MY ORIGINAL BLOG SITE
by Kristie Camp
Hey, Alex, I see you there, and I know what you are thinking.
You’re looking around you, even as you move across the floor,
Wondering just how you found yourself here,
At this party, with all these people.
You have so much more than you deserve,
So much more than you thought you would ever have.
And you know you should be grateful,
You know you should be satisfied
Just to see your name on the invitation.
But then you look around again
And you know you must keep moving your feet.
A new song begins,
And they all dance and dally and defer.
There are steps to follow, hands to hold.
Protocol, fashion, tradition.
And as you circle and bow and turn,
Your eyes never leave the fiddle player.
He speeds up the music, then changes the tune,
Feigns a blush and a nod when the audience claps,
But he keeps on playing,
And therefore, you must dance.
“He is such an accomplished musician,” they all say.
And yes, it is true, you must concede.
How can you call out the notes he has missed?
How dare you remark about the irregular beat?
You look around again,
And you see their smiles.
You hear their cheers.
You see them sitting in a pool of thought
Where everyone has peed.
“Jump in,” they say. “The water is so warm!”
The fiddle player skips a beat, then breaks into a reel.
Your feet follow his beat,
But you step on her skirt, and everyone gasps.
You look around one last time.
No, you can’t sit down, Alex.
You see it all too clearly.
Every accomplishment, every honor
That landed your name on this guest list, scrawled in perfect calligraphy,
boasts a second-place ribbon.
Almost, but just not quite good enough.
Yeah, Alex, I see you,
Just as if I were looking in a mirror.
(1/10/17 – in honor of A. Ham’s birthday on 1/11)
By Kristie Camp
He sits on the back porch with me, and we listen to music and talk.
And the Glen Campbell song that I love so much
is probably a song that he would speed past on his own radio dial,
but he listens as I sing off key with my eyes closed,
dancing around the porch, and he remembers.
Then, he plays it for me again
when we sit together on the back porch
a few evenings later.
And he would probably rather be at a ball field, watching a game,
than hiking up a mountain in sweltering heat,
but he goes with me anyway.
And as I expound on the latest book I read
or a new song I have heard,
he walks with me, quietly.
And then, when I am sure his “yeah”s are purely perfunctory,
he asks a question about Bill Bryson or Lin-Manuel Miranda,
and I know he has been paying attention,
closely.
And I know he would have never picked a historical speakeasy
for dinner and dancing as his idea of a fun time,
but there he sat across from me,
singing along with the piano player as she played Carole King songs.
We shared our shrimp appetizer and stories
and talked to the older couple from Texas seated beside us.
And when I tirade about something I read online,
and when I cry over the numbers on the scale,
and when I flub the recipe I found on Pinterest,
he listens
and tells me none of it matters.
Not really,
when we have each other.
Kristie Camp 7/12/16
By Kristie Camp
I know my third grade teacher, Mrs. Fine, didn’t like me.
She moved me to the back of the room
And told my mom that she had to
Because I talked too much
And she got tired of seeing the back of my head,
Always turned around,
looking to see if Wendy had finished, yet.
I don’t think she ever noticed
how I eyed Kelly’s paper every morning,
longing for the day when
Kelly would need two lines to write our daily opening sentence.
But her letters always fit neatly on the top line,
even on Wednesdays in September.
I don’t think she ever noticed
how I would watch Chip erase his mistakes,
blowing eraser crumbs and pencil smudges off his page.
Or how I watched Jodi draw Snoopy sketches with sure, strong lines.
Certainly, she saw me write my name on one of those sketches
and take it home to show my mom.
She must have known
that I was lying when I told MIssy I had horses, too,
just like she must have sensed that I entered the relay races
just because Missy had always won them.
No, Mrs. Fine didn’t like me
or my Valentine mailbox,
the one my mom helped me create –
my shoebox covered in white tissue paper,
decorated in pink lace doilies and shiny red heart stickers,
that didn’t win the class contest.
By Kristie Camp
And her room was always the messiest.
Here she could store everything,
the vacuum cleaner, the hair dryer, the wireless printer.
Things no one needed to see,
Necessary things that must be kept hidden,
Even though everybody knows you have to have these things somewhere.
And the dirty clothes,
Piles of dirty clothes,
work clothes, church clothes, play clothes,
jackets and sweat shirts and jeans that can be worn again before washing time,
a basket of clean socks not yet matched.
Clothes not washed because there is no time,
too much to do,
pile them in her room, shut the door, and keep going.
The living room needed to be kept spotless, of course.
That would be the first room others would see,
Would even be visible from the street
If the blinds were open.
And the kitchen needed scrubbing every time she cooked a meal,
dishes moved from the sink to the washing machine to the cabinets
in a perpetual loop
The toilet was scrubbed and bathroom sink wiped down regularly.
Everyone used those rooms.
But in her room she stashed the ironing board,
the pencils and markers and note pads,
empty laundry baskets and old check books and extra blankets.
Old greeting cards and sweet notes, mortgage papers and passports
in the firesafe box.
She kept her door shut most of the time.
Always when guests arrived.
Kristie Camp 