Lisa and I went to a reception, yesterday evening, for students who’d landed summer fellowships at a particular hospital in Boston. (Yeah us!) It wasn’t formal, so I wore a crimson cropped sweater, a beige circle skirt (with pockets!) and beige Sarto soft-leather ballet flats.

I’ve disparate feelings in these situations. I was excited - this was a goal I needed to achieve - that next notch - and my mom might even smile.

At the same time, I felt like an imposter. ‘If these people knew the trouble I’m having with physics this year,’ I thought, and ‘I know my sister could do this - and my brother - but can I?’

I try not to let my nervousness show, because the stories you tell yourself can hold you back.

The reception was small, there were only four students, their mentors and a few hospital and Yale people. As we signed in, we got name tags and tote bags with the hospital logo containing fellowship info. There were picture posters of the hospital all around and an intro video looping on a large screen TV. They took some snaps.

Several tables along one wall had coffee, sodas, water bottles and finger snacks - which I guess you’d call canapes - and melon ***** of all colors. The centerpiece though, was a big silver, smoked salmon with a lemon stuck in its mouth and a wreath of parsley about its neck - all on a bed of lettuce, surrounded by various crackers and French bread rolls.

I was working my way along the tables, because there were honeydew melon-***** and they’re a personal weakness. Honeydews aren’t in season now, so I was full-on, honeydew foraging. I’m sure I looked like a starving homeless girl who’d somehow gotten in and was trying to eat for the week.

A slim, attractive, black lady in a very stylish dark-gray beaded jacket & sheath dress, had stopped as if transfixed, staring solemnly at the salmon. As I drew next to her, my plate half full of honeydew *****, she said, “It’s a fitting memorial.” That hit me as so funny - I laughed embarrassingly - spitting half a melon ball under the table. She started laughing too - we were like two sillies at church. Her sad face, the way she’d said it - you had to be there.

After a few minutes, the hospital administrator gave a little general welcome, ending it with, “Now it’s time to meet your mentors.” The fish lady turned out to be my mentor. She was still standing next to me - she turned, offered her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Rebecca.”

Her voice made those simple words seem warm and inviting. She looks to be in her early fifties (but I’m a bad judge of age), her short black hair was peppered with gray and white like she had just come in from the snow. We became instant old friends, cracking each other up.

Dr. Rebecca’s (again, I’m not doxing anyone) specialty is neurological surgery. She’s a Baltimore girl - born and raised - who attended Johns Hopkins from bachelors through medical school. Of course, I mentioned that both my siblings went to Johns at some point - Brice being a sophomore in med school there now.

Besides four years of medical school, Rebecca completed seven years of neurological surgery residency (yummy). “A doctor never really finishes school,” she said, “things constantly change and there are new specialties to master,” but I knew this from my parents.

“The plan is for you to shadow me this summer,” she confirmed, “and gain some clinical experience.” I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Yes mam.” We talked for about thirty minutes and, as we parted, she gifted me a copy of ‘Skandalaki’s Surgical Anatomy.’

“If you want to be a surgeon, you’ll need to know anatomy better than God.” She’d said. “So start now. I made some notes for you in the index - we’re going to lean into this,” she finished, tapping the book, and giving me a wink.

I was walking on air as Lisa and I made our way back to the residence.
It’s going to be the BEST summer.

As it swims
underwater
its hostile
body scares
anything
in sight
it doesn't
give mercy
with its red body
the salmon
is a fierce predator

A dawning of Spring,
The tree’s pollen eye-dust spreads free.
White paint-stroke wind swirls and
sways through the plains,
the grass kindly greets in sighing retreat.

Blue skies softly shelter,
filling the days with their comforting hues.
Sparsely dotted roaming cotton clouds dance as
the yellow Sun yawns and spreads its rays,
rousing the slumbering bear from his winter den.

Sounds of the hen’s call awaken,
a signaling for paper to meet pen.
The heart swells and empties
just as the flower’s buds lazily fall open
at the bidding of the Sun’s young light.

An open world, the never ending wood,
A night river flows just beyond the bend,
full of salmon fighting upstream from the wrong end.
A tender letter penned but not sent.
A winged man smiles and whispers visions,
guiding my ascent.

Unfortunately, a penned letter is not always sent,
just as all the hopeful salmon do not
make it back to their springing den.
Some sneak by and continue their uphill fight
but others are clawed and left stuck within the
bear’s teeth, writhing in defeat.

On rainy days
I look up poems set in Seattle,
then look back at the rain set against the window

I imagine the water was carried here
from the shores of their bay
across Pike Place, through Belltown,
in buckets they use
to carry Pacific salmon off fishing boats,
or in lidded Styrofoam bowls used
to take out clam chowder

I practice walking in this manner, sans umbrella, through the parking lot of a South Florida strip mall.

When I reach the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts, past the laundromat and the check cashing store, I channel my inner Seattleite: poised in wet socks,
unrushed as the sips they take from their mugs when its **** pouring outside

I renounce sugary accoutrements and have what they're having:
Black coffee with a splash of rain,
A balance perfected on their slanted hill streets
that breed more poets per capita
than anywhere else in the country

Vegas can have its mirages in the desert
San Francisco, its gold bridge

I think I should just have this coffee,
and this rainy day
as the poem it is.

To everyone born to this world with nothing
No social code, allowed to risk it all with no bluffing
While others get bored being handed their every desire
I spent my childhood days building dirt empires
Dreaming of the molds I was not cut out of
When I'd sit down with fellow folks talking of my aspirations
Most just laughed, brushed me off like I had no chance
So I fueled my fire with life's frustrations
My life works may never something tangible
But if you read every chapter of me, your hands would overflow

This world doesn't seem to understand my twisting mind
But at least I never looked at my dining room,
Thinking it's a great place to hang a clothes line
I'm taking jabs at my past but never dwell in that hollow home
Past these child eyes how much of me do you really know
If you were me, if you had to be, disrespectfully  some say they'd **** themselves
Take that negativity and raise myself onto a higher shelf

I find my best inspiration in music and staring out at stars
one of my favorite pieces I ever wrote was just about passing cars
I'm scared that people are being cookie cut all the same
In a Stepford  manner more messed up than Gerald's  game
They hand you charts and define you in a statistic
Like they already threw you the ball but you missed it
I'm here to breath life into a deflated man's scene
Don't let these demons destroy your darkest dreams
Spark a light onto who you want to be
In a sea of fish, be the one swimming up stream

transparent seeds
nest in winter hollows
the future reflected
in all-knowing eyes
an internal compass buried
in each golden heart

dappled forest light
on the natal stream
memories of salt
ingrained within
the latent lure
of open ocean

our destinies are silver
a return to clear waters
transformed revenants
glassy-eyed and gasping
on the gravel bed
that birthed us