JBrower
03-26-2009, 03:20 PM
Hey everyone, I'm trying to do some edits and revisions of this creative personal essay to really tighten it up and make it great, so any constructive criticism would be wonderfulllll
Gold and Silver and Sunshine
Gold and silver and sunshine are rising up from the ground, a reflection that lights up my eyes and burns my skin. I grin wearily, loving every minute of my run. Summer is perfect—miles and miles of endless running, training, and improving. Summer miles are those during which the future is bright and full of hope. Seventy minutes of perspiration bake into a salty crust on my narrow, boney shoulders and my tan skin is drawn tight against the muscles cut into my legs. Sweat pours from me like water from a sprinkler, plastering my hair to my head as if I’ve been in the shower. Soon it will all dry out like the salty shoulders—there is very little fluid left in me.
On my left, next to the curb as I chivalrously (in my mind) linger more closely to traffic, is my girlfriend Veronica. Her body—bouncing hair, taut muscles, caramel skin—is covered by strips of technical fabric: running shorts and a pink Nike sports bra. We will both run in college, although at different levels of competition. Veronica will compete at Central Michigan University, a NCAA Division I program, and I will continue my mediocrity at Ithaca College, a strong but small Division III squad. Still, I can run much faster than her in a non-gender relative world, so I slow for the portion of my run that we complete together.
Her shoulders roll awkwardly, her arms are pulled at a tight angle and she breathes hard—it is hot and she is suffering, but she’ll never admit it to me. Wordlessly, without giving it away, I slow down. Her every step is punctuated by a quiet snapping sound.
“Is your shoelace untied?” I ask, breathing easily.
“No, why?”
“It sounds like it is.”
In between breaths, the look of confusion on her smooth countenance transforms into understanding and a smirk. “No, that’s my ankles!”
“What? Your ankles?!”
“Yeah, every step. You’re not the first person to notice.”
A few strides later, as I listen to the soft popping on her every step, my mind wanders into the future—a place I’d always been scared of until Veronica came into my life. She was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at the ripe old age of seventeen, a frightening life sentence of unavoidable pain, daily suffering, and extreme discomfort that could only get worse with the passage of time. With the permanent stiffness in her joints, Veronica’s running career dropped from skyrocketing highs and potential into a place of relative mediocrity. A single school record bore her name: the 4x800 meter relay, on which she was the second slowest leg. Never had she advanced beyond prelims at the state meet. She had expected more.
I know it plays at her mind frequently—fears that she’s failed, that she’ll keep getting worse, that there will be so many things she cannot do. My mind, however, has yet to get passed the panicked thoughts that I’m sure plagued her at first—thoughts of life expectancy (which I would never ask about) and the many years of pain and suffering just to maintain a semi-normal lifestyle. Even at eighteen, every day’s routine is full of hypodermic needles, painkillers, and a careful diet.
I look at Veronica sometimes as I have these thoughts, and imagine the stereotype of rheumatoid arthritis—an old wizened grandmother, twisted and crooked like an ancient tree, hardly able to stand or move or function. When I picture this I want to cry—not out of some selfish fear of the slow fading of Veronica’s stunning, youthful beauty but because she does not deserve such a fate, does not to deserve to be any less able than me, in any more pain than me. I cannot bear the probability that the intermittent suffering and limitations she now faces will one day consume her life.
Her ankles continue to snap.
____
Our bodies stick together as we lie on the couch. We are shirtless—she’s in her sports bra—and salt whitens our skin where sweat is drying. Her house is empty, summer sun filtering through the trees and enormous windows. We are back after the run—ten miles for me, four of them with her—in the summer heat, ninety-five degrees, shadeless, and sticky as flypaper.
I slide my fingertips under her sports bra, along her spine, barely brushing her hot skin. She smiles, wordlessly, and our lips press together, interlocking with lazy softness. My other hand runs up the inside of her leg, slowly, starting at her ankle, then calf, then thigh. Her tongue parts my lips, a smile touching the corner of her mouth and twinkling in her eyes. I press my weight against her and slide her bra up, just a little, so I can softly kiss her chest. She bites her bottom lip, curls her legs around the small of my back, and pulls me against her so we are a bundle of warm, tan skin and running shorts. Her back arches slightly until she presses a hand against my chest.
“Stop.”
I look at her, confused.
“I’m too sweaty,” she sighs, her eyes closed.
“Ok.”
She has a plan, instead. “Let’s go swimming and get cleaned off.”
I sit up and she stands, padding down the hall in socked feet. I follow her to her room, where she changes next to the foot of her bed. She peels her sports bra over her head and I watch her bare back, chocolate hair cascading over her shoulders, the slightest curve of her breasts. She is beautiful. I sneak up behind her and wrap my hands around her waist as she ties the top of her swimsuit. I kiss her neck, teasing her, and she makes a noise of frustration.
“I told you,” she says, with a heavy breath, “I’m too sweaty.”
“So what,” I respond, kissing down her neck, as it curves, the back of her head against my shoulder, “its just sweat.”
_____
“Are you ready to come over?” I ask, smiling. “I’m going to make you the best omelette you’ve ever tasted.”
“I can’t.” She sounds weary, upset.
“Why not, bud? What’s wrong?”
She sighs. “I’m really sore this morning…I couldn’t even bend my elbows enough to wash my hair. I can’t drive…I don’t want to drive.” When her arthritis flares up, when her joints are swollen and immobile, it is a struggle to get dressed, to get out of bed, to do anything. Most days, the only way to tell that Veronica has a health problem is to already know—she is a strong person and gives no sign that she has limitations. Some days, though, are bad enough to erase all of the good ones. The frustration in her voice breaks my heart. Pain rises in tired sighs and swells on her voice and I know these painful days scare her with thoughts of the future.
“Don’t worry, bud, I’m ok, you don’t have to come over. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I expected that?” I bite my lip from across the line. “I’ll come to you.”
“Ok,” she sighs, “But I’m not going to be much fun.”
“You don’t have to be fun. I love you.”
In thirty seconds I’m out the door and on my bike. Both of my parents are working, their cars in tow. I ride fast, darting across busy intersections, riding down in the drops, missing the days I traveled around the country to race my bike. I slice through the summer heat and lean aggressively into corners, without so much as tapping the brakes. At her house, I toss three thousand dollars of carbon fiber onto her enormous lawn, unclip my helmet, and knock on the door. Her mom answers.
“Oh! Jacob, hi.” She swings the door wide for me and I bend to slip off my shoes on the mat. “Veronica’s upstairs.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“She’s not really in the most pleasant mood.”
“That’s ok,” I smile, “I’ll live.” I tiptoe up the stairs in my socks. I have never been to the top floor, the master bedroom. The white cat, whose name I never remember, curls on the landing. I walk into the bedroom, softly, hoping that she doesn’t notice I’m there, that I don’t disturb her tenuous state of rest. Her eyes are closed and she looks peaceful, her body stretched out underneath the maroon sheets. Warm sunlight trickles in through the dusty window at the foot of the bed and plays in patterns across her face.
When I’m ready to speak, I try to be as soft as possible so I don’t disturb the peace she’s found since I hung up the phone. “Hey bud,” I whisper, “How are you?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but a smile touches the corners of her mouth.
“Better now, I guess. Its always worse right when I wake up.”
“I’m sorry.” I stretch out on top of the sheets next to her.
“For what?” she asks softly, “You didn’t make me hurt.”
“But I can still be sorry that you do.” I press my lips to her forehead, barely touching her, knowing that the little brushes, the butterfly kisses, always make her smile. She does, and it is radiant.
“I couldn’t even put my hair up this morning,” she says, “My mom had to come in and help me because I couldn’t reach the back of my head.” Her voice is getting sad again. V is independent to the point of being stubborn. No one tells her what she cannot do. She bottles up her feelings, her concerns, her thoughts, because she does not want to need help or guidance. To suggest, even out of concern, that she cannot do something that other people are doing is to risk losing her as your confidant, your friend. She hates that she is slower than before her health problems, that she cannot be the star of the team she once led, hates that she cannot always do the same lifting and calisthenics as her teammates, hates that her sore joints prevent her from returning to soccer—where she was on varsity as a freshman—even if she wants to.
On these excruciating mornings, stricken by the realization that there are some things she cannot do, will not be able to do, Veronica’s smile fades into a look of disgust, of self-loathing. I can imagine her face this morning, in the bathroom, as her mom pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Her eyes squint shut, her lips purse into a frown, a heartbreaking look of dejection, of pure resignation. On these days, filled with pain, with fear, with self-doubt, she will sulk around as her parents try to bolster her spirits with unconditional love and concern. Her brothers, especially Tom, will complain that she doesn’t have to do chores, that they have to do everything to make her feel better, and Mrs. Garcia will reprimand him. She can’t do the chores, Tom. She’s in pain. This won’t make Veronica feel any better—she will not like hearing that she cannot do something, even chores, will not like knowing that her brothers feel like she gets all the attention, like she gets special treatment. She will fall deeper into resignation, deeper into frustration. I brush her cheek with my thumb and run my other hand through her hair.
“It’s my fault anyway,” she says. “You know how I’m trying to cut back on the painkillers?”
“Yes.” When she was first diagnosed, the doctors had to load her up on prescription painkillers so she could function normally. They bloated her cheeks and made her drowsy, so she began weaning off them aggressively, faster than was recommended.
“Well,” she says, “The last time I cut back, it was so easy, that I did it again, sooner than I was supposed to.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want to be on painkillers,” she says, frustration again creeping in, “I just want to get off them. I want to know I can do everything without the medication.”
“Veronica,” I say, “You can. You just have to be patient. It’s amazing that you want to get off them—most people wouldn’t even have the balls to try. You are so strong, and amazing, and I’m so proud of you…but you have to be patient. You’ll get there, I know you will.”
I can tell she feels like going back up to the previous dosage will be a failure. I don’t know what to say, so I kiss her forehead again and slide under the covers. She is wearing just a tank top and shorts, the looseness of the clothing and the singularity of the layer somehow combining to show off her lithe, fit body without revealing much. I kiss her, this time on the lips, and slide my hand up her back, pressing it on either side of her spine. She can’t lose faith in her body, even if it betrayed her with arthritis. Her body is still amazing, can still do amazing things, can do anything she wants. Her body can feel good, even after it spent all morning working against her.
I kiss from her lips, to her cheek, to her ear. She smiles, in spite of herself, enjoying the attention. My lips travel to the softness of her neck, which arches back, like it always does, as she breathes more deeply and bites her lip with her exquisite teeth. I wrap my arms around her in a gentle embrace, kissing her, kissing down her chest, pushing aside her baggy tank top. Her breathing gets louder and she squirms a little bit, her neurons remembering how to make her feel good.
“Stop,” she says, an excited smile on her face.
“Why? Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
“No, no. Its just that we’re in my parents’ bed—that’s a little weird for me.”
“Oh, wow, yeah.” I respond, eloquently.
We pause for a second and look into each other’s eyes. Her smile widens and she purses her lips briefly as though considering what to say.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she smiles, since I always ask for her thoughts, “I can’t just look at my boyfriend?”
“But you smiled.”
“So I can’t just smile at my boyfriend?”
“No,” I say, half-joking, “I know you had to be thinking something.”
She looks at me, brushing her warm fingertips on my back. “I’m thinking you’re amazing.” She starts to climb out of bed, smoothing her tank top and stretching gingerly, “Let’s go downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to get out of bed and stop sulking.”
“No,” I smile, “why am I amazing?”
“After this morning I didn’t think anything could get me out of bed,” she grins.
“Well, I sort of was about to get you into bed, if you follow my meaning.” To myself, I think that actually I’d be perfectly happy if we stayed in bed, doing nothing more than talking. I know every little movement hurts her; every stretch is a little bit too difficult. I am worried that she’s going to spend all day ignoring her body and trying to pay me back for coming over, instead of resting. Simultaneously, I am aware that she’d be mad it me if she knew I thought she should rest, if she knew I thought she couldn’t get up and spend her day being active. I’m happy, as long as she’s alright.
She laughs it off. “Seriously, you are amazing. I just needed someone to take my mind off of the pain. I’m ok now. It’s not that bad. I love you so much."
Gold and Silver and Sunshine
Gold and silver and sunshine are rising up from the ground, a reflection that lights up my eyes and burns my skin. I grin wearily, loving every minute of my run. Summer is perfect—miles and miles of endless running, training, and improving. Summer miles are those during which the future is bright and full of hope. Seventy minutes of perspiration bake into a salty crust on my narrow, boney shoulders and my tan skin is drawn tight against the muscles cut into my legs. Sweat pours from me like water from a sprinkler, plastering my hair to my head as if I’ve been in the shower. Soon it will all dry out like the salty shoulders—there is very little fluid left in me.
On my left, next to the curb as I chivalrously (in my mind) linger more closely to traffic, is my girlfriend Veronica. Her body—bouncing hair, taut muscles, caramel skin—is covered by strips of technical fabric: running shorts and a pink Nike sports bra. We will both run in college, although at different levels of competition. Veronica will compete at Central Michigan University, a NCAA Division I program, and I will continue my mediocrity at Ithaca College, a strong but small Division III squad. Still, I can run much faster than her in a non-gender relative world, so I slow for the portion of my run that we complete together.
Her shoulders roll awkwardly, her arms are pulled at a tight angle and she breathes hard—it is hot and she is suffering, but she’ll never admit it to me. Wordlessly, without giving it away, I slow down. Her every step is punctuated by a quiet snapping sound.
“Is your shoelace untied?” I ask, breathing easily.
“No, why?”
“It sounds like it is.”
In between breaths, the look of confusion on her smooth countenance transforms into understanding and a smirk. “No, that’s my ankles!”
“What? Your ankles?!”
“Yeah, every step. You’re not the first person to notice.”
A few strides later, as I listen to the soft popping on her every step, my mind wanders into the future—a place I’d always been scared of until Veronica came into my life. She was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at the ripe old age of seventeen, a frightening life sentence of unavoidable pain, daily suffering, and extreme discomfort that could only get worse with the passage of time. With the permanent stiffness in her joints, Veronica’s running career dropped from skyrocketing highs and potential into a place of relative mediocrity. A single school record bore her name: the 4x800 meter relay, on which she was the second slowest leg. Never had she advanced beyond prelims at the state meet. She had expected more.
I know it plays at her mind frequently—fears that she’s failed, that she’ll keep getting worse, that there will be so many things she cannot do. My mind, however, has yet to get passed the panicked thoughts that I’m sure plagued her at first—thoughts of life expectancy (which I would never ask about) and the many years of pain and suffering just to maintain a semi-normal lifestyle. Even at eighteen, every day’s routine is full of hypodermic needles, painkillers, and a careful diet.
I look at Veronica sometimes as I have these thoughts, and imagine the stereotype of rheumatoid arthritis—an old wizened grandmother, twisted and crooked like an ancient tree, hardly able to stand or move or function. When I picture this I want to cry—not out of some selfish fear of the slow fading of Veronica’s stunning, youthful beauty but because she does not deserve such a fate, does not to deserve to be any less able than me, in any more pain than me. I cannot bear the probability that the intermittent suffering and limitations she now faces will one day consume her life.
Her ankles continue to snap.
____
Our bodies stick together as we lie on the couch. We are shirtless—she’s in her sports bra—and salt whitens our skin where sweat is drying. Her house is empty, summer sun filtering through the trees and enormous windows. We are back after the run—ten miles for me, four of them with her—in the summer heat, ninety-five degrees, shadeless, and sticky as flypaper.
I slide my fingertips under her sports bra, along her spine, barely brushing her hot skin. She smiles, wordlessly, and our lips press together, interlocking with lazy softness. My other hand runs up the inside of her leg, slowly, starting at her ankle, then calf, then thigh. Her tongue parts my lips, a smile touching the corner of her mouth and twinkling in her eyes. I press my weight against her and slide her bra up, just a little, so I can softly kiss her chest. She bites her bottom lip, curls her legs around the small of my back, and pulls me against her so we are a bundle of warm, tan skin and running shorts. Her back arches slightly until she presses a hand against my chest.
“Stop.”
I look at her, confused.
“I’m too sweaty,” she sighs, her eyes closed.
“Ok.”
She has a plan, instead. “Let’s go swimming and get cleaned off.”
I sit up and she stands, padding down the hall in socked feet. I follow her to her room, where she changes next to the foot of her bed. She peels her sports bra over her head and I watch her bare back, chocolate hair cascading over her shoulders, the slightest curve of her breasts. She is beautiful. I sneak up behind her and wrap my hands around her waist as she ties the top of her swimsuit. I kiss her neck, teasing her, and she makes a noise of frustration.
“I told you,” she says, with a heavy breath, “I’m too sweaty.”
“So what,” I respond, kissing down her neck, as it curves, the back of her head against my shoulder, “its just sweat.”
_____
“Are you ready to come over?” I ask, smiling. “I’m going to make you the best omelette you’ve ever tasted.”
“I can’t.” She sounds weary, upset.
“Why not, bud? What’s wrong?”
She sighs. “I’m really sore this morning…I couldn’t even bend my elbows enough to wash my hair. I can’t drive…I don’t want to drive.” When her arthritis flares up, when her joints are swollen and immobile, it is a struggle to get dressed, to get out of bed, to do anything. Most days, the only way to tell that Veronica has a health problem is to already know—she is a strong person and gives no sign that she has limitations. Some days, though, are bad enough to erase all of the good ones. The frustration in her voice breaks my heart. Pain rises in tired sighs and swells on her voice and I know these painful days scare her with thoughts of the future.
“Don’t worry, bud, I’m ok, you don’t have to come over. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I expected that?” I bite my lip from across the line. “I’ll come to you.”
“Ok,” she sighs, “But I’m not going to be much fun.”
“You don’t have to be fun. I love you.”
In thirty seconds I’m out the door and on my bike. Both of my parents are working, their cars in tow. I ride fast, darting across busy intersections, riding down in the drops, missing the days I traveled around the country to race my bike. I slice through the summer heat and lean aggressively into corners, without so much as tapping the brakes. At her house, I toss three thousand dollars of carbon fiber onto her enormous lawn, unclip my helmet, and knock on the door. Her mom answers.
“Oh! Jacob, hi.” She swings the door wide for me and I bend to slip off my shoes on the mat. “Veronica’s upstairs.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“She’s not really in the most pleasant mood.”
“That’s ok,” I smile, “I’ll live.” I tiptoe up the stairs in my socks. I have never been to the top floor, the master bedroom. The white cat, whose name I never remember, curls on the landing. I walk into the bedroom, softly, hoping that she doesn’t notice I’m there, that I don’t disturb her tenuous state of rest. Her eyes are closed and she looks peaceful, her body stretched out underneath the maroon sheets. Warm sunlight trickles in through the dusty window at the foot of the bed and plays in patterns across her face.
When I’m ready to speak, I try to be as soft as possible so I don’t disturb the peace she’s found since I hung up the phone. “Hey bud,” I whisper, “How are you?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but a smile touches the corners of her mouth.
“Better now, I guess. Its always worse right when I wake up.”
“I’m sorry.” I stretch out on top of the sheets next to her.
“For what?” she asks softly, “You didn’t make me hurt.”
“But I can still be sorry that you do.” I press my lips to her forehead, barely touching her, knowing that the little brushes, the butterfly kisses, always make her smile. She does, and it is radiant.
“I couldn’t even put my hair up this morning,” she says, “My mom had to come in and help me because I couldn’t reach the back of my head.” Her voice is getting sad again. V is independent to the point of being stubborn. No one tells her what she cannot do. She bottles up her feelings, her concerns, her thoughts, because she does not want to need help or guidance. To suggest, even out of concern, that she cannot do something that other people are doing is to risk losing her as your confidant, your friend. She hates that she is slower than before her health problems, that she cannot be the star of the team she once led, hates that she cannot always do the same lifting and calisthenics as her teammates, hates that her sore joints prevent her from returning to soccer—where she was on varsity as a freshman—even if she wants to.
On these excruciating mornings, stricken by the realization that there are some things she cannot do, will not be able to do, Veronica’s smile fades into a look of disgust, of self-loathing. I can imagine her face this morning, in the bathroom, as her mom pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Her eyes squint shut, her lips purse into a frown, a heartbreaking look of dejection, of pure resignation. On these days, filled with pain, with fear, with self-doubt, she will sulk around as her parents try to bolster her spirits with unconditional love and concern. Her brothers, especially Tom, will complain that she doesn’t have to do chores, that they have to do everything to make her feel better, and Mrs. Garcia will reprimand him. She can’t do the chores, Tom. She’s in pain. This won’t make Veronica feel any better—she will not like hearing that she cannot do something, even chores, will not like knowing that her brothers feel like she gets all the attention, like she gets special treatment. She will fall deeper into resignation, deeper into frustration. I brush her cheek with my thumb and run my other hand through her hair.
“It’s my fault anyway,” she says. “You know how I’m trying to cut back on the painkillers?”
“Yes.” When she was first diagnosed, the doctors had to load her up on prescription painkillers so she could function normally. They bloated her cheeks and made her drowsy, so she began weaning off them aggressively, faster than was recommended.
“Well,” she says, “The last time I cut back, it was so easy, that I did it again, sooner than I was supposed to.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want to be on painkillers,” she says, frustration again creeping in, “I just want to get off them. I want to know I can do everything without the medication.”
“Veronica,” I say, “You can. You just have to be patient. It’s amazing that you want to get off them—most people wouldn’t even have the balls to try. You are so strong, and amazing, and I’m so proud of you…but you have to be patient. You’ll get there, I know you will.”
I can tell she feels like going back up to the previous dosage will be a failure. I don’t know what to say, so I kiss her forehead again and slide under the covers. She is wearing just a tank top and shorts, the looseness of the clothing and the singularity of the layer somehow combining to show off her lithe, fit body without revealing much. I kiss her, this time on the lips, and slide my hand up her back, pressing it on either side of her spine. She can’t lose faith in her body, even if it betrayed her with arthritis. Her body is still amazing, can still do amazing things, can do anything she wants. Her body can feel good, even after it spent all morning working against her.
I kiss from her lips, to her cheek, to her ear. She smiles, in spite of herself, enjoying the attention. My lips travel to the softness of her neck, which arches back, like it always does, as she breathes more deeply and bites her lip with her exquisite teeth. I wrap my arms around her in a gentle embrace, kissing her, kissing down her chest, pushing aside her baggy tank top. Her breathing gets louder and she squirms a little bit, her neurons remembering how to make her feel good.
“Stop,” she says, an excited smile on her face.
“Why? Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
“No, no. Its just that we’re in my parents’ bed—that’s a little weird for me.”
“Oh, wow, yeah.” I respond, eloquently.
We pause for a second and look into each other’s eyes. Her smile widens and she purses her lips briefly as though considering what to say.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she smiles, since I always ask for her thoughts, “I can’t just look at my boyfriend?”
“But you smiled.”
“So I can’t just smile at my boyfriend?”
“No,” I say, half-joking, “I know you had to be thinking something.”
She looks at me, brushing her warm fingertips on my back. “I’m thinking you’re amazing.” She starts to climb out of bed, smoothing her tank top and stretching gingerly, “Let’s go downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to get out of bed and stop sulking.”
“No,” I smile, “why am I amazing?”
“After this morning I didn’t think anything could get me out of bed,” she grins.
“Well, I sort of was about to get you into bed, if you follow my meaning.” To myself, I think that actually I’d be perfectly happy if we stayed in bed, doing nothing more than talking. I know every little movement hurts her; every stretch is a little bit too difficult. I am worried that she’s going to spend all day ignoring her body and trying to pay me back for coming over, instead of resting. Simultaneously, I am aware that she’d be mad it me if she knew I thought she should rest, if she knew I thought she couldn’t get up and spend her day being active. I’m happy, as long as she’s alright.
She laughs it off. “Seriously, you are amazing. I just needed someone to take my mind off of the pain. I’m ok now. It’s not that bad. I love you so much."