Drifting Blues #7

Sunset at Kure Beach, NC, 2011.

She lay in the coffin, so young,  looking like an inflatable punching bag.   My eyes drifted up the rack of t-shirts she'd tie-dyed, back to her wearing one, over to photos of a happy girl.  Nearby, her parents cried, hugged friends and strangers.  They hugged me, an emissary from better times.

"She's in a better place now." If a grave is better than life. I won't mouth such words of comfort. I don't believe in a god who is going to fix you, or punish you, or reward you for kissing his ass.

At the Christian school where I teach, I've been known to tell a student, "I want to shove my foot so far up your ass you'll smell my toe jam." Words of love, really. Yes, really.

When I connect, I can say nearly anything. But I never connected to her. She was untethered, even then, drifting away into her tie-dyed sky.

* * * Day one: Mix the chemicals, run the analysis, and record the results. Repeat. Day two: Keep pushing the rock up the hill for eternity—it's punishment for something, wasn't it? The required sterile-white lab coat doesn't suit me. I like tie-dyed better. Dad will pay the bills until I find something else.

Still nothing—nothing like my college project with the research adviser I loved,analyzing pervious pavement—rain soaking in, not running off. In front of a crowd after months of work, I presented my results—me, the local expert, as my adviser looked on proudly. I was focused.

A new job and a new boss—he told a co-worker I'm lazy. I'm not. Unmotivated? Yeah. I can't find a focus—I'm just drifting. Doesn't he know the difference? Some manager!

I've got a new boyfriend, but he's no new adviser. He helps me drift, helps me inject the clouds into my tie-dyed sky.