that deadened fingernail
first damaged long ago
not quite a lifetime but
time enough
          to feel that way
is showing signs of regrowth
partially shrouded but visible
beneath the lingering ruin
the fingertip was caught
ensnared and pressed
more firmly than
          could be endured
though care was provided
the bruising ran deep
and undermined any chance
of this body's repair
unexpectedly
          and unimaginable
in spite of this layer
of lamented keratin
there stretched forth
a sudden burgeoning
a crescent of cuticle
          and lunula
telling of the strength
of the fingernail to come

what a privilege it is
to celebrate with fireworks.

to hear thundering booms fill the air
and not simultaneously be full of fear.

to have the sky painted
with vibrant dazzling colours -
not the grounds stained
with new shades of red.

to hear the calming whistle
and anticipate a euphony -
not a cacophony of
cracks, bangs, screams and cries.

what a privilege it is
to have never heard the latter.

what a privilege it is
to associate explosion
with new beginnings -
not an impending end.

what a privilege it is
to celebrate with fireworks.

guilted into yet another
late evening dog-walk
after too long spent
indoors and weighed down
by endless introversion
trudging an unlit path
free of the imposition
of street lamp
     and headlight
with nothing except
those familiar constellations
and a degree of
     lunular exposure
to guide our path
despite the cold and
that lingering feeling
of obstinate lethargy
we firmly planted
our mud-caked boots
upon the saturated ground
unstable and clogged
as it may have been
in order to marvel
at that moment
of unexpected perfection
perhaps it was simply
a case of fortuitousness
or sheer coincidence
but to us it seems
the universe is offering
more wishes than we could
ever have hoped for

From past heartbreak,
I learned to amend,

Learned to make
The best of a situation,

Even accepting and
Starting off as friends.

Still learning to move on
From a past so complicated,

I keep trying my best to not
get lost in the devastation,

Please excuse the infatuation,
I get lost in my head.

I promise I'm trying my best to
not get so fixated,

Give me some patience
And grace,

Because I don't want to
Push you away again.

Just know that I'm grateful,
More than okay,

Starting off as just friends.

I've talked to all the ghosts in this room
They speak of memories and grievances
And we revel in how quickly this fog has turned into smoke
It bites at my lungs
And I sit and wait, my eyes on my hands
My ears on the clock
At some point, each passing second
Parallels my heartbeat
There is someone across from me
Saying it is time to let go
But what would be left of me
If this grief vanished, too
At some point, it became all I am

Until you
somehow stumbled into this room
untethering the past from all that I knew

Memories can become blurry, over time,
like underdeveloped photographs,
or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds.

Our lives move ever forward,
like the inflexible patterns of stars.

Once fevered and immediate events
recede, with frightening, doppler effect,
as remembered yesterdays,
become forgotten yesterdays.

New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus.

The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it.

Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much.

We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.

I lay a girl to rest in the flowers.
She sleeps softly in her meadow bed.
I stand by, Woman, strong.
I love her with all my heart
But I am glad I am not her.
Not anymore.
A snake slithers through the grass
His name is Death
And I am, at last, afraid of him.
When he strikes at my heel,
I crush his head.
All my force aided by
The blankets of comfort I wear around my shoulders-
Collected from my Dear Ones
And from the One above.

Suicidality fades,
Suplexed by love.
I loved myself with all the violence of a wrestler.
I threw my self-hatred on the ground;
Crushed the head of my snake.

Now-
Back straight
Head high
Hair curling around a sun bonnet
Skirt rippling out
Boots splashing in puddles
Music in ear and heart

I graduated at last
From barely surviving
To fully living.

"A melancholy grows, and it's swathed in nostalgia.”

"Why is that?"

"With every day that rains, it is September again... the month of endings.”

"Or new beginnings."

Holidays go by quickly, as if they don’t want to hang around. My life seems to be happening at warp speed.

Lisa and I start our two-month summer fellowships tomorrow. It’s hard to believe it’s actually happening. Like most things in my life, this fellowship started as an obligation to my mom - shrouded in vague, emotional shadows - to perform the impossible.

I’d like to become a doctor but it’s no milk run. And while ambition is powerful, it isn’t magic. Yale has advisors to guide us but my mom, who has one Dr. daughter already and a son in med school  believes her every suggestion is sacrosanct. She’s usually right, but still (shrug), I’m here.

My mom did have one good idea - going to France over vacation. Peter got to meet my Grandmère and I got to visit with some of my cousins - those spoiled-rotten, monied members of “the fancy” - who have no ambitions, no goals and no self-worth other than their momentary possessions. By the time Peter and I left, I was itching to get back to work.

You only get one chance at life and if you’re lucky you’re good at something. Think of all the people who were born in the desert - who would have been the greatest swimmers or skiers ever - but never had the chance to try. I’m chanell.

Lisa and I are at my sister Annick’s 10th floor, 4-bedroom apartment, in Boston. I don't think she stays here anymore. She’s engaged, and my bet is that she’s living at his place. At first, she pretended that wasn’t true, that she was just thinking of staying there while Lisa and I are here.

Ok, I thought to myself, but why is everything in the fridge brand new?
“Where’s your cat?” I asked, like a detective reeling in a crook.
“Ok,” Annick admitted with a laugh, “you exposed my dishonesty."

Lisa and I’ll have this apartment to ourselves for two months. It’s a feeling that’s joyful, selfish and marvelous. We can see the hospital where Lisa and I will be working from Annick’s balcony - it’s that close. Annick bought this place because she’s a doctor in residence there.

I got in from Paris yesterday. I’m jet lagged and toey about tomorrow. I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. Even though I’m making a great display of calm, idle boredom, Annick knows better.
“Are you guys nervous?” She asked.
Lisa immediately declared “Hells, yes!”
I was thinking of holding strong, but after a second, I mumbled “Yeah.”

I’m really hoping I’ll be good at this fellowship business.