photo reel // sentences of the week

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Her shoes are undone, at the beginning of the race.

People watching is the exercise of assumption. Public chalkboards are where strangers streams' of consciousness dust and crumble and run into each other. Poetically, sometimes. The voice of humor, the voice of accomplishment, the voice of happiness, the voice of relief, the voice of a cynic.
I read the tangle of colors
and scripts
sometimes I follow sometimes I'm
lost
It's so human.
That's what I love about it.

Re-heated tea drowns my mouth in mint verbena and leaves my tongue feeling like I just walked out of the dentists office after a cleaning.

I want to tell you that Jasmine flowers blooming white in the winter are fragrant and delicate. While cold lingers in the air and people wonder, where are all the colors? Tucked away in dull bark trees, the potential for blossoms wait. We wait. Spring waits.

Yellow scrambled eggs heap around the edge of the ceramic plate. Tiny traces of grease swirl under the fork's tip, like paint running off a brush. Three jars of syrup drip navy blueberry, golden yellow peach, and amber maple syrup over pancakes.

As our waitress comes by, he waves his arm. We are easily spotted. It's close to 11pm at night and the booths surrounding us look emptier than furniture in a museum at closing time. She walks over. He reaches above and asks if he can unscrew the glaring single light dangling above the table, “It’s too bright for my sensitive eyes.” His hand lingers underneath the light while she smiles. "Most people don't ask. Sometimes the bulbs break." He unscrews the lightbulb, perfectly intact, and a sigh of relief comes with the muted light. We've unscrambled and resolved our arguments.

Both of us are tired. I etch my initials "em" into soft white styrofoam, sealing breakfast away for tomorrow. Dad pays for the meal.

Tea splashed out of the small white mug onto the saucer and table. Sunshine bleached a whole wall white and bright. The barista moved back and forth behind the counter like a moving picture. She looked as much as a piece of art as the paintings on the wall: urban, hip, with a flair of funk and color. Most of the customers fit the description too, as if they were not there by accident, but screened extras auditioning for a part. The menu is riddled with adjectives and nouns I'm unfamiliar with, so I ignore the board of over-priced indecision and ask for tea.

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There are stories to tell
all around you

I peel myself off the couch and curl into a ball on the carpet at his feet. This is day six of the flu. My brother smiles, satisfied. "Ready?" He presses play, my arms swing around the air, the tempo he's wildly stirring switches, elbows jiving. "You gotta lay the lyrics on this!" I shout.

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“Now you take a nice walk there. It's better than taking pills.” He carries the conversation and I stand at the bottom of his driveway, the minutes of my lunch break passing with this man who has stories to tell.

“There used to be a watermelon patch where our house is now." All sorts of pictures are in my imagination. "I’ve lived here my whole life.” His wife calls from Florida, asking him to come visit. “She’s a retired teacher who was hit by one too many erasers,” he says and we both laugh. His wrinkled hand shakes in the cold air as he tilts it back and forth, like shaking his head no.

“If you follow the river, 40 feet under the river bed, there is an underground 80-acre lake beneath the school.” Not many people know about it.

“Have you been down there?” I ask.

“Oh no,” he laughs, "and when I mentioned it to some people they gave me weird looks.”

But it’s there.

And now I know it’s there. I'm grateful to be let in on such a secret.

Conversations with strangers can be most thought-provoking.