Refrigerator Hero

Eighteen-years later and my kindergarten handiwork no longer hangs on the fridge door. Time has passed, a menagerie of family photos, notes, and coupons have been tacked up and taken down in its stead. Over and over again. Life has gone on and I come to the realization that I no longer love toucans as I once did. How much could have changed, from then until now? Gazing at the now barren facade, I wonder at what I’ve gained during that time, and how much I’ve lost, since I last stood here eighteen-years before. . . . It’s late. I’ve been up frantically working on my latest work. It is the third volume of poetry that I am to produce, and it is meant for only one person. “Remember to have plenty of quarters,” I write, “in my first year of college I quickly realized a single quarter can be more valuable than a single dollar.” The girl I write to, I adore her. She has been on my horizon for years now, within sight, out of reach. I implore her to keep those most meaningful to her, at the very least, within that same proximity. I hope that is the way she will keep me. At college I study poetry under a poet-laureate, philosophy from a scholar, and non-fiction from a pragmatist. The world rotates. I look to the horizon and see she’s not there. Somewhere, covered in dust, a black book of poetry goes unread. . . . Pragmatism grips me. Everyday a Moleskin travels by my side, ready to record observations and introspections. Rousseau, Mill, Locke, and Descartes have convinced me that a discernible order must exist to the world. Journal entries fill the Moleskin. Each entry is another step to an inexorable march of analytical thought, slowly pushing the flame of poetry from its pages. . . . I come to find that two years has passed and I have not written a single line of poetry. More surprising still, I come to find that I am ok with that fact. Like a child who puts the last of their dinosaur toys away in dingy attic storage in favor footballs and baseball bats, I eschewed poetry for novel format, narrative, and prose. I began to draft expositions with titles the like of: Gold Rimmed Glasses, Tears of the Moon, and The Wandering City. The passion that has driven me, from kindergarten pictures to comic books, impassioned poetry to narrative exposition, has on the surface changed, but at its heart it remains untouched. Each new piece of literary art, whether shared with friends, family, or colleagues, brings the satisfaction of expression that only pen on paper can create. No matter how many years pass from the day that I stood in front of the fridge, artwork proudly displayed on its door, I will always be that same boy, waiting with an expectant smile. Art will always be an expression of myself, an attempt at grasping a greater understanding of the world. Most importantly, it will always bring with it the expectation of those proud feelings felt so long ago when my mother ruffled my hair and said, “that’s wonderful Alan!” I’ll always want to be the hero of that old refrigerator door.