The smashed cookies on the ground
bring back a snow-flaked flurry of memories.
banging the tambourine on my palm,
lying on the hallway floor
watching the elementary students in the orange light,
in their feathered, polka-dotted dresses
and crisp red-black-gold suits,
miniature versions of the worlds nationalities.
I stuff stacks of programs in my dry hands
trying not to look like I'm caring.
But inside I'm still that youngish girl lightly tapping the bass drum
and hoping that nobody's looking.

I have siblings.
Many siblings
who all understand me.
Are we related?
More so than normally.
We are connected in brain rather than blood.
We can read each others' minds
and feel each others' emotions
every tear and sound and smell.
Who are these brothers and sisters?
My...friends.
My "friends" who walk along with me and we swear and laugh and gossip.
My "friends" who know all of my stinging secrets and I theirs.
My "friends" that I eat ice cream mixed with hot sauce and lemon juice with
My "friends that I throw up and cry and sing and dance and write songs and watch movies with.
No,
they're not my friends.
They're family.

"In only a week, it is."* you think as you ride the school bus home
you picture yourself in that generic black dress,
school-sanctioned, and worn by other girls
who felt the same as you do now,once.
You remember the lights, the praying, the singing,
the dancing to "silent night" and
getting chased in the dark and snow and in a dress.
You worry about getting lost in your music
messing up
as you scoop nutella out of a mug.
You dream about
sleigh bells and bass drums and timpanis
and the awkward looks you'll get from highschoolers.
You hope and wish and blink,
the average girl with her sweater-wrapped heart.

Listening to music is so weird.
sometimes It'll feel like someone is reaching down your throat and scratching at your heart
and you feel the urge to sing so bad.
Other times it feels like someone poured a big vat of honey on you
and the only thing you can see, or taste, or smell or feel is that song.
And still other times
it feels like someone replaced your soul with a handful of peach fuzz
and your eyes with two cold river rocks
and your brain goes into memory mode
like a kaleidoscope of bittersweet and frisson.
and
there's that one song
and then you can't feel anything
at all.

This time I leave with you
through the door you ran in yelling my name hardly nine minutes ago.
We walk on the slush infused sidewalks
alarming those around us by
scream-laughing, swearing, falling in the snow red-faced and wheezing.
We get to your house and you guys
plug in your ipod
blasting songs that talk about
grown up things.
Hairography, wrinkled rugs,
and a seven-month-old chocolate peep later
you're on the phone with my best friend
and I apologize to her while I watch
you drop a pet rabbit and scream.
The men building the church next door
look at us strangely as I spit outside and then get dragged back into
the pulsating mess that is our friendship.

I wake up slowly, memories of last night swimming in my head. Am I still there?
No. I'm in my weird-smelling room
not the orange-lit streets
pocked with puddles I dragged my dress through.
On the breakfast table there is
my hat, with the fluff hanging off
a fedora with a makeshift veil and long silver strings.
On the way to school
songs yell in my head
the way we yelled them down the dark road.
It is still raining outside.
In math, reading, or any other
nobody utters a word about the past holiday.
"It's the devils holiday, after all."
In band, waiting for those seven silent measures to be up
I wipe my face and find silver glitter on my hands.
I smile secretly.
At home, I eat candy, in spite of myself.
They're wrong. Halloween isn't over yet.

Sitting on the oddly sweet-smelling seat
anxiously ******* my oily bangs
song lyrics playing in and out of my mind.
Out the window I see soft brown grasses
and signs for auto shops
and leaves blowing around.
Around me is the hum of younger kids talking about ipods and soccer games
humming half-songs by overrated boy bands and forgotten summer camps.
Drawing is no use, even if you find a pencil it will surely break
wobbling off the page as cracks and portholes pass underfoot.
And I never have any books to read.
So I observe inside and out of the bus,
The only one to see a lonesome deer by the side of the road
or stolen looks by kindergartners.
As graffiti and weeds zoom by outside the smeared glass
we creak and grumble to a stop.
I dig around for the non-existent bus card
and get off my imagination vessel, the school bus.