The Poem

I pulled into my gate at the end of the day and rested my head against the wheel of the car.  I sat there for about five minutes, no doubt annoying my neighbors who pulled in around me who couldn’t tell if I was coming or going-but that I did have a plum parking space that they wanted. 

I didn’t really care.  What I cared about was that for a minute, my phone wasn’t ringing, I wasn’t at my desk, and that I was allowed to breathe for half a second-which I did before deciding to be responsible and collecting the mail that I had allowed to pile for days.  Inside was a package from my Pops.

I hustled into the apartment and ignored Ari who hurled himself into me as he purred in sonnets and love songs about the glory of my return (his neediness is epic) and sliced open the package. 

It was the book my college published of the best creative writing pieces of its students that year.  Of my 4 submissions, 3 had been published, a fact I had been proud of—mostly because I had despised my professor, but partially because after days locked in my room I had written a poem that shocked the hell out of me-because I had written it-and that was the poem that won.

I sat on my sofa pondering the message behind the package.

My Dad does not do subtle.  He’s a cop, it’s his job to make everything as clear as possible, no room for fudging.  But once every few years he’ll send a card and shove a newspaper article circa 1993 about a young Jenna’s stellar performance in “Goldilocks and the 3 Bears” and my sister and I will go…”wha???”

I have not been that happy lately, I’ve been feeling a bit down about not being able to run cause of my torn hip, not having time for my friends, missing my carefree existence of a few months ago where I bitched about my lack of responsibility and professional growth and over abundance of free time replaced by a job that seemed to expand to cover every facet of my life.  I even dreamed about it, and fantasized in my free moments about getting laid off.  That’s right, when thousands in my country are without work, I, making more money then I thought possible at 25 was having actual fantasies about being given my walking papers. 

I missed my friends.  I missed having time to myself.  I missed traveling.  And I missed my blog.

And then, the package.

There could be multiple meanings behind it.

My Dad could have wanted to remind me about the professor I loathed, who loathed me during one of the busiest summers in my life where I worked 40 hours (ha!) commuted to take a semester’s load of classes in the summer 2 hours from home, found time to work out and lose 25 pounds, and find to write well enough to wipe that smug smirk off “Mr. You are my Captive Audience and you will listen to every damn word I have to say for 4 hours twice a week even if its just to listen to me read from my unpublished novel”’s face and that I could get through it all.

He could have wanted to remind me of something that I’m good at.

He could have wanted to draw my attention to the theme of my winning poem-of drowning in desire to please others.

He could have been wanting to clear out a drawer.

I didn’t know, but that night I hugged the book to my chest and slept like I hadn’t slept in weeks, because despite all the dissatisfied appraisals I’ve been getting lately.  I remembered what I’m good at, and I remembered who I am.

The next day I went in with a new attitude, a careless attitude.  And promptly got a bonus and a raise.

WTF.