On Noticing Things
Vignettes and occasional long-form stories on the tiny moments that make life full.
Out of frame
It was our favorite kind of day—the kind where we didn’t have to sit at our desks.
I wasn’t chosen to advance the filmstrip that day. Then I saw the topic was about how to brush your teeth. That must have been why.
I wedged myself in among the others on the floor.
Splattered
The blood stain on the ceiling was small enough not to be large. I doubt anyone working there had noticed—it could only be seen by lying down in this very spot.
The nurses talked with each other about how I was too young to be here. But I could only focus on the stain and the overpowering disinfectant. A shield was placed over my chest.
Had something gone horribly wrong for them?
Will I ever arrive?
We all agreed I needed to change my ticket. Despite it being Sunday evening, there were a few seats left.
Through the crack between the seats I could see folds of crimson and yellow, and the rim of his thick black glasses. I tried to get a peek at the Tibetan scripts.
I wanted what he was absorbing.
The confession booth
Aunt Jean was the first person I told. It was still illegal in some states.
After work, she found the letter with her name written in calligraphy in her mailbox. She read it on the toilet—letter in one hand, Marlboro Light in the other.
She already knew.
Fit to be mad
We were the only two at the gym Wednesday morning. So our lockers would be next to each other, too.
Veins popped while he shook up his protein. He strutted around the bench. With each loop I tried to move out of his way.
“With all these lockers available,” he mumbled.
First flight
After dinner Tommy asked me if I wanted to go flying. I was certain that I was dreaming and that no other child lived like this.
He backed the Mercedes 380 SL out of the garage and put down the top—even though Gloria, his wife, warned us it was too cold for that.
Tommy parked next to the hangar.
Divine sustenance
Her body was hunkered over the cart. Her feet tried to keep up without ever leaving the floor.
Around each aisle, she got herself in my way. I reached over her head to grab bread. Like a baby dinosaur, she slowly gazed up at me. “Is it hard to chew?” she asked.
I told her everything I knew about it.
Going out in style
Poznań felt bigger than Berlin for Kamp’s farewell performance tour. For a short moment, it was my kind of people, my kind of place.
Laser lights sliced through the crowd at Tama. In the back Paweł checked that no one was watching. He reached around to the other side of the bar and drained another Jäger from the tap.
No one else understood how he got so sick that night.
The misery upstairs
She comes home at the same time each night. It takes her an eternity to reach the top floor.
Her footsteps are heavy. They sound like they resent lifting her up. Her door wails.
Never once has she responded to my hello.
In order to get to heaven
Reverend Whitlock was the one who baptized my Mom. Or as she says, sprinkled with “just the right amount of water.” As good Methodists do.
Dad was dunked in a pond. Held under water until he believed in God. As good Baptists do.
I hope it works out for them.