Laughing only a little bit
is no good.
You should laugh until
you are hiccuping, until
there are tears coming
out of your eyes.
You must laugh
at the world,
at your fears,
at Goldie Hawn’s line
on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in.
You must laugh your way
out of your room,
down the stairs,
out the door.
And when you are done laughing,
you must lie on the cool grass
and tilt your head at the sky
and open your arms
to hug the
whole wide world.

Yes.  We have reached our destination,
we are at the end of our journey.
Our long pilgrimage is over.

                     No, we have been driving five minutes,
                     and still have 148.7 hours to go.  Sit back
                     and enjoy the scenery.

But I want to get out!  I want to run
and run and run
to where the earth ends
and the sky begins.

                    Shut up and eat some peanut butter crackers.
I could sit on the top of the car,
feeling the wind in my teeth
and the cold in my hair
              
                    You could stick you head out the window
                    and feel the bugs in your eyes
                    and the sleet on your face.
Really?
                    Really.  Better?
Better.

What do you do when you can't cry?
When you want to, you need to, but you can't?
What do you do when you are at your lowest,
when you have no options,
and want to just curl up and be still?
What do you do when you've swallowed your words,
actually bitten down on them and swallowed?
You sit up
and hawk back the blood and the tears
and swallow
and you learn to hide what you feel
And what you don't
until you start to lose you
and be just another broken person
in a broken world

She sits in silence,
in her world
as the people ebb and flow
Hoping that Someone will come over
Someone will see
and maybe
just maybe
say
Hello

When the rain falls, it makes that sound
You know, the sound?
The light sound, the bright sound, the smiling sound
The sound of a warm mug of tea
And a hot cup of soup
And a good book.
The sound of blue,
The sound of calm,
The sound of comfort.
You know, that sound?
That happy sound.

Anna sways to the quiet music as she reads.  You know, Emily, she muses, turning a page in her book: If we were to just leave, who would notice?  She listens for the reply as the fan slowly turns overhead.  I just watch her in the mirror.  There is a smudge of eyeliner across my cheek; I wipe it off with my sleeve.  Behind her, I see my poster proclaiming Music is what Feelings Sound Like.  I look back at Anna and sigh: watch the light play across her porcelain features and catch in her honeyed hair.  She turns another page.  My eyes roam across her lips.  She finally looks up, her finger hovering over the inked words, and smiles at me.