Cinnamon, Blueberries, & Other Subjects to fill a Book of Poetry

Chapter 1: Life Skills

     "I knew you should have taken that life skills class!" Francis hollers over the phone. Despite being a few inches shorter than me, which I should note is still exceptionally tall, just shy of 23, what one might consider chubby, and just generally ehat one might consider unintimidating, she had mastered the art of lecturing so well that I could easily picture her disappointed face. It made me shudder. It should be said that I love my cousin to no end and would lay my life down for her any day, but it's slightly harder to say that when she's blowing out my left eardrum over the phone, her already high pitched voice only getting higher as she carries on. Still, despite her making me half deaf, she was right. She'd tried to convince me to take a life skills class before I graduated college, the kind that teaches you how to change a tire and balance a check book and all the other things a 22 year old with dreams of grandeur doesn't consider, but I'd refused and look where that got me.

 Stranded on a desolate backroad with nothing but my phone and a growing sense of despair in the pit of my stomach that was slowly anchoring me to the front seat. I briefly considered what it would be like to just let myself stay here forever, wilted and withered on the side of the road, full of hopes and dreams and potential, before Fran's voice snapped me to my senses. "Sammy, are you even listening? Did you call a tow yet? Is your phone dead? Do I need to come get you?" She fretted, her voice raising an octave with every request. I am prone to fits of melodrama, or so I've been told, and often lose myself in my own turns of phrase. Suffice it to say, it was nice to feel like the one who had it all figured out for once and not the bundle of nerves and thoughts and worst case scenarios. I took a breath, grabbing my phone off the dash and getting out of the car to assess the mangled corpse of my vehicle. It wasn't actually that bad, but one can't blame me for wanting to spice my life up a bit. The world is cold and boring if you don't have any imagination, and I absolutely hate the cold. I glanced at my blown out tire and sighed, bouncing on my heels. This feels like some sort of divine punishment, the penance I have to pay for being young and dumb and never learning how to change a tire.

     "Yes, I'm listening, Fran. I'm always listening, you know that. I have not called a tow yet because you're currently taking up my line. My phone is /not/ dead, again, you're taking up my line. And, no you do not need to come get me. You live an entire ocean and an era away so that's really not even a practical thing for you to offer." I replied, rapid fire, it was how we handled things as kids. One of us would listen while the other, we traded off who did which depending on the week, would list of everything that was on our mind and just worry and worry and worry until the worries ran out. Then, the other person would be the rational one. They'd take that list and go through all the worries and apply logic to them, look at the worries through a practical eye. It became such an important tradition that we still do it now, even halfway across the worls from each other. Although, now that we're older it's mostly catching each other up on our lives. Me asking her opinion on my articles and, occasionally, poetry and Fran going on and on about appliances and her commute and her current boyfriend and all her lovely little adult worries. 

She worries about the practical stuff now. Fran has always been very practical. Except, apparently, at this moment.
     "Do not test me, Samael Greene, I will swim my way across the god awful ocean all the way over to that horrible town so I can fix your tire and send you home with a kiss on the cheek and the website for one of those life classes where you will be stuck with a herd of nasty eighteen year olds who will bully you for being old and dumb and not taking it sooner!" I smiled, partly because it was a ridiculous concept, but also because I knew there was truth to her words. That, if I needed her, she'd fight, tooth and nail, to get back to me. Just like I would for her. It's been the unspoken promise between us for as long as I can remember: I've got your back. Always. Although, I suppose not quite so unspoken as neither of us has ever had to tact to leave things unsaid. I feel the pit in my stomach grow as I remember that, practically speaking, she was being ridiculous. We live an entire ocean apart now and spoke once a week, the rule was still there, but different. More grown up now. /That/ worry stuck and I decided to focus on the things I could do right now instead of worry and worry until I froze to death here. Namely: fix the car.

    "Okay, Fran, I adore you to teeny pieces, but I have to go or my phone is going to die and it's going to be far too late for a tow and then you'll just be lecturing a frozen block of Sam."

  "I adore you too, Sammy, but if you don't call me in the next hour I'm going to have the police sent to your apartment. And, you won't freeze to death, it's mid January." Fran responded, I smiled again, hanging up. I felt the worry roll around in my head. I ignored it as I called the truck. I ignored it as I sat on the hood of my car and waited. I hate waiting. I feel the worry gathering, like a snowball in my head gathering speed as it rolls round and round, and I hate every second of it. I decide to smother the worry the only way I know how, the only way that works, I go into my glove box and pull out a notebook and a pen and I write. And, it's bliss. Just me and my creativity in the middle of nowhere on the hood of my car. I think I almost understand why writers so often move to secluded countryside. 

Almost. 

Maybe if it weren't so cold.