Write, Mind

I’m not ready, but with every step forward of my quivering legs, that fact matters less and less. I have decided I’m going to dive into this death pool even if it kills me.  I am thoroughly convinced it will kill me. Baywatch, having become equal parts life coach and spiritual advisor as we inch ahead, checks on me periodically with words of encouragement. When he sees they aren’t helping, he tries to convince me to leave the line. “Little Dude,” he says, “you don’t have to jump. You know that right?” “Yes, I do.” I reply defiantly. “You do? Why?” I think about the question and remember a line my brother’s little league baseball coach screamed to his players during every practice when he believed they weren’t putting their best effort into each play. I give this answer to Baywatch. “Well, because you gotta commit.” I leave out the part about a family trip taken to Wild Water Kingdom, a water park in Pennsylvania, a year ago. There, on a day not much different tha...

When I was around eleven years old, my siblings and I went on a day trip with my mother’s church congregation to Bear Mountain in Upstate N.Y. This being one of the rare moments in my life when I was actually out in the world with my mother, I remember a lot about the trip fondly; me, my mother, and brothers walking the entire perimeter of Bear Mountain’s lake; the men in the group firing up the Barbecue grills and becoming paternal to every child who passed them with concerned, furrowed brows, and “did you eat yets”; my first baseball glove, a black leather, Lousiville Slugger, Wade Boggs autographed -in gold, thank you very much- work of art and craftsmanship that started me on my love affair with the defensive side of American Rounders that I still carry to this day; and the pool I almost died in. I know, I know. We can definitely unpack that. Weirdly, I don’t remember much leading up to the line for the diving board. I do remember it being early midday. My mom, showing the...

There are no curtains on my kitchen window, so I people watch. There’s a couple who live in a basement apartment across the street. Every saturday morning, they walk their two dogs; one a Husky, the other a black labrador. Bombarded by the scents, sounds, and sights of the outside world, the dogs work themselves into a frenzy in the couple’s makeshift courtyard, forcing their owners to double and triple wrap the leashes around their hands and wrists to maintain control of their “babies.” I watch as “Dog dad” wags a finger dripping with stern severity towards the dogs, imagine him using words like “sit” and “stay,” and am impressed with the speed and frigidity of the dogs compliance to the commands. After a moment, “Dog mom” reaches into her jacket and pulls out treats she feeds to their dogs in recognition of their good behavior and obedience. This makes me think of Pavlov. I think he would be proud. This makes me think of a bedroom in Brooklyn. This bedroom doesn’t belong to m...