Hickory Smoked Turkey

Small Stones: January 31 Moments of peace and gratitude are plentiful when I remember to pay attention.

Small Stones: January 30 Salamander feet make me laugh.

Small Stones: January 29 Subway tiles      no longer white line the ceiling and walls of the tunnel.

Small Stones: January 28 Each morning you enter the classroom with the bravado and humble heart of a toddler. Your quirks are displayed in bright colors and bold patterns. There are no apologies. This morning you swung in on a Barenaked Ladies album singing of break-ups and dysfunction. You made me smile. You are my friend. You are my teaching partner. You are my mentor.

Small Stones: January 27 Back and forth      like two drunks      playing ping pong we try to determine where our Sunday brunch will take place. "I'm hungry, I want a buffet." I argue, thin lipped and stern. Your defense      "Buffets are things to be scared of.  They attract old people." though creative and true angers me in my low blood sugar rage. Sundays are meant for meditative practice focused on peace and health but all I can set my third eye on is a buffet of french toast.

Small Stones: January 25 Together we breathe      as we try to figure this life out.

Small Stones: January 24 When told it was snowing the students gathered in front of the window that overlooks Penn Avenue. Little hands held on to the windowsill and watched as each flake floated past. They watched. They smiled. They were together. There is still so much I need to learn.

Small Stones: January 21 Snowflakes      the size of feathers fell around me as I ran to the car. The melted snow gathered in my hair reminded me to hold on to the life in front of me.

Small Stones: January 20 Urban sprawl      annoyances and medians continue to spread in America.

Small Stones: January 19 We sat in your apartment to celebrate your birthday over plates of chicken, rice and fruit. There was wine. There was jazz music. There was laughter. There was love for friends      and Todd the brown lhaso apso from across the hall. That damn Todd made our night.

Small Stones: January 18 Every morning the dense branches of the tree scrape against the worn window of my apartment. As the sound continues it reminds me that I am alive and unusually annoyed.

Small Stones: January 17 Philosophically speaking toddlers are like little yogis dressed in sweatpants.

Small Stones: January 16 At home sick      I look out to bare branches of the front yard tree. Inside is a cardinal      red feathers moving up and down left and right. In my lap the fat cat watches with me. There is nothing else to do.

Small Stones: January 15 On Being a Preschool Teacher During the Day and a College Writing Instructor at Night Regardless of time      no one laughs at my jokes.

Small Stones: January 14 Gratitude Tonight for whatever reason we have no real worries.

Small Stones: January 13 Truth: The "Writing Research Papers" textbook      sitting on the chair will not be read tonight. Mob Wives is on.

Small Stones: January 12 He listens to 1930s jazz on NPR as he boils water for string beans and broccoli. On a Michigan shaped cutting board he slices fresh garlic. 100 year old doors      salvaged from Heinz's Point Breeze mansion separate us but through cracks in the doorway I know exactly what I see.

Small Stones: January 11 At a stoplight on Fifth Avenue      I look up through my passenger window and see an apartment      on the fourth floor      lit up with a man wearing a pirate hat. It is at this moment that I realize I am no longer young.

Small Stones: January 10 When a thirty-three year old      pre-school teacher with moderate OCD and a fear of germs helps toddlers learn to use the toilet      her days are comprised of consistently dodging pee.

Small Stones: January 9 Wednesday Morning I open the classroom      turn on the lights place the paint on the table and look out the wide window. Colors ascend orange, pink and blue as waitresses at the diner next door serve eggs and bacon to hungry customers. There is joy in this moment and where my feet      are planted.

Small Stones: January 8 After nap she sat next to her friend and began eating snack. As she ate her animal crackers she looked at me      mouth full of cookies and said, "I'm a happy kid." Later, she asked me, "Are you happy?" I knelt beside her and replied "Yes. Yes, I am."

Small Stones: January 7 The black and white cat      carries in his mouth a frayed blue octopus around the dining room. His fat stomach sways from side to side as he chirps and speaks of all the good to come.

Small Stones: January 6 The blue, red, green and yellow orbs that trim my window offer more than light. Memories of my parents' bar at Christmas      are held in each bulb. The jukebox that played Bing Crosby      the tinsel that trimmed the counter are images that swirl in the light. * As a child my parents owned a bowling alley in Michigan.  Some of my most fond memories are of the Christmas parties they held in the bar.  Employees and regulars of the bowling alley would show up, eat, drink, sing and laugh in the overly decorated bar.  These memories are with me tonight.*

Small Stone: January 5 Waiting in line      for a coffee and mocha my friend and I decide this winter can only be warmed by a morning of sun to come.

Small Stone: January 4 The winter branches against the orange and white January sky bleed into the rooftop snow.

Small Stone: January 3 The vegetable garden      overgrown with ice      rests against the backyard fence.

Small Stone: January 2 Cobwebs     pulled to expose     abstract designs remind me to take the lead of the silver cat and close my eyes.

Small Stone for January 1 The water boils     as sounds of the neighbor     shoveling the snow     from last night's fall fills the kitchen. I am present.