His Favorite Things, a Zuihitsu 

Piper Robinson

Video Games, soccer, music, the tv show Friends.

His opinions are impenetrable. And they’re right, because they’re his. 

Blue and green, swirls of light and earth. I never knew such comfort could come from eyes. 

Flowers blooming underneath the grey cloudy sky. How can a flower bloom when there is no sun? 

I go to the doctor, he checks the rhythm of my heartbeat and remarks, How quick and loud it booms. I smile, knowing that he controls it now. The pulse and rush of my red blood. 

When I look towards my past, I see cold. Why am I just now warming up? 

I wear his sweatshirt like a second skin. 

Storms. Lightning cracks above my head. It’s bright. Thunder follows quickly after. Rain pours down like falling quartz. 

This recipe requires 1 ½ cups of lemon juice, 8 cups of water, 1 ¾ cups of sugar, and a dash of honey. Pour everything into a pitcher. Stir until dissolved. 

The clock is turning too quickly. Time is running away from us. 

Letters are kept in the top drawer in the closet. Two are mine. I don’t know how many are from the past.

Lemonade, pesto, chicken Parmesan.

My parents began pointing out my teeth. They notice how my two front teeth are slightly crooked, they never remarked on this before. I guess I never smiled enough. 

Pools. I have one in my backyard. My head is submerged underwater. It’s refreshing, liberating, my mind is empty. I’m drowning. 

Dogs are my second favorite animal. I’m allergic to them. I have one anyway. 

This recipe requires 2 cups of fresh basil leaves, ½ of grated Romano cheese, ½ cup of extra virgin olive oil, ⅓ cup of pine nuts, 3 cloves of minced garlic, ¼ teaspoon of salt, ⅛ teaspoon of black pepper. Put everything in a blender. Pulse it. Again. Beat. Again. Beat. Again. Beat. My heart matches its drumming.  

Driving late at night. It’s past curfew. He doesn’t care, his parents are sleeping. 

I can hear the sirens getting louder. Red lights flash. I swallow the pill, I inject the needle. The doctor offers me a narcan. I refuse.

It’s getting hotter and hotter. Warning bells scream in my head. Danger! Danger! Danger!

No one believes that I know what I’m doing. Sometimes I agree. They hate him. They want me to hate him.

I create lists. Fragments that describe him, words that don’t do my feelings justice. I send them when he annoys me. It makes him smile. That makes me smile. 

My life was boring. 

He’s a lifeguard. He walks up and down the length of the pool, red shirt, red shorts. 

My family wants to get a cat. I don’t know how to feel. I’m so used to the normalcy of dogs. I don’t like change. I don’t like to let go of the things that bring me joy.

Saturdays. All plans are put aside, life is put on hold. The world stops turning on Saturday. 

I like pasta, it’s my favorite food. I don’t like tomato sauce, I used to think pesto was average. Not anymore. 

My friends think I’m sick. The doctor won’t take my calls.  

How can you hate the thing that makes you feel alive? 

My hair tie is his bracelet, signaling to the world that he’s mine, but not really. 

A careless painter flicked their brush at the night sky and stars appeared. We look at them in silence, it’s the most beautiful thing.

I’ve always been a risk taker. I love roller coasters, the rush of adrenaline, the fear. 

Red is my favorite color.

I don’t want to be cold anymore. I like the heat. I’ve grown comfortable in it. My friends will never understand. 

Over the weekend I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. I’m finally allowed to say, this might be love. I think I’m old enough to understand. 

What else could this be? 

In January I was rushed to the hospital. I had two seizures in one weekend. For a month, I had to see doctor after doctor, and take test after test. I was poked and prodded, had wires attached to my scalp. In the end of it all, they came to the conclusion, We don’t know what’s wrong with you.

This recipe requires 2 cups of cooked spaghetti, 1 breaded chicken breast, 1 cup of tomato sauce, ½ cup of mozzarella cheese. Place the sauce on the chicken, sprinkle the cheese on top. Place in the oven at 350 degrees for 15 minutes. Serve with the spaghetti. The sauce paints the chicken red, stains the pasta. 

Skin peeled back, chest cracked open, my beating heart held in his hands. 

Piper Robinson is a senior at Canton High, who has enjoyed writing her entire life. The passion, which she developed from her dad, has been something that has helped her educationally and recreationally. She is a teaching assistant at a daycare in Foxboro, and tries to encourage her love of writing to the children there.