Ode to the Lunchroom 3/31

We lived right across the street from an elementary school which I didn't attend. I watched it recede in the background as the city bus pulled away. My mom had ridden with me the first couple of times to assure herself that I could do it by myself. I felt comfortable getting on since it was the start of the bus route to downtown Oakland and I could sit anywhere I wanted. Second grade was going to be great. I felt a little itchy in the cordoroy uniform pants that were as stiff as stove pipes but in my jacket pocket were the transfer ticket and some change for the ride home and my favorite snack so I had everything I needed. The pants would relax after a little sliding and climbing at recess. The only thing on my mind was the snack my friend Talmadge and I would buy mid morning. In the small catholic school courtyard was a window which only opened in the mornings so kids could buy hot donuts. The smell of fried dough swept through the school like a fog at 10 o'clock and clinged to our clothes and nostrils compelling us to line up first thing before playing. Inside the window was a nun we hadn't seen in any classrooms. Her face looked puffy and red surrounded by the black and white habit she wore holding her together. She had a full tray of donuts and a small cash box right beside her. Slip the nickel through the window and the sticky delight was all yours.

Image Journal 28 March

1. Vertical blinds shivering against the twelve foot windows cooling the warm forced air at an alarming rate.
2. Display cubicals crying "remember me, remember me!" while the dust settles the argument.
3. The scratching of the pencil filling in the cryptogram next to me while I look around the room.
4. I have a sheet, comforter, two folded blankets neatly folded only on my half of the bed. I'm dressed like an eskimo then I notice the covers kicked off the other half and hear the light breathing of a contented sleeper.
5. Photos of historical family significance are causing me to stare and distracting my thoughts.
6. I love those pictures and wish to look at them every night before bed.
7. The swooshing of the heating system masks the wind outside and the occasional car passing by.
8. The ghosts of the artist's studio radiate on the walls surrounding me.
9. The residue of the day's cooking warms the air with sensational scents.
10. The glaring of the clock radio's display offers a night light and answers the most frequently asked question.

Hands

I have small hands with short fingers. Smooth on one side but the other has absorbed too much sun. I'm starting to show the nuances and suggestions of maturity. Veins snake from wrists to fingers where they dive into nowhere. The parchment paper fingers are bisected by deeply creased knuckles and followed by cuticles that have seen better days. The nails are longish but oddly shaped; some being round, others oval while two are square. I did have my nails manicured once in the Philippines and they looked good for a while. The right hand looks much stronger and more developed than the left. My life line on both hands has both parallel and intersecting lines that would confuse a palm reader.
These hands have gone from zero to two hundred miles per hour in less than five seconds, lifted more than five hundred thousand pounds and brought it down softly and have automatically reached out to babies and children. These small hands with short fingers scoop them up and twirl them around till they giggle and scream. These hands have no fear.