‘Right Here, Right Now In My Childhood Home’, ‘The Stranger at the Record Store’ & ‘The Basement’
Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He produces oil paintings, illustrations, ceramic pieces and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries across Maine. His online portfolio is donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/art
Right here, right now in my childhood home
“God’s in His heaven— All is right with the world.”
- “Pippa Passes,” Robert Browning
Can I stay right here, right now, forever?
Layered under blankets, my sister twitches in her sleep.
I stare up at the ceiling, peer through my childhood years and rest for a moment. For now, the world stops its crazed rotation. For now, everything is perfect.
Beneath pink princess blankets, my sister twitches in her sleep. She dreams despite Dad’s snores ricocheting on cement walls. For now, the world pauses its crazy routine. For now, everything is perfect. I’m afraid of the day space heaters and CDs and Disney movies fade.
My little sister dreams in spite of Dad’s snores ricocheting on cement walls. I stare up at the ceiling, clinging to my childhood years, resting for a moment. I’m afraid of the day this will change. When this too becomes a memory. Can I stay right here, right now, forever?
The Stranger at the Record Store
My sister and I walked along crimson carpeted aisles of records and CDs.
Their faces bearing peeling cardboard and coffee stains like scabs and bruises.
We met a man in worn Carhartt with tired grey eyes among the cassette tapes.
Together, we talked about our heroes:
the Starman,
Her Majesty,
the Fab Four.
He smiled, said our parents raised us right,
and we agreed.
And for a moment, years no longer
divided generations.
For a moment, the world wasn’t broken.
He left before us, paying the cashier with
a six pack of beer.
The bottles clinked in time with the bluegrass
on the turntable.
We left soon after, placing our finds on the counter. The cashier placed an extra vinyl on our pile
from the Carhartt man.
His favorite album from the seventies.
In the car we stared at it,
it’s been through the wringer
I thought but then realized no,
it is well-loved.
The Basement
Dad sits on a blue-cushioned stool, guitar in hand
Flips the pages of a songbook bearing waxy crayon scribbles that you were convinced were cursive
He built this house, penciled measurements on the walls and wired the electrical cords adorning the ceiling that he never got around to covering
With popcorn kernels and pretzel crumbs embedded in couch cushions, here is his breathing time capsule,
a testament to fifty years well-lived
He strums a few chords before pausing, asks you to join him
You know the words, so you gladly ignore the freezing cement floor beneath your bare feet
Together you sing
And it is as beautiful as a father singing with his daughter
When you grow, Dad says the place looks junky
That the McCartney tickets and newspaper clippings
hang haphazardly; a mess that needs to be cleaned up
You wonder how he could say that
about the place that raised you
Your guitar now rests in a stand in the corner next to the others
Leaving your fingers calloused, stained gray, smelling of metal
Just like his
Julia Frederick is currently an undergraduate student at the Pennsylvania State University studying English. In her free time, she enjoys listening to music, growing her record collection, and writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Her work appears in Ink Nest Literary Magazine and Folio (a chapbook edition of Penn State's Undergraduate Literary Magazine). She has two pieces forthcoming in BarBar.
