Make Believe: Poems for Hoping Again

by Victoria Hutchins

For the child you are at heart, who still believes in magic.

A woman will return, looking for the girl she was.

But—has anyone told you about fireflies?

Or that someday, when you finally tell someone about the thing you’re sure makes you irredeemable, and you search their eyes for disgust—you’ll find only love?

Welcome to the world. You’re going to get hurt here, and then you’ll beg for seconds: Can I have just a few more seconds?

Somewhere in the universe, all the bad things are still just dreams.

If there’s a reckoning after this life for the mistakes we made in it, I hope it’s something like this. I hope the universe pulls me into her lap and combs her fingers through my hair while I tell her what I did. I hope she says, Oh honey, I know you didn’t mean to. Of course I still love you. Yes, I think we can fix it. I think it will all come out in the wash.

When was the last time you were alone with your heartbeat and the sky?

It’s fun to pretend. Maybe there’s no such thing as ghosts, god, or lucky stars. Maybe everything I have ever attributed to otherworldly forces is the work of human hands. So what? I’ll take every drop of natural magic I can get.

Listen to me—we are only here for a second. You will be young for every moment of your life, and then you will be gone. Don’t waste another second of the music wondering if it’s too late to dance.

Sure, I would love for my wanting to be less obvious. But I came into the world hungry, and I intend to leave licking the plate. I came into the world thirsty, and I’ll slurp until the glass is taken away.

Sometimes in the moments before they die, chameleons erupt with color. Blues, greens, reds, the bright yellow of the sun. Everything all at once. Maybe when my life flashes before my eyes at the end of all this, I’ll see every shade of woman I ever was. Maybe on the other side waits my nature before nurture. Some iridescent, steady thing.

I’m struck by how pain is the glue of womanhood.

I don’t want anyone to shrink so that I can feel tall.

permission slip to eat a corn dog during Whole30 / and quit 75 Hard on day 7 / or day 1 / to get a full sleeve tattoo / even if it horrifies your grandma / to pierce your nose / your eyebrow / your nipples / to get a tooth gem / even if your boyfriend thinks they look like cavities / to wear the skirt that makes your mom not mad, just disappointed / to treat your body like it’s yours / and your life like it’s yours / to snatch the book of permission slips / and take off running down the hall

My body is a temple, and I will use my temple to worship. I will make love. I will make time. I will make promises and try to keep them. I will make breakfast when I do not believe I deserve it. I will fling open every window and shout about hope, even when I don’t feel it. Especially when I don’t feel it.

If it’s summer, stick around for fall. Soon there will be a chill in the air when you leave for work. You’ll go thrift-shopping for sweaters. You’ll sit on bleachers in a sea of tipsy people and shout about what’s happening on the field (even though you don’t understand what’s happening on the field). You’ll glue rhinestones onto your Halloween costume all October. You’ll drink chai lattes. You’ll watch scary movies and look away during the scary parts and laugh at the jump scares. You’ll go to a haunted house and scream until you’re hoarse. The leaves will change colors and then fall to the ground. You’ll remember change and loss are natural. You’ll burn your casserole and everyone at Friendsgiving will eat it anyway. You’ll remember there are people who will take you whole, burnt parts and all.

You’ll remember nothing blooms all year long. Children at the mall will take pictures with Santa, full of nervous energy and hope. You’ll remember what it feels like to believe in something.

And yet, summer is passing one godforsaken day at a time, and you are growing through what you went through. It isn’t pretty. But you force your life through the sidewalk cracks anyway. You reach down to your roots looking for the gumption to put yourself out of your misery, and instead you find a frustratingly unkillable will to live, no matter the stink of the street.

Maybe you can grow wings right where you are.

in defense of flying too close to the sun Curiosity killed the cat and hurled Icarus into the sea. Or was it hope? I think that might be what we’re here to do— strap beeswax wings onto our breakable bodies, knowing how it could end, and fly toward the light of life anyway.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, There is a field. I’ll meet you there. —Rumi

This might hurt like hell in a second but right now, I’m airborne. And you never know, this could be the first time I land feetfirst.

against soulmates You ask if I think we were written in the stars. I tap a finger to my lips. Have you heard of desire paths? I ask. You’d know one if you saw it. They’re the dirt paths that veer away from the asphalt in places where there isn’t a path, but there should be. They’re created not with concrete or machinery or urban planning committees, but with feet—thousands of defiant feet that said, There should be a path here, and trod one into place. When god made our souls, I don’t think she made a path between them. I don’t think a supernova blasted a line between you and me. But the first time I saw you, I thought, There should be a path here, and so we made one. By walking to each other’s apartments. Stepping nervously into Upper West Side restaurants. Walking through the door of your mom’s house, then mine. Trudging into the grocery store mad as hell, and strolling out hand in hand. Leaving. Coming back. We made this. The stars don’t deserve the credit.

the fig you’ve chosen After Sylvia Plath Somewhere in the fig tree of choices, I have four daughters. I braid their hair. Write I love you on ziplocked sandwiches. Push tiny fingers into tiny mittens. I shiver, tethered to a suburban porch as they step onto the bus. I love them so much it makes my mouth dry. When I look in the bathroom mirror and don’t see myself in it, I look away. On a different branch, I am as slippery as an eel. Solitary as a subway train. I am a master of the art of nursing a cocktail. Hailing a cab. Leaving before I’m left. My pointy shoes tap out an endless cadence in bustling lobbies and pristine offices on Central Park West. I know their rhythm by heart and most nights I like the sound of it. And on the second Sunday in May, when I see tiny hands clutching ziplocked sandwiches on the B train, I look away. In the palm of my hand is the fig I picked: you and me. This. We live in a city that feels like a suburb, our compromise between tethered and slippery. There’s a sprawling mall where I inspect pairs of tiny mittens and pointy shoes carefully, as if I have a purpose for them, and then walk away. It’s me making coffee and you eating a banana and me telling you, I love you, I love our life. And I do. I really do.

creation myth On one hand, I believe the no-nonsense telling of how we got here. The single cell that multiplied, the fish that grew legs and crawled to land, the apes that started to walk upright. Some days, I think that is all there was to it. A big bang and dumb luck. And yet: You looked so angelic that first morning, I found myself thinking that the bridge of your nose must have been sculpted by careful, divine fingertips. That surely your lips were etched onto your face by something that loves you. That only a holy mind could have come up with an idea as good as us.

You, fearfully and wonderfully made, fearfully and wonderfully in the making.

I know we’re strangers now but if you die before I do, I’ll keep you alive.

When you find the right people / and you will find them / you can have nothing / and it will be plenty

playing god If god has a plan, I don’t think they’re fussy about it. Maybe god thinks about their plan the way your grandma thought about your birthday. She used to get you an American Girl doll every year, but once she realized you didn’t like them, she swapped them for Power Rangers. Maybe god writes in pencil. Maybe your words are holy too. Maybe god delights in edits. Maybe there’s no such thing as assigned at birth. Maybe god doesn’t assign anything—they just start the conversation. Maybe god says: For I know the plans I have for you. But if you have something else in mind, just say the Word.

I have so much to do, you always say. But the doing always gets done. It’s the living you should keep an eye on.

what heaven smells like your aunt’s perfume / public library books / movie theater butter / the first snow of the year / blown-out birthday candles / the woods behind your house / pool chlorine / the vanilla-bean lotion you loved in sixth grade / peach snow-cone syrup / your grandma’s house / cinnamon-sugar toast / road trip gasoline / sweet potato casserole / a damp nylon tent after the rain / state fair funnel cake / every person you’ve ever loved / your dad’s breath / like coffee mixed with mouthwash / your dog’s paws / like corn chips and grass / your lover’s slept-on pillow / fresh from a dream / that felt like a life

you’re going to die, so live Which is to say, give time a hell of a battle even though you know you’ll lose the war. Wrestle every second of sunlight and laughter and French-kissing that you can from regret’s hands. Snatch hours of tenderness from the jaws of apathy. Yank daydreams and poems from boredom’s scalp. When nihilism swings at you, swing back. Hiss through clenched teeth: I may not live forever, but goddamnit, I am alive today.

it’s either gorgeous or devastating The care we pour into temporary things. Like how we know birthday cards all end up in landfills, but still dig for the perfect words to write in them. The way we draw hearts on fogged-up windshields, even though we know they’ll disappear in a breath. How we know we won’t live in our houses forever, but we still paint the walls and mark the doorways with our children’s heights and bury our dogs in the backyard. Let’s go with gorgeous. Gorgeous, radiantly reckless, and brave: to know your world is made of sand and still try to build a castle. To carry on as the tide approaches. To allow yourself to hunt for treasure in what’s slipping through your fingers.

the view from the bottom of the hill we’re dying on They say we’re killing the Earth, but it’s us we’ll kill in the end. Earth watched the dinosaurs come and go without breaking a sweat. She took an asteroid to the face and kept her chin up. She was here when we came and she’ll be here when we’re gone. Once our lease runs out and we’re finished warming and bombing ourselves to death, Earth will tie up her hair and get to work. Balsam trees will burst through empty highways while ivy hurries to hide billboards. Gale-force winds will uproot building foundations. Skyscrapers will slump and then fall, and the dirt underneath will sigh with relief. Earth will click her tongue while she works. Those humans didn’t stay very long, but they sure did make a mess.

God, grant me the courage to hold on for dear life to things I know I will lose. God, let me keep the people I love on the line for as many fifteen-more-minutes as I can. Only when I have to, God, let me let them go.

Survival’s funny like that: After months with no pulse and out of the blue, your heart starts to beat again. You notice it’s spring. You hop toward the water, to look for love.

death as the morning after a sleepover I hope death feels like the morning after a sleepover. Your best friend’s front door swings open to reveal your mom on the porch, silhouetted by the July sun. You know the answer but you ask anyway. Can I stay a little longer? Behind her, the car engine hums knowingly and your dog peeks out of the back-seat window. I’m so glad you had fun, baby, but it’s time to go home. She reaches across the threshold for your hand. You take hers, then look back one more time. Thank you for having me.

map says you are here I went looking where they said heaven is but I must have taken a wrong turn. I couldn’t find the throne. I didn’t hear the choir. No one I love was there. So, I came back down to Earth, wet from the clouds. Nothing to show for all my effort. I walked in the house, head drooped with defeat. I sat in my dad’s chair, still warm from the ball game. My mom was making fried bologna like her mom used to. My niece was singing her show songs and it sounded a little holy. I cocked my head to the side, looked at the map. Could this be what they meant? They said on Earth, as it is in heaven. They said on Earth.

the last day of my life On the last day of my life, I hope I’m tired. Not tired like after a bad night of sleep, tired like after a really good trip. Tired from museum mornings and sightseeing afternoons, tired from not wasting a moment. On the last day of my life, I hope my body is worn out. Not worn out like something that wasn’t taken care of, worn out like something that was well used. Worn out with laugh lines and ink under my skin, worn out from decades of sunny summers and wedding cakes. Worn out with love. On the last day of my life, I hope I’m ready. Not ready like ready to leave somewhere, ready like ready to go somewhere. Ready to get back, ready to see my mom and my dog. Ready to fade into the static that made me. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good trip. I hope I have a really good time. But the best part of a trip is coming home.