Page 20 of Poetry By Dead Men
“Station! That rhymes!” Michael bounces up and down.
Bobby nods, chewing on his lip. “Thatisa good one. I think you might be a songwriter one day. But I don’t think it’s quite right…” Bobby snaps his fingers, then blatantly meets my eyes. "Deprivation," he says, scribbling the word down.
“That’s perfect.” Michael nods emphatically, and even though I want to groan at Bobby’s persistence about my NYU application, I can’t stop myself from laughing at how seriously Michael is taking this assignment.
"Do you even know what that word means?" I ask, crossing my arms. Michael just shrugs.
“I’m six. I know it rhymes,” he says, his little brow furrowing.
“Sure does,” Bobby says, giving Michael a high five. “Thanks for the help, Bud.”
Michael nods, mission complete. “I’m gonna go see if Molly will make me a hot chocolate,” he says, scurrying toward the counter.
“Why are you doing this?” I groan, plopping into the empty chair. “I probably wouldn’t even get in.”
Bobby’s eyes almost bug out of his head, and he tosses his notebook to the side. “Tell me, Miss Captain of the Debate Team, 5.36 GPA, Model UN ambassador, and editor of the school newspaper. Why in the actual world do you think they wouldn’t accept you?"
"Because," I gesture to my uniform: an oxford shirt, plaid kilt, and knee-high socks. "It’s a liberal arts school. Do I look liberal artsy? Does that resumé you just listed off sound liberal or artsy to you?" This time, I don’t back away from his stare. I hold it, because I know the truth.
I wasn't bred for an art universityora creative career. I was bred to be a lawyer. Until the time comes to become a wife and a mother, retire my lawyer's hat, and shift my career to managing the household for my politician husband.
Bobby shrugs, but I can tell he’s more frustrated than he’s letting on. "You have the soul of an artist."
“Even if I get in, my parents—”
"It’syourlife, Beth," Bobby says gently. "Do you think my mom was thrilled when I didn’t go to college? When I told her I was going to be a handyman and teach guitar lessons and play shows six nights a week at dive bars?”
“But can you even make a living as a poet?” I ask.
Bobby takes my hand in his, and suddenly my skin feels like it’s covered in warm glitter.Has his hand always been this big?I think about how it would feel cupping the back of my neck, pulling me in for a kiss.
“Do what makes you happy, then fill in the blanks. Work here on the side. Or the library.” His brow scrunches as if he’s thinking deeply about my future, and it's secretly thrilling.
"What if it’s still not enough?" my voice goes soft.
"You find a way," he says. “I’ll help you. But it doesn’t matter what I think, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Live your life foryourself, Beth. There will be a time when you’ll have to sacrifice for other people. But that time isn’t now. You’re eighteen. Now’s the time you’re supposed to be out there chasing your dreams, running toward them as fast as you possibly can with your arms outstretched. I don’t want to look back in ten years and only feel content with the life I’ve lived. Do you? I want to be able to say that I grabbed what I wanted by the throat and squeezed with everything I had."
"Wouldn't that be killing your dreams?" I ask, cracking a smile.
Bobby tries not to laugh, but he's unsuccessful, and his cheek dimples.
"You know what I mean," he says."My mom was a musician, you know. Piano. She studied at Julliard. Played with famous symphonies. And then she met my dad. When he got a job opportunity in Nebraska, far away from any sort of classical music scene, she went with him. Every time I play a new song for her, there’s a hidden glint of sadness in her eyes. She made a decision for someone else and has spent the rest of her life wondering if she made the right choice."
"That can't be true. No one could possibly regret anything that led them to having you in their life." My neck warms at my confession. He squeezes my hand this time, and I almost faint. My heart thumps rapidly, and I hope he can’t feel my pulse through my skin.
"I know she doesn’t. But when we look back at our life someday, it’s going to be the culmination of a bunch of small decisions that didn't seem like that big of a deal at the time. But theyarea big deal. And the decisions are yours to make alone. Ignore the doubts. Why are you giving them valuable space in your brain? Space I know is already full of words and emotions and feelings." He taps my forehead.
He’s not wrong. Even though I’d rather run into traffic than let go of his hand, ideasareswirling in my mind, and my fingers itch to find a pen and write them down before they disappear. "I hear you," I say. It’s all I can give him right now. I need to make a plan. Do some research and find a clear path forward, not just follow some dream ofmaybebecoming successful as a writer.
As if he knows I’m considering his words, Bobby relaxes in his chair, grabbing his notebook and flipping to a brand-new page. I feel the loss of his touch all the way to my toes, and I wonder, as he looks at my hands once more, if he feels it, too.
"Embrace the chaos, Beth." He smiles at me, and I uncap my pen, opening to a poem I've worked on for months that has every line written. By all measures, it's finished, and yet it still doesn’t feel quite right. Maybe it never will.
Maybe perfect is an idea I'm chasing in my mind, the line always moving no matter how good my work gets. Maybe just writing down my words is enough.
Enough for what? I'm not sure. But if one person wants to read them, that feels like success. And that one person seems to be sitting across from me, believing in me unconditionally as he writes his own words, searching for one that rhymes with application.
My heart flutters as my decision solidifies, as I dive off the edge of the cliff I’ve been standing on for months. “Validation,” I say as I rip out the poem and hand it to him to read, then turn the page to a fresh, unblemished one. "Thank you… For believing in me." A new idea churns through my mind. Emotions I need to purge onto paper.
