He called the girl and said, "I'm driving to Utah. You're on the way. Can I stop by?" The girl said yes. That's how you know you're in love. When Philadelphia is on the way to Utah. From Nashville. Eventually, the boy and the girl ended up in the same place. And, they lived happily ever after.

take heart

'Tis the week of love, you know. I saw a boy on a bike today. He was riding with only one hand on his handlebars. He had a green beanie atop his head and, in his left hand he balanced a bouquet of flowers. I wanted to turn and follow him to see whose day he was about to make. It made my day to see him. To know there is love like that out there. The kind of love that makes someone ride one-handed, through snow, to deliver flowers wrapped in newsprint in the middle of the day. Take time to notice love in the everyday; the ordinary. In the small things like boys on bikes and girls skipping off to school in heart-covered socks. In the candy heart luv ya babes and the call me's. Spread the love.

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Tyler. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Tyler wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Tyler ended up. I was madly in love with Ben by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Ben's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Ben, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Tyler. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.

i love you more than...

Go here to make your own and participate in spreading the LOVE!

standing still

I decided last night that 23 isn't my favorite number anymore.

I spent much of yesterday and today pensive and pondering. I wish someone had a round trip ticket to certain destinations inside my head. To reveries and reflections. And, the great big Land of Wonder. Some seasoned tourist could land, ready to site-see and give their best interpretation on the origin and history of my latest thoughts. There are people who occupy my mind at times, so to speak, whether they want a free trip or not. There just there, lingering, with no anticipated time of departure.

The YTS has been powwowing-it in the name of Love as of late. We've spent hours, each adding our two cents to the discourse. We've sat fireside, chair-side, bedside and car ride, reading great lines from novels, past journal entries and emails, compiling our own Book of Love, stemming from our own experiences.

What are we to do with those to whom we've given fragments of ourselves? Our very soul? People who've made off with bits and pieces of us and left with us odds and ends of themselves? These people who are so much more than the word "memory?" They linger inside us; some sort of beautiful mess. Songs we'll forever know. Lyrics that won't leave our head. So we beat on, telling ourselves not to think about them, when all that really does is make it worse. With every turn, a memory, and with those memories, your heart begins to sting. Heartache. Actual heart ache. And, just when the stinging dies down, something surfaces - a line in a movie or a book, the same tattered baseball cap covering a head in a sea of people, or a tucked-away a post-it, with that signature scribbly-scrawl, becomes un-tucked, leaving you undone. You're caught living a life you can't leave behind.

There comes a time to empty the box of reveries and let the pictures fade. To delete the play lists. To cancel all flights and itineraries. And to finally stop living out of the suitcases of recollections. What you can't keep is a hard thing to lose.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday (my) ocean
Will find its shore.

{Nick Drake}

In the name of Love

I'm not going to be naming names, 'cause you know who you are, but Bottom Line: Way to be!

I love/Love you a million Great Britains.