An Arizona Dream

It was a normal vacation night for the O’Donnell, Canavan, Millard Family. Our close friends had just left our desert resort and we were out at a “local” though blatantly tourist, restaurant.

We had to wait five minutes to be seated but once at our table the family settled into our mannerisms. Mom began to comment about her great restaurant find, Casey began to brood over his menu, glasses off, and I listened to mom’s proclamation, getting ready to reply with a “Yes mom, what a great find.” We were ready to attack or basket of authentic salsa and chips when we heard “Hi my name is Parker and I will be your server this evening.” My mom and I looked up at our specimen and nodded in approval for this Parker couldn’t have be cuter. After our examination, we then proceeded to give him our orders with as much personality as we could, with the exception of Casey, who had no interest in showing Parker how fun our family could be.

Once he left the table, we proclaimed his hotness and continued to giggle for the rest of the evening which flew by substantially. As mom talked to me about the Indian ruins she viewed that day, I watched the waiters glide through the archways of the plastered Mexican villa, with hope that I would see Parker coming our way. Occasionally he would come straight to our table, flirtatiously smiling as he served me first. But don’t underestimate him. He had a job and he would gladly move past my table to the others with even more young girls like me.

Maybe it was the humid air but I felt I was hit over the head with his charm. There was something about the way he would breeze by our table singing along to the guitarist’s Blackbird or how he would say thank you when he squeezed past my chair as if I had moved it a mile so he could walk by. So, I immaturely twirled my hair, itched my neck, and looked down for fear that I would meet his eyes. Or maybe I was scared that I was just another tip. All in all, I knew is that I was blatantly feeding my inner-preteen dream with this cute, sandy haired, attention giving waiter.

The check came and thoughts came flooding:

This is my chance. Leave your number. Ew you sleaze! Okay how about your screen name. No don’t leave anything. Yeah that will be mysterious. But wait he wont…

The thoughts went on and on, but there I was a seventeen year old, still in high school, and out with her parents on a family vacation; and he was most likely twenty something and had a girl back home, wherever that was. Still, I couldn’t help but slowly walk out of the restaurant, hoping that something would happen.
“Night.” A voice called out.
I figured it wasn’t directed at me, but as I turned around there he was.
“Goodnight” Parker smiled
“Night!” I jolted out in the most thankful tone I could muster.

The ride home was a mind of regrets, plans, dreams, and the word DORK flashing repeatedly. It could be in my head, in fact, it probably is. Just another cute boy who’s niceness is mistaken for flirting that leads on another girlish dream. How pathetic! But here I am with a memory that wont leave my minds front and a receipt for $66.56 signed “Thank you so much! ~Parker”

I laugh at my lack of boldness and I laugh at the thought of it. Nothing would or will happen. So I sit here writing absurdly about a waiter, who makes me blush as I brood over my regret which I will most likely forget. Obviously if my actions were different, my future would be too. But who can tell if I was just another tip on the table? Who can tell if I was just another girl he served that night? But who can tell if he wasn’t my soul mate or a great love waiting to happen? I know, I know, I sound idiotic and prepubescent saying these things. I’ve known for awhile that I have been a hopeless romantic, but this has nothing to do with me wanting a boyfriend. Though it may help, this story is about untaken opportunities and what life could have been if you didn’t sit in the back seat but in the driver’s. Then again, maybe I’m just creating a moral, out of a story of an infatuation that lasted but a weekend, who knows? Take what you will from this story, God knows I wont.

The Smoke In The Wind

She dances ‘round the fire
Twirling colors that could paint the world.
As she kicks the ground to the fiddle’s tune
You watch her stories unfold.

She makes her mark
She breaks the bark
Weaving ribbons of tales untold
But she wont move into town
For folks would stare, clenching their daggers
Burn her alive for the legends of old.

She walked to town, pure
Once when she was eight
Exploring their coble streets
And their iron gates
    She hesitated
It smelled
Smelled of rot and rust
The stench oozing from their houses
Soon she saw the cages
And burnt platforms seen as stages
She saw the shadows moving for the light
And those who had never put up a fight
Stepping backwards she cried
She knew she would never be one of their tied

So she stayed in her world
Filled with gold’s and burgundies
Making poetry of purpose,
power and pity.
For words she will share
And rhymes she will sing
But don’t dare question her
For her words can sting. 

And every once and awhile
She’ll revisit that town.
Amused by their plagues
And their crowns to which they bow down 

You see her smile as she stirs her brew
For you know she is the wind.
A stallion not tamed, just true
She’ll never tremor or scowl or frown
For she is a gypsy traveling to the next town.

This Semester's 2 Hours

The other day I was in homeroom with my fellow seniors and we all sat around the room, strung over desks, bookshelves, and anything else that could hold our 115lb bodies. Our assignment was to listen and vote for two senior speeches. We listened to Alison's endings, and Maeve's PE requirement, Elspeth's love for teachers, Hope's fear of the school, and let us not forget Eliza's comparison with weeds, but one speech stuck out: Emily Mitnick's speech on service. Automatically, I thought of all the hours of service I never did because I was too "busy." All those kids I never read to or those packages of food that remain unpacked, all because of my lack of wanting to help. After voting, I went to MS Drama, drove home, did my homework, talked to my friends; nothing too special. Yeah, so I stood over some vents that night, but all in all, it was fine.
The next day I was burdened with worry and regret. Why? There is nothing wrong with you, it's everyone else who have the problems. And yet, I stand in the middle of court playing my favorite game for 4 people, alone. The score is 10 to 19 and we're winning but the other 3 people are on the side icing their sprains and pulls. And I would love it if they would just join in. Try to ignore their pains. But obviously this could lead to breaks or even worse. Or maybe they have chronic pain where they try to ignore the handicap most of the time, but sometimes they can't. Either way, there I am in the center of the court with the ball and a gloom about my body.
Obviously, if you know me, you know that I am a person who is passionate, and caring and someone who would give anything for her friends. But you know when people say they do service to "see the results." I feel like my life recently has been a service requirement. Ultimately, it's been fun. I have touched people's lives, and attempted to make a difference. But with this service project, I don't see any results. No one rewards me for how well I balance my career with Players and my studies. Instead Student of the Week goes to the girl who persisted with one measly math problem and stayed an extra five minutes after class.
There are gonna be times when you do stuff and you're gonna hope that you're doing the right thing. There are times when you're never gonna know if you really matter. But for once I would like to be recognized for what I do. Whether it be something I did for a friend at 2 in the morning or the MS. Drama program. I'm not asking for a plack, or a national holiday. I'm just asking for a "Thanks Lina! You do do a lot, don't you?" or maybe a "Wow Lina that is so awesome that you do all this."
But then the opposite side comes rearing it's head. Isn't the point of being a friend or doing a service project to do it because you love it and you don't need the reward. I feel selfish by asking for the thank you. I feel that it should be given. But at the same time I look to those who are rewarded and I feel that I do so much more than them.
So here I am with no problems, or a least none to the size of those sprains and pulls. And I am living with a jump in my step and a musical stuck in my head. But there’s everyone else, not moving at all. I want to belt "Move on," but I know that that is not what they need to hear. They need someone to listen and I was the one they confided in, and I'm honored that they picked me; but as time moves on and I'm always a few strides in front of them, I can't help but notice how ironic my life has been. I have been surround by poeple who are stationary while I'm moving at a lightning speed.
Moving on is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand you're living life and loving as much of it as you can but on the other you're torn by leaving everyone else behind. So I sit here at my computer, silently laughing at the irony of it all. Cause no mater how many times you move on from your problems there are always gonna be ends, PE requirements, teachers, fears, weeds, and service.