do you remember the first time you were called a writer?

I do. I clung to it. Eight years old, writing about a snowflake's journey as an example for my first-grade buddy learning about precipitation and the water cycle. "Can I keep this to use for my future students as an example?"

Ten years old writing my first essay, ever, something about the Lewis & Clark expedition - my teacher beckoned me to his desk in the back corner of the trailer, flipped my paper around to show me the letter grade on it, and after a moment of thought - "You're going to be my writer this year, aren't you?"

No compliment in the world could have been greater. I told him yes, I was. And that was that. I was the writer, that year. I never let go of that comment. It became my subconscious mission, for the rest of my schooling even though university, to prove him right; rather, to prove that I was worthy of the word.

So I hope you're reading, Mrs. Neely, Mr. Paris. You made me what I am, somehow pulled the foundation from the ruins of a broken home. I'm a writer, if you can call it that; and if not, well, I'm just someone who tries every day to be worthy of the term.

what's in a name?

probably not enough to know much

but in my name

(and I chose it myself)

I hear freedom, a sigh of relief

and in yours I hear complexities

i will try to describe;

keystrokes, wit, and tangled up sheets

and when your mouth says my name

it's comfort, steadiness

laughter abound

and patience of ages.

and when my lips form yours,

it tastes like gentleness

and organized chaos

daily messes cleaned up with sighs,

imparting life lessons I watch you deliver,

and our conversations lasting long past the dusk.

so yeah, your name on my tongue -

in short, it tastes like home.

your hands burn on me

(however you choose to lay them)

arnica and your shampoo

soft blankets, cool sheets, and

the stinging of you on my skin

all remind me what is real.

There is a place in the mountains of Southwestern Virginia, in the middle of Appalachia, that was known as a hub of vibrant culture and music. It's hard not to feel... muted, now, there; it's like the mountains themselves, the Valley itself, can feel the loss of things that once were. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Do you know trains? I do. I know how they stop me on my way across town, to a group where children wait for me with the supplies to make their glitter jars to go with our discussion of space, stars, asteroids, nebulas, galaxies. Space Dust. But I'm stuck, right there, the first car in line while the tracks clatter and thunder and that bell comes ringin'. Too late - didn't make it. I never mind, though. And I certainly don't mind this, my very first time witnessing the cocophany of art that is about to unfold for me. Contrary to belief, trains don't go that fast, not through the city. It affords me a country-side view to the best gallery I could ask for, though.

If you've never watched a train go by, you should. The vast surfaces of their cars contain the most beautiful, poetic, raw, tragic, mind-blowing, inspiring, crazed, orbital pieces of art in the world. Graffiti is nothing new. The Romans did it thousands of years ago, and we do it today. And train engineers, also contrary to belief, know that. Here's the thing they might not tell you: they love it too. I'm watching greens and yellows and purple and paint and spray and dripping red streaks with black overtop, I'm watching social determinants take a back seat, I'm watching words of justice, peace, challenge, laughter, *passion* - mostly, it's passion. Art, devastation, hope: stories.

Every once in awhile, there's a freshly painted car. It's never the whole thing. Usually a square, random-looking, sticking out like a sore thumb. It makes it new art, when they have to do it. And you know, deep down, how awful it must feel to have to paint over such pieces of humanity, but the problem is that science, too, is an art. Math is an art. Engineering is an art. And unfortunately, without the right markings on the sides of those cars, telling them which wheels and tracks and cars and fuel and measurements, makes and models, and ten thousand other things that I couldn't tell you but I know are important... well, without that stuff, what you get is a whole lot of hurt.

Railways will do that, you know. They'll cause lots of harm. It's the same harm these mountains know well. Cus' years before this railway here existed, before the GI Bill, before the first infrastructure initiative tore this city in half, destroying one of the most prominent, thriving Black communities and cultural centers in the American South... well, there was music, here. There was no rail. There was a city: intact, accessible from both sides. No "wrong side of the tracks," no Sir, no Ma'am. Lots of love and art and *life*. This used to be a street. The trains don't even know it. The children don't, either. All they know is the innocence of glitter-glue jars like the ones in my passenger seat that they will make today. And they know violence, too - a story for another time. So the kids have no clue, sure.

But I know. The people here know. The earth, air and forest, these mountains, this Valley... It knows. It knows what it used to be, and every so often you can feel it in your bones. You feel the melancholy as these tracks grieve the music, shriek out, and mourn the death of the art that once graced the sides of buildings, buildings which now only exist in the dirt beneath the metal burying the joy which once emanated from them in music, dancing, laughter. I think every time the ground shifts, every time those tracks (now rendered nearly obsolete) creak, it's the remnants of the posters, the newspapers, the fliers that once advertised the Greats appearing on stage. This place is trying to dig itself out.

And maybe the trains don't know. But the tracks? They do. It's difficult to forget when you are built up from destruction, founded on devastation. Those remnants underneath iron and steel stir every time a train is just about to pass not because they have to, but because they feel it coming. After decades of being reduced to nothing, they get a taste of art, again; and they reach for it. Just as the conductors and engineers do everything they can to preserve the years of art on their traincars, so the Valley itself remains dedicated to maintaining its connection to life as we would have it be: free, flowing, and true to our humanity. Beautiful. Ugly. Call it what you will. But altogether, life as we would have it be is, quite simply, summarized in art, just like we are: Messy, broken, fixed, hopeful, passionate. Just like the trains. And me personally, I think that's kinda beautiful.

my legs on top of his, my head on the couch, his hand on my arm - how many hours have we laid here? one? three? I'm not sure. I just know I don't want it to end.

~

we're watching the show - and I've been paying attention, yeah. I have been. but I also can't help watching him. he's sitting in a higher chair up on the balcony we're on - I swapped mine for one that allows me to put both feet on the floor. product of my dizziness from earlier, and the climb up the stairs. I can feel the heat from his skin next to mine, his arm just a millimeter away from my cheek, drawing me in. he looks down all of a sudden and I'm grateful he can't see me blushing at being caught.

"what's wrong?" leaning down, talking in my ear to be heard over the applause, his breath tickling my neck.

"nothing," I laugh. "all good." I bump his elbow with my forehead and he nods, turning back to the stage, but his leg shifts, pressing up close against mine. (tall people... bullshit.) he's laughing at a line that I missed. I'm too busy trying not to breathe.

~

"Don't touch it," he warns.

I pout. "Why not?"

"It's pointy."

"Yeah! it's pointy!" Thing 2's voice chimes in, a little hand in mine.

"But it's - its a real FRUIT!"

"Uh-huh."

"I'm gonna touch it," I declare. (I do. It hurts.)

They're all laughing at me, rightfully so.

"I thought I touched the part without the pointy!" I protest, trying to pick out the spine.

"I told you not to touch it," he says, shaking his head. but he's holding back a smile as Thing 1 starts to lecture me. I hold his eyes for a second, an unspoken exchange, before turning my attention to the kiddo telling me all about how and why we do not touch cactuses.

~

I had been playing games with them - Candy Land, timeless. Missing, of course, a number of the special cards, as everyone's family copy is with two children under 10. But now I needed a second. "Why don't you guys start the Frozen one without me and I'll come back and watch, yeah? I've gotta go ask your dad something real quick."

I find him in the kitchen and tuck my arms around his waist. He immediately wraps me up in a hug.

"You okay?"

I nod.

"Are they too much?"

I shake my head as much as I can against his chest, laughing a little at the suggestion. Too much? *Please.* As if.

"No, not at all."

He squeezes me tighter and leans down, wrapping me up, whispering in my ear, his voice all getting scratchy with emotion. "Welcome to my life."

I try not to let him see it, but it makes me tear up. I just squeeze back in response. We stay there for a bit, just holding each other, before we're interrupted by a shriek (of joy?) and he laughs. "It's. . . you know. A bit messy."

"I love your life," I say. I'm shaking my head, disregarding his point on the 'messy' front by messing up my own hair, most likely - the fabric of his shirt brushes my cheek, making me shiver with the texture. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

~

it's the middle of the night. I've got no clue what time, but I hear the door open and know exactly what's up - one of the kids had an accident. I touch his arm to let him know I'm awake, and because I can hear the fatigue in his voice as he gets up to strip the sheets and help kiddo clean up and get back to bed. When he comes back in a bit, after setting Thing 2 up in sibling's bed, he snuggles close and pulls me up against him. I wordlessly tuck in closer, laying my head on his shoulder. my hand is stroking his arm as it splays on his stomach, trying to help him relax. I can tell he's frustrated, but not with kiddo.

"I asked her to watch them for one day. that was all, and she said she would."

his mom. I squeeze his hand. "you handled it, yeah? and it worked out. I loved it. they did too, we had fun."

he nods. reaches his hand up, strokes my hair, kisses me on the top of my head.

"I *just* washed those sheets yesterday," he sighs.

I poke him a little. "occupational hazard. pretty soon they won't even admit to liking you, enjoy it while you can."

he groans at the prospect. "It's going by so fast."

I imagine his oldest as a teenager and it makes me laugh, because it also makes me picture *him* as a teenager - ridiculously stubborn, very ADHD, and an absolute smart-ass who knew he was the smartest in the room, from what I hear.

"What's so funny?"

"Mm. Nothing."

"Uh huh. Okay." he kisses me. "Go back to sleep, Little Fox."

~

he's driving. I'm staring out the window, completely incapable of tearing my eyes away from the mountains and the landscape. every once in awhile I hear a "bird!" as his ADHD kicks in and he excitedly points one out, and I, of course, look where he's pointing. he started off telling me about the local history, but now he's been telling me about his family - his sisters, their lives. meanwhile I'm starstruck by the mountains, the rocks, the clay, the saguaros, the desert - how the ecosystems change the higher up we go. at one point at the top, he turns off the AC and opens the windows and I realize it's 70°, no longer near a hundred. I feel pretty lame repeating it over and over, but my vocabulary only goes so far, so "Woah." and "holy shit!" are the extent of my current ability to express awe at nature. every time I get excited I squeeze his hand, the one holding mine. it almost feels like he's anchoring me to the car - and I think he feels it too, because he seems to hold tighter every time I lean into the window to get a better look over the cliff that drops off edge of the mountains we're driving on.

he seems mostly just amused at my amazement with them. but as I've already told him, I don't care what he thinks - this is pretty damn cool to me. his young mountains here are so much sharper and taller than the ancient, rounded ones of my own home, the oldest mountain range in the world. he can make all the fun he wants while I oogle, as long as he doesn't let go of me.

this thing that's happening

feels like worst-case.

I am trying so hard

not to say too much

but you won't talk to me

so all I can do

is keep. fucking. talking.

can't shut my damn mouth

as I keep on spiralling

brain says,

he's done with me now

it's over, i think

he never saw a future for us

--or worse, still, --

something is wrong.

don't leave me in silence

because I dont know

how long I can float here

before my words

to ease your upset

or anger

or anything else I can construct in my mind

will stop and

i finally

fall to gravity.

the air is thick here. It's not like in Tucson.

here every breath is choked, the droplets strangling each attempt to breathe deep

and it's apt, I suppose, to discuss being suffocated by this place

and by the heat that is to come.

and while I will always love the Mountains,

these mountains certainly don't love me back

cause if they did

they would not whisper so in my ear

every spring and summer night,

every autumn morning,

every winter noon,

that nothing I do will ever be good enough

For my body to continue

to stay

here.

the heart wants to remain

while the mind knows

that surrender is certain death.

I never thought I'd want the barren desert,

but with you there

all I see

is Life.

I wonder if you thought about it

when you told me that my jealousy of other 24 year olds for being healthy was the same as your jealousy of your friend's better jobs.

I don't think you did. because you got to choose your path in life, even if you didn't have a plan.

and every plan I've ever made has died before my eyes because I can only pretend to be healthy

for so long

before people see through it

and they never like what they see. they hate seeing illness and disability and health shit

they would rather pretend. and they'd rather me pretend, too, so they don't have to look at it.

and I can only pretend

to be healthy

for so long until

I crash and burn worse

than I ever would have

had I not pretended to be well

in the first place.

but that's what people want.

so I keep pretending

only holding jobs

for as long as I can keep up the facade

of ability

and wellness.

and when the mask slips because

I am too ill to hide it,

I will once again be fired

for "too many doctors' appointments" and

"missing too much work."

and that's just how it is.

I guess it's my own fault

that you don't see Me.

I pretended too well

that I was healthy.

i wonder if you feel it too;

that tension at the end of each call

the silence hangs in the air, over telephone wires

the hesitation before we hang up

when you say "Goodnight,"

I reply in kind and

betray my own heart

in the process.

"Goodnight, . . "

i love you.

i don't say it. i never do.

i said i would wait for you.

i meant it.

i will wait while i know you are trying.

but i cannot wait just for

nothing to come.

i love you, but please

don't make me do it alone.