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Interiors. A rhapsody. The piano plays me. Sisters smiling while dancing on keys. The kitchen is cooking while windy breeze settles quietly between my Saturday morning disease. Liszt, Chopin, Grieg. Concentration free. Inspired constantly. Learning how to breathe as four seasons of Vivaldi chase away my dreams. I was one. We were two. Now theres three.

I am reminded of middle school. Grades 6 through 8. An evolution of identity influenced by insecurity. I remember my mother packing my lunch and never eating the sandwich hoping to add an extra minute with my friends on the playground blacktop practicing basketball. The new girl at school. She came to my birthday party. She bought me the recently released Spin Doctors album, making fun of me while I unwrapped the gift, then she put her arm around me while posing for a picture. I can still smell the scent of freshly cooked Entenmanns donuts, inhaling heavy deep while breathing, running swift fast around the track during physical education. The tree house. Walking home from the bus stop, our parents still at the office, preparing an afternoon snack, sitting on the couch after a long day of work, watching television, re-runs, talk shows, and educational infomercials. I miss talking on the phone late at night with the girl from my math class. I miss passing notes between periods, reading, and writing back, and that our only responsibility was the assigned homework that we would eventually finish before class, finding the smartest friend in the room to copy everything almost exact. I loved the fact that we could look at the stars, make a wish, and there would still be that possibility for our dreams to come true. Most of all, I miss writing in my journal, laying on the carpet of my bedroom, my door closed to the world as I found life while listening to Dinosaur Jr, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Janes Addiction and Violent Femmes.

I have 9 red plastic painted Buddhist figurines. 4 books written by the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, 3 written by Thich Nhat Hanh, and “the Bible According to Einstein”. A Pope John Paul II collectors card with a photo of him praying, he reminds me of my grandfather. I also was given a special edition coin that was issued in 1979 when the Polish Pope visited Chicago. A hand carved wooden rosary was presented to me as a gift which now hangs from the rearview mirror of my Explorer. An elderly gentleman working as a door to door salesman handed me an advertisement for a free video or dvd “Finding Faith in Christ”. He explained how this would help me resolve personal and family challenges. I didnt get the movie but I still have the card. In my wallet I keep a newspaper clipping that my father handed down to me with a “Prayer to St. Jude”. Now my Jewish friend told me that all I needed was a necklace with the star of David or a Mezzuzzah on the inside of my door jam reminding me of my daily prayers. Im still trying to find myself. Life is an endless search for understanding but as long as I continue asking questions I feel I am at least making an effort. Out of everything I collect in search of faith, one fact that I am certain to believe in is the smile. I practice that religiously.

The older sister of a friend of mine from high school rang my doorbell. It was obvious she was crying. She removed her sunglasses. She was upset. Is that your cat laying in the shade under the rose bush on your front lawn? No. We dont have a cat. She stopped crying momentarily. She looked confused. The cats in the neighborhood seem to enjoy our yard. She started crying again. I just hit a squirrel. What am I supposed to do? I dont know. Should I call someone? I wasnt sure.

Do you want to see it? She asked. Not really. Hes right there in the middle of the street. No thanks. I assured her that I would take care of the squirrel. She had never run over an animal before. She returned to her car. Her husband sitting in the back seat with their newborn child. I slowly walked out toward the sidewalk. Inching toward the curb. I could see the squirrel. It looked like he was sleeping. He seemed peaceful. The sun was setting. I was sad. I had the sudden urge to climb a tree. I wanted to sit on a branch and hide behind leaves.

I want to think of string tight vibrations of wood framed heart. One snare drum rhythmically beating alongside my emotional guitar. My steel train to Santa Barbara. The endless raining road trip north to San Luis Obispo. My one night stay in San Francisco. Alone, alongside the night. Stars guiding my travels as I turn off the light. Wheels tracing the edge of cliffs, mountains that once were hills but now fit in. Directions and maps both non-existent.

Disoriented. Lost in my blankets between dreams and reality. Organizational meetings of business debating proper distribution of knives, forks, and plates. The napkin must be folded properly in place. Emancipate. Liberate. This civil war between silverware suggests struggle with competency. I cant complete correcting the need. I am selfishly filled with greed. Depression lacks poignancy. But what will happen when I decide to believe. Setting my self free of obstruction, eating at the dining room table of democracy. Turn off the TV and enjoy each others company. Pass the bread. Share the butter. Pray with one another… Dinner is served.

Cruising shy of sixty-five in a sixty-two mercury comet convertible. Shooting through the sky, with jet planes flying by, and the illuminating lights from corporate cloud-scrapers navigating our path. I was wrapped in blankets, jackets, and hats… the cold crisp air slowly slicking past, as we soar through the night, the turn of the wheel holding tight, eyes open wide, dancing from side to side to the sound of rolling stones with bass-thick funk fantastic singing through our bones. “Miss you” were the only words I would know.