Saying Goodbye

There we sat, my mom, my dad, my brother, and I, in a tight circle on our living room carpet, around our family’s beloved dog, Cocoa. I lightly stroked her chocolate fur and imagined living without her. Cocoa had been my dog for the last 4 years. During those 4 years, I had fallen in love with the sport of tennis. Each morning I left for school early, directly after walking Cocoa for a quick ten minutes. Then after school, I played tennis all afternoon. Because of my hectic schedule, Cocoa was by herself all day long. When I got home from tennis, I only had a little bit of time for another brisk walk, before dinner and a couple hours of homework. Cocoa rarely got the attention that she deserved. In addition, every weekend, we packed our suitcases and drove to a different city for a tennis tournament, which meant that we had to leave Cocoa at the Dog Border. Clearly, we didn’t have time for a dog,so one day my parents sat my brother and I down at the dinner table, and proposed the idea of someday, finding a new home for her and giving her away to somebody who could properly care for her. Sadly, today was that day.


An eerie silence filled our two-story home as we sat there around Cocoa. The dull sound of a motor chugged down our street and into our driveway. My heart skipped a beat. My parents looked at each other, with sad smiles. When the doorbell rang, my dad rose to his feet in slow motion, and ambled to the door. It creaked ajar, and sunlight flooded the sullen entryway. I heard my dad greet the new owner hello. Her name was Keith. She possessed long, brown hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail on the crook of her neck. Cocoa whipped her tail and sprinted to her, leaping up onto her skirt as if she were trying to give the lady a hug.


Keith smiled up and said in a slight southern accent, “I’ll need to teach her to not jump on people.” She then looked down at Cocoa, “Down,” she said sternly. Cocoa remained on her skirt, and wagged her tail even harder, as if she were receiving praise. Keith gently pushed her down, and looked at my dad. “It looks like I’ve got a lot of work to do.”


While she spoke to my parents for a few minutes in the kitchen, my brother and I hugged Cocoa’s neck in the living room, as she wagged her furry tail. I marveled at her dazzling eyes. I will never forget their color: a lovely gold, like the sky during a summer sunrise. She pressed her wet nose into my palm, and licked me with her rough, red-pink tongue. I wanted to give her away, because I knew that she would be so much happier with Keith.  Her life would be filled with the attention she deserved, but was not getting from us. However, there was something about saying farewell to Cocoa, which that ripped my heart to shreds. I knew that I was being selfish, but Cocoa was a part of our family.


Keith followed my parents into the living room, and they sat on the old forest-green couch. “Cocoa is a beautiful dog,” she started, “I especially admire her eyes. They remind me of honey. ”


I nodded, unsure of whether I should thank her for complementing my dog.


“I have two cats and a dog. I also have a huge backyard and a swimming pool, where they play every day. A group of friends and I go on a 5 mile walk every afternoon with our dogs. I think that we can help Cocoa get back into shape.” She playfully pinched the blanket of fat over Cocoa’s tummy. “Here,” she handed me a note card. “On top is my email. I’ll send you lots of emails about how Cocoa is adapting to living with me. On bottom is my Skype address. You can call me anytime you would like to see Cocoa.”


“Thank you so much.” I said graciously.


“No, thank you.”


We all stood up, and my dad opened the front door again, carrying a brown cardboard box of squeaky toys and tennis balls to the trunk of Keith’s car. My mom and brother followed them with Cocoa’s food and water bowl, and I came soon after, grasping Cocoa’s leash, with her close by my side. The lady picked Cocoa up, and set her in the passenger’s seat. With a smile and a wave, she hopped into the driver’s seat and drove away, leaving us with tears welling in our eyes.


We turned and meandered back up the driveway toward our house. The closer we got to our house, the harder it was to keep from crying. By the time we reached the door, all four of us were bawling. Yes, even my dad had a couple tears streaming down his face. In fact, that day was the only time I have ever seen him cry. Whether we were crying tears of joy for helping Cocoa find a good home, gratefulness for Keith, or sorrow for losing the precious puppy that I had received for my birthday four years ago, I don’t know. Maybe it was all 3.

Greatness, Evoked by Peer Pressure

Upon arriving at the tennis courts, we unloaded our overstuffed tennis bags onto the shriveled grass, and applied thick layers of sunscreen to our already tanned skin. It was only 10:30, and the sun was already blazing. We fished our hands into the grocery baskets of tennis balls, which had quickly aged from our daily usage. There were sixteen of us, and eight courts. Quickly, we sorted ourselves into pairs and jogged to the unoccupied courts. From the moment I stepped onto the deep blue tennis court, I knew that today was going to be an incredible day of tennis. There was a silence cast upon the courts, and the only audible sounds were the squeaking of shoes with flattened treads, and fuzzy balls being murdered by sixteen ruthless racquets. Sweat doused the guys' t-shirts and soaked the girl's ponytails. Lips were pursed in concentration, as arms lashed around bodies, and legs shuffled and sprinted across the court. The synergy was electric. Tennis is such an individual sport, and strangely, for once we were acting as a team. Sixteen teenagers, concentrating on accomplishing a common goal: to rise above the rest, and become the best. Even as we were ravaged by the merciless mid-summer heat, nobody ceased play for a gulp of frosty water, though we all wanted to. Our coaches were flabbergasted. They watched us with wide eyes and open mouths. We had never before been so focused as a group, and the coaches watched in awe, reconsidering their former assumptions of what we were capable. 


Parents often warn their children of the consequences of peer pressure they always ask the question: If your friends decided to leap off a bridge, would you jump too? We children roll our eyes and mutter the obvious, "Of course I wouldn't." as teenagers, we are constantly being judged by our peers. If one person falls below the rest, by neglecting to put forth effort in sports or ignoring their geometry homework, then the rest look down upon them, resulting in the person getting pulled back into the herd. However, when many people begin living below the standard, then the standard itself starts to sink. On the flip side, when one person rises above the rest by preparing for the SAT when they are only in middle school, or running the extra mile when everybody else has gone home to sleep, the herd envies the person's success and gossips behind their back. My point is that the majority of people are magnetic, pulling the outsiders in, whether they are falling short of the standard, or breaking away from it. If every ody would elevate their personal standards, like I was lucky enough to witness on that scorching day upon the tennis courts, then a new genre of peer pressure would be created. It would be called, "Greatness, Evoked by Peer Pressure"

Blue and White Uniforms

White and blue uniforms
Zip across the emerald field
Thighs bulge
As the players send the soccer ball screaming
Heads protrude from shoulders
And necks stretch
Hoping to contact the ball 
And send it spinning 
Into the respective goal
Arms are only useful for balance
And high-fives
In the stadium
Cameras flash
And hands clap together
People ruffle flags
Flags from America and Japan
People from anywhere
People from everywhere
Isn't it amazing?
How we can fight wars
But still come together
And yell
And scream
And cheer
As one
Over only an hour and a half
Over a silly little game
And then the winner is crowned
And the players slap hands
Tears flow
Tears of joy
Tears of regret
From players, coaches, and fans
And then we go home
To continue our wars
To continue our lives
Inside our borders
Until the next
World Cup

The Journey of a Moonrise

The navy sky is almost black
And stars are scattered
The full moon rests
On the edge of the horizon
We watch it closely
From the deck of our lake house
As if it's about to roll away
Across the trees
Now a lonely gray cloud
Lazily moseys across
Cutting it into unequal halves
It shines like a colossal flashlight
Across the black water
Creating a path across the rippling lake
Appearing at the right
A solitary boat motors
Disturbing the silence
Enhancing the silence
And disappearing to the left
It is becoming difficult to see my nearly full paper
To scrawl what I see
Transferring the world's scenery
To my words
Because it is growing darker
Because the moon is hiding
Behind the black spindly tree
Illuminating the tree's silhouette
The moon ascends now
Above the crooked tree
It is a brilliant peach color
And brightening by the second
We sit and watch
In silence
And wish
This wasn't our last night
On the lake

The Most Beautiful Things are Best Left Unspoken

Opening my eyes
I awoke
To the rustling of emerald leaves
And birds, deep in conversation
I ambled to the window
When I drew back the curtains
Beauty poured in
Like the sea in a sinking ship
I gazed downward
To the playful squirrels
And grass, shriveled from the summer's heat
I stared upward
Past the thick trees
And to the sky
The distant sun
Hid behind the horizon
And washed the sky with lilac
I just stood there
Open-mouthed
And marveled
With eyes as wide as the Pacific
I thought to snatch my dad's camera
From its padded case
But I didn't
Because I knew that
Not even the most expensive camera
Could capture
The unspoken beauty
Of this morning

Faces in the Sky

It's always funny to review your old writing... By the last line, you can obviously tell that I had a message in mind, but that message was not conveyed very well. What was I thinking when I came up with these metaphors? Oh well... Here is an unedited poem from 11-year-old me :)

Faces in the Sky

The gentle summer breeze whispers softly in my ear
Warmth comes from beneath me
From the tattered towel
Fresh from the dryer
I lay there on my back
Gazing into space
The clear night sky is glorious
Stars are freckles to the sky’s face
Some are dull
Some sparkle like a million diamonds
Then there is the moon
The simple full moon
This is the smile
This is laughter
The milky white teeth of the mouth, of the sky’s face
After an eternity of waiting
It happened
Suddenly
So suddenly you are not even sure it did
It was a glint of light
Rapidly across the night sky
The end of something old
The start of something new
The spark of an idea
The flashy stars are freckles to the sky’s face
The moon is happiness
The shooting star is an idea
None are stupid
None are dumb
All are different
Broaden your horizons

All ideas are magnificent

Decaying Time

Why do clocks linger in this world?
Sinisterly keeping us aware of the passing of time
Their arms twist circles
Like merry-go-rounds
Or wheels of bicycles
But time never halts
It proceeds
Monotonously
The ticks and tocks are unbearable to hear
Each one is a miniscule reminder
That life is deteriorating
That opportunity is perishing
And that my dying day is nearer
Forgetting time is what befuddles me
It is so effortless
It becomes effortful
I wish I could forget time
For merely one day
I would cease everyday worries
And savor the miniscule moments
That make life marvelous
And eclipse the ticks and the tocks
Of decaying time

Leaving Tortola

A dull hum seeps from the belly of our sailboat. "The motor's on," my dad says with smiling eyes. You don't have to know my father to understand his love of sailing. You can see it in his eyes. They reflect wisdom, joy, and a passion as deep as the sea. His eyes are navy, like the ocean on a stormy morning. His eyes tell all. A few people gather around the dock to watch him attempt to steer out of the marina, silently judging him on his sailing abilities. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, the whipping wind and crashing waves, he manages to cleanly steer out of the marina. Above his head, the forest-green hills roll, like the waves. Around the broccoli trees, rest fiery red-orange blossoms, slow dancing in the treetops. The tips of the hills pierce the cloud blanket overhead. All morning long it had rained big, fat drops; now, the humidity was lifting, and the sky was no longer gray, but white. Individual clouds aren't visible. It's like an enormous ceramic bowl resting above the sea. I wish that the bowl would crack, to reveal golden rays of sunshine, oozing down like honey. The sails collect the wind, flicking our sailboat into the distance. I stare into the froth of the waves, lost in thought. I blink. Has it been an hour or merely a few minutes? I search into the distance for the triangle sails and needle-point masts in the marina. I strain to see the lovely crimson flowers. I look for the deep green forests. Nothing. Just a few crooked grey hills and millions of grey waves, curling and dipping, leaving trails of white bubbly froth to match the colorless, overcast sky.

The Lonely Sport of Tennis

I drag white Nike socks over my equally white feet, so that only my tanned skin shows. My feet never see daylight, and I wouldn’t want them to either. It’s embarrassing, when people see the vulgar calluses, and dead flaking skin, so I keep them caged like lions in my tennis shoes, where they are most needed. Riding the elevator to the lobby, I lug my overloaded Babolat tennis bag on one shoulder, while my other hand is stuffed in my hoodie pocket. The lift dings when I reach the lobby, and I emerge. Tennis junkies swarm the hotel’s buffet, to fuel up for the day’s competition. I choose a plate of steamy oatmeal and a packet of peanut butter. If you’ve never tried that combination, you should definitely add it to your bucket list. There is an eerie silence cast upon the tables. Whispers and the clanking of silverware are the only noises.  Some people sit in closely knitted circles, offering advice and coaching for each other’s matches in hushed tones.  Others pose with their hoods up and ear buds in, pumping themselves up by listening to explicit pre-match Eminem raps. Some people sit by their lonesome, like me, eating my peanut-buttered oatmeal, with nervous goose bumps on my arms. I have done this a million times before, but each match is still preceded by nerves. Tennis is a terribly lonely sport. There are no teammates to cheer you up, or with which to celebrate. No coaching is allowed on the court either. There isn’t even an umpire, unless you request one because you suspect that your opponent is cheating. The only company you have on that lonely rectangle is your opponent, but this is no time to strike up a conversation. Tennis is no doubt a lonely sport to most people. However, many of us cherish the ability to conquer each and every match on our own.

Losing The Mental Battle

I crouched, in anticipation. Muscles taunt and loaded. Eyes alert and focused. The lonely yellow tennis ball wandered across the net and landed short. I exploded upward and forward, like a firecracker on Independence Day. It’s a forehand. I like forehands. The ball bounced lackadaisically, and drifted upward. Perfect. I whipped my arm around my body, like I have done a million times before, contacting the fuzzy ball in the dead center of my racquet. It screamed across the net and landed on the back half of the baseline. The first thing I felt is relief. The second thing I felt is pride. I pumped my fist hard and shook it in front of my face, yelling the stereotypical “C’MON!” That was when my opponent started to sprint. She ran wildly, on the balls of her feet, with her racquet stretched away as far as possible. My heart skipped a beat. She jumped and the ball tipped her racquet and fluttered to the net, like a lost butterfly. Shock was the third thing I felt. The ball hit the net and rolled down, down, down, to my side. Desperation was the fourth. My eyes widened. My mouth dropped open. But, paralyzed, I couldn’t move. The fifth thing I felt was deep regret. “C’MON!” she yelled with a smile in her eyes. Jealousy was the sixth thing. She doesn’t DESERVE that point! If I were being rational at that moment, I would have thought to myself, it’s just ONE point. No big deal. Instead, anger beamed through my eyes, my mouth scowled, and my blood boiled. Why didn’t you RUN? I yelled inside my mind, You are so STUPID! My opponent smiled when she saw the war that was going on in my head. The fight was no longer against her. Instead, it was physical me v. mental me. And there is no winning in a battle that is against yourself.