Open/Closed — Closed/Open, by Barbara Cartwright

Open or closed? Closed or open?

When I’m driving, I like the doors to be closed but the windows open, my right hand on the wheel, my left arm resting on the window’s sill, half in, half out, in case I want to imitate a dolphin, rising up and diving down in imaginary waves, an imaginary sea, just currents of air really. I switch things up and take the wheel to get something from my purse — lodged between the driver’s and the passenger’s seats — open, unzipped, but closed off enough I have to feel for what I want. Driving along at sixty-miles per hour, my mind is open, playing ping pong with possibilities — though it craves the safety of closed, closed off, when I have too much to do, too many things to mix and match. I can actually sense information flying out of a hole in my head drilled wide, made deep, by anxiety and a lack of time. An opening I must close as soon as possible lest I become a flibbertigibbet — with a driver’s license.

Closed or open? Open or closed?

Flowers start off closed up tight tight tight until the sun’s light, the ever warming air, spring’s nourishing rains coax clenched blooms — held tight by what, I wonder — into a state of open vulnerability. Beautiful but short-lived. Because that kind of tenderness, nature’s tenderness, can’t last. Hour by hour, day by day, that state of perfect openness overreaches itself, stretching past any point of sustainability. Some flowers hang on, as their blooms dry out, and remind us daily of their former glory. While others collapse into piles and heaps, clinging to any surface that will have them, if only for a little while, before they decompose and disappear from view.

Open, closed. Closed, open.

There’s no guarantee. No perfect state of bliss. Just the journey from one state to another and sometimes back again.

Things I Used to Know, by Nancy Osborn

I think I used to know a lot more than I do now. As I get older, details seem to dissolve away.

I used to know the names of every student who rode my school bus and could anticipate every stop along the route. I can't tell you any names now but curiously I quite often have dreams of riding this bus as it makes its way along its circuitous route. In the dream I am the only rider.

I used to know all the rules for playing cribbage and I know I loved playing it with my mother every evening, after doing my homework, though she was always able to add up our scores quick as a wink, while I was still trying to figure them out.

I used to know where I did my laundry when I was in college. I'm sure it was somewhere in my dorm. But in the basement, or down the hall? How could I forget something I must have done every week.

I used to know how to play the piano. As far as I'm concerned, playing the piano is not at all like riding a bike. You do forget how to do it. Sitting at the keyboard nothing comes back to me; my fingers have happily given up any memory that they'd ever been familiar with the keys in the past. However, dancing is something else. My body still remembers the repeated and practiced movements of ballet, and though it may no longer move in those controlled yet limber ways, it wants to.

I used to know Kathy's phone number, my friend who I called every night, so we could compare our algebra homework answers.

I used to know how to type really fast, on a non-electric typewriter.

I used to know how to use hair curlers to give my very straight hair just the sort of curls I wished I'd been born with.

I used to know the skills to fit a lot more activities into my day.

I used to know how to conjugate verbs in French, Russian, and Latin.

I used to know the titles of every Little Golden Book I owned at age 5.

I used to know how to get my father's sailboat ready for a cruise — specifically how to turn on the batteries and start up the diesel engine so it would be ready for any emergencies that might come up when leaving a harbor and maneuvering through moorings. Those details have disappeared from my mind, as they are no longer needed. But I used to know and still do know, how to use the sails as the wind requires (jib, genoa, main, mizzen and spinnaker). I doubt those details will ever vanish.

I used to know the words for a lot of Girl Scout camp songs and only realized I no longer did when my sister suggested a sing-along at the upcoming memorial gathering for my mother, who had been a Girl Scout her entire life.

I used to know all the varieties of swim strokes that were required to pass the Red Cross advanced swim test and lifesaving course. But I secretly hated swimming lessons and so promptly forgot almost everything, except the side stroke which I loved, as it seemed like a lazy person's way of swimming, and the frog kick, whose quirkiness appealed to my sense of humor.

I used to know the names of my sister's boyfriends and the addresses of where she lived with these various partners.

Red Ball Jets, by Christine McNamara

“Do you like them?” the nice man asked me as he finished tying the second shoe. “The fit is perfect,” he said, poking the front of my sneaker trying to find my toe. “Why don’t you walk around in them? Give ‘em a whirl!”

“They’re perfect. Beautiful. Just right.” I marveled, unable to take my eyes off of them. “I love them already.” Looking down at my feet, I was almost speechless — my very first pair of Red Ball Jets.

The salesman continued to encourage me. “Go on. Walk around the store and try them out. You can even run — it’s okay to run around in here.”

I stood slowly and began taking very deliberate, cautious steps. It was hard to walk and look at my feet at the same time, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. The toe was perfectly white and the sneaker was bright bright red. On the back of the sneaker was the special blue dot with the words Red. Ball. Jets. I could hear the slogan in my head: “Run faster. Jump Higher. In your Red Ball Jets!”

I stared at them wondering — “Will I have a hard time controlling them? Will it be scary to run so fast and jump so high? I’ll have to really practice.”

I thought to myself —“Maybe start with jumping over small things, like the dog and my bike. And then work up gradually to bigger things — the hedge along the driveway, my sister, and then Mrs. McCarthy’s house.”

I moved around the store slowly, carefully. I wasn’t at all convinced that this nice man understood the power he had just tied onto my feet. After one lap around the store, and feeling slightly more confident, I began to move a little bit faster. Slowly I worked up to a jog. “Still good.” I thought. “I can control these.”

“Do they feel okay honey?” my mother asked as I jogged past her.  "They don’t hurt your feet do they?”

I came out of my concentration just long enough to tell her that they felt great and then I returned to my initiation.

“Ready for Phase 2,” I said out loud to no one, and with that I broke into a run. My feet felt light. My legs felt powerful. I was moving faster than I ever could have imagined.

In mere seconds I was flying out of the children’s section and whipping through women’s shoes. My speed was incredible. “I’m just getting warmed up!” I thought to myself as I took the first tight turn to the right. Out of women’s and into men’s shoes, then boots, socks, and . . . well, I don’t remember the rest of the store. I was moving so fast it was all just a blur.

Two more right turns and I stopped abruptly next to my mother. “That’s a lot of running for a 4-year-old!” she said to me as I leaned on my knees, huffing and puffing. “Should we get them?” She paused, letting me catch my breath. “It seems like you can handle them,” she commented without a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“I can handle them,” I replied quickly between breaths. I didn’t want her to realize that I hadn’t even tried jumping yet!

"What would happen when I left the ground in these babies?!!" I wondered to myself.

Mom nodded when I asked if I could wear them home, and we went up to the cash register to pay for them.

“Are you sure you’re okay with them?” Mom asked as we walked hand in hand to the car. “I’m sure,” I said. “But just to be safe, I better sit in the back seat.”