My Mom's parents died seven weeks and six days apart, my grandmother in early October and my grandfather late in November.
"It's the end of an era," my uncles mumbled desolately, stumbling through the house after the second funeral. People filed through rooms embracing each other and clinging a little too long, feeling deeply the endless loss of our matriarch and patriarch.
I focused my energy on avoiding tears and thinking about something else, anything else. There is nothing else. Autumn was ending and I knew I couldn't handle such all-consuming grief in the winter. Losing the leaves and the flowers and the taste of life in the air is hard enough every year. To add to that, especially to add something of this magnitude... unbearable. I'll grieve in the spring, when I can handle it. I can't handle it now. If I process any of this, I'll fall apart and I'll never be able to put myself back together again. They deserve my strength. I can't dissolve into desolation. Any breaking down would immediately result in my being inconsolable. So I daydreamed about the future, getting married and remembering them from a distance. My children will grow up with stories of these two, these gorgeous forces of nature I've had the blessing to grow up with. Will this ever go away, this gaping hole in my heart, in my life? Will anything ever feel okay again?
I have never been particularly close to my cousin Burning Man but I passed time during wakes and postfuneral gatherings on couches next to him, struggling to stay dry-eyed. While everyone else congregated in the centers of rooms for comfort, we isolated ourselves in the outskirts, shying away from the intimacy of our unapologetically Irish Catholic family, finding silent solidarity in our shared solitude.
Nearing the close of the weekend, our parents sent us to a local grocery store to return the cans and bottles that had been piling up for days. Perhaps I should pause here to explain, for those of you who aren't Irish; we celebrate the lives of those we lose very traditionally. We leave work, school and responsibility for as long as possible, retreating back to our roots to cry and reminisce and revel in the memories. We repeat the same stories, embellishing a bit more each time, until we make legends of those we are lamentably without. And we drink. We drink a lot.
We agreed to go willingly, finding the idea of fighting the harsh, inexorable cold (he still in his stiff gray suit and I in the inappropriately short black dress I had worn guiltlessly, a tribute to Rita's advice; "If you've got it, flaunt it.") so much easier than enduring the love, warmth, support and security of our heartbroken family.
Eager to escape, we loaded the car and drove away. The drive was largely a continuation of the silent rapport we'd developed as a sort of a break from the tragedy we were immersed in. Occasionally, we spoke softly, dispassionately about music and potential plans for college.
Getting out of the car in the parking lot, the night was numbingly cold. "This is colder than her fucking pool." I gasped, painfully, under my breath to myself. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smirk, though I wasn't sure if he had heard me or was adrift in his own thoughts.
We pulled carts from a nearby stand and loaded them with bottles and cans, overflowing them and still not having enough room. We struggled to push them through the parking lot, fighting the heartless wind. Halfway through the trip, shaking from the cold, we stopped abruptly and looked at each other. Brimming with repressed emotions, we threw our heads back and laughed, loudly, manically, hysterically. Hypothermic, miserable, terrified, we laughed in anguish at the absurdity of the situation, of ourselves. We confronted the metaphor of ourselves as the carts and the overwhelmingly abundant alcoholic litter as the tormenting grief and laughed at it. Hard.
We laughed frenziedly during our multiple trips back and forth from the car to the bottle returns and to the cashier as we handed in slips for $20.00 worth of $0.05 cans and bottles. Customers stepped away to avoid us, nervous about our hysteria. We laughed until our eyes formed tears, which slipped out the sides of our eyes and down our faces, leaving icy trails behind them. We clutched each other, falling over, unable to suppress our lunacy and not interested in trying to. Not bothering to even wipe away the tears, we staggered back to the car and got inside.
We stayed in the parking lot for several minutes until we regained control of ourselves. The drive back was rife with bouts of laughter, both of us beginning again any time we made the mistake of looking at each other.
Arriving back at the house, we discovered our family exactly as we had left them; drunk, distraught, delirious. Too-loudly retelling stories with tears and laughter in the same breath.
And I finally understood.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Masterfade
It seems so different this time. Do I say that every time? I might. I can't remember, but I might. But this time it's worlds away from where we've ever been before. It's just us. At last. But is it? I love believing everything you say.
It's such a relief for you to meet my expectations in a positive way. Your attentiveness is validating. A belated validation, but a validation nonetheless. And I think that is as much as I want from you.
I live inside daydreams. I weave lengthy, seamless performances from the terse syllables and laughter that constitute the bulk of our dialogue. I construct you out of your disillusionment, conceptualize you as an abstraction of my impressions and avidity, using you as a distant secondary source. I affirm myself in a way you never have in these capricious reveries that supersede you. I am satisfied with them. They are enough for me.
Your indignation at the distance is sweetly comforting. I feel so much closer to you when I'm pulling away from you. When I attach, you let go. When you cling, I run. We can't get the pieces together. We likely never will.
It's perhaps disheartening that I remove myself from us in our bliss. But I'm not leaving you, lover. I'm just putting my heart away again. I think we fare better when I'm not addled by adulation.
I chose the name Mr. Fantasy for a reason, darling.
It's such a relief for you to meet my expectations in a positive way. Your attentiveness is validating. A belated validation, but a validation nonetheless. And I think that is as much as I want from you.
I live inside daydreams. I weave lengthy, seamless performances from the terse syllables and laughter that constitute the bulk of our dialogue. I construct you out of your disillusionment, conceptualize you as an abstraction of my impressions and avidity, using you as a distant secondary source. I affirm myself in a way you never have in these capricious reveries that supersede you. I am satisfied with them. They are enough for me.
Your indignation at the distance is sweetly comforting. I feel so much closer to you when I'm pulling away from you. When I attach, you let go. When you cling, I run. We can't get the pieces together. We likely never will.
It's perhaps disheartening that I remove myself from us in our bliss. But I'm not leaving you, lover. I'm just putting my heart away again. I think we fare better when I'm not addled by adulation.
I chose the name Mr. Fantasy for a reason, darling.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Here in the Going, Going, Gone
Each step I take, it haunts me. These are the last I will take here. I lament my legs' every motion, as they propel me forward. Watching the sunlight play on the frozen pond, realization sinks to the bottom of my stomach and settles there. I will never take this walk home again. I smile wistfully, recalling a hot day spent splashing and laughing in the pond with an open-eyed musician I should have gotten to know better. And my final encounter on this trail with that beautiful Nature Boy I never got enough time with.
This sketchy little city was perfect. I remember my first night here, still debating the move. Falling asleep, I knew my mind was made up. This was it. This place would belong to me.
And it did. From the moment I set foot in the North Country I knew it was mine. From the vague, idealized concept to the chaotic reality of a vision actualized, every single detail was precisely what I had imagined. This was the very first place my dreams ever came true.
I could weave meandering, awestruck paragraphs detailing the people I met and what I managed to absorb from them in the too-fleeting moments of the year and a half I spent basking in the frigid air, but I'm too self-absorbed to bother. That's not what I'm dwelling on as I pack my things and leave. I'm thinking about myself.
The soles of my feet will miss the sloping streets of this town, exploring and parading through them. I feel a soft ache seep through them as they become conscious of the loss. My bones will miss the bitter, biting cold that cut straight through to them, ruthlessly.
I'm so thankful for what this place gave me. Each of the 500 miles between myself and the rest of my life provided me with the beautiful, overwhelming opportunity to escape. Outside the confines of expectations, I was finally able to examine myself and differentiate between who I am and who I had always assumed I should be.
I am aware that college does this for everyone. I don't think the universalness of the experience detracts from its significance.
What I leave with is gratitude. Immense, flooding, staggering gratitude. I watch the scenery disappear into nostalgia with a forlorn smile, mouthing Thank you, lovely. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. For every single moment. Thank you for being exactly where I needed you to be, exactly when I needed you to be there. Thank you for belonging to me. Thank you for allowing me to need you. Thank you for being everything I needed. Thank you for being my idea come to life. Thank you for being exactly where I belonged.
And the knowledge that I'm not meant to be there anymore. At some point I needed to confront myself. And you made me do it. And I will never forget that. I may forget everything else. But I will never forget that.
I return home. To reunite. To reassess. To recover, recuperate, rediscover, release, reform, rekindle. Reconnect. To become more than a stranger to my niece and nephew, yammering toddlers now, though I left them cooing infants. Every inch they've grown without me has torn my heart out. I want to snatch those sweet, smushy babies back from the cruel hands of time and start over. I want every missed month back. Though I needed those months in the merciless, forgiving mountains.
Someday I will find somewhere else I belong. I will again imagine a place into being and then immerse myself in it. I will step into my fantasy-turned-reality and know This is it. This is me. This is perfect. Until then, I am here, home, missing those beautiful goddamn mountains. Home alone to contend with my illusions and delusions. But I finally know the difference.
This sketchy little city was perfect. I remember my first night here, still debating the move. Falling asleep, I knew my mind was made up. This was it. This place would belong to me.
And it did. From the moment I set foot in the North Country I knew it was mine. From the vague, idealized concept to the chaotic reality of a vision actualized, every single detail was precisely what I had imagined. This was the very first place my dreams ever came true.
I could weave meandering, awestruck paragraphs detailing the people I met and what I managed to absorb from them in the too-fleeting moments of the year and a half I spent basking in the frigid air, but I'm too self-absorbed to bother. That's not what I'm dwelling on as I pack my things and leave. I'm thinking about myself.
The soles of my feet will miss the sloping streets of this town, exploring and parading through them. I feel a soft ache seep through them as they become conscious of the loss. My bones will miss the bitter, biting cold that cut straight through to them, ruthlessly.
I'm so thankful for what this place gave me. Each of the 500 miles between myself and the rest of my life provided me with the beautiful, overwhelming opportunity to escape. Outside the confines of expectations, I was finally able to examine myself and differentiate between who I am and who I had always assumed I should be.
I am aware that college does this for everyone. I don't think the universalness of the experience detracts from its significance.
What I leave with is gratitude. Immense, flooding, staggering gratitude. I watch the scenery disappear into nostalgia with a forlorn smile, mouthing Thank you, lovely. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. For every single moment. Thank you for being exactly where I needed you to be, exactly when I needed you to be there. Thank you for belonging to me. Thank you for allowing me to need you. Thank you for being everything I needed. Thank you for being my idea come to life. Thank you for being exactly where I belonged.
And the knowledge that I'm not meant to be there anymore. At some point I needed to confront myself. And you made me do it. And I will never forget that. I may forget everything else. But I will never forget that.
I return home. To reunite. To reassess. To recover, recuperate, rediscover, release, reform, rekindle. Reconnect. To become more than a stranger to my niece and nephew, yammering toddlers now, though I left them cooing infants. Every inch they've grown without me has torn my heart out. I want to snatch those sweet, smushy babies back from the cruel hands of time and start over. I want every missed month back. Though I needed those months in the merciless, forgiving mountains.
Someday I will find somewhere else I belong. I will again imagine a place into being and then immerse myself in it. I will step into my fantasy-turned-reality and know This is it. This is me. This is perfect. Until then, I am here, home, missing those beautiful goddamn mountains. Home alone to contend with my illusions and delusions. But I finally know the difference.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Deadweight on Velveteen
Tonight, an unexpected phone call from a friend. She's crying. She hasn't gotten out of bed in a week. She feels the constant need to throw up. She hasn't been to work or class. "I have completely shut down. I've never shut down before. I miss him so much. I don't know what to do. I miss him so much. I miss him so much."
For the first time in years, I remember this state vividly. Slouching lifelessly through hallways, disheveled in unlaundered pajamas. My hair straightener cold for weeks. My makeup drawer unopened. Thinking I'm dead. If I'm dead why do I still feel like this? Sitting through classes, dejected, without energy to hide the endless, though luckily usually silent, tears. "Do you need to go to the Guidance Office? I can give you the notes." Barely bothering to shake my head in response. Can't speak, can't even manage to mumble. What could I say? Words seem so meaningless.
Passing him in the halls is unbearable. He won't even look at me. He eases by so gracefully. I fall limp against lockers, struggling to breathe. I feel so abandoned. I am
Kid A was a dream come true. Long blonde hair, deep blue eyes and a guitar. And such a mind! Littering conversation with musical, literary and political references I couldn't yet wrap my head around, he was so clearly evolved beyond the rest of us. I was awestruck. And he was dangerous.
Any sixteen year old boy enjoys attention, but a skinny, awkward, lonely, manic depressive musician cosumes it. And Kid A's appetite proved insatiable.
We stayed up all night discussing music and psychology. I was as hungry as he was, though I fed off approval rather than devotion. We spun our desperation into superiority complexes, dismissing the people around us as oblivious, unoriginal and worthless. We interspersed our spiteful reproach with bouts of suicidal self-loathing, belied our jealousy with scorn and bitter self-congratulation. We were terrified. We had the entire world at our feet and we were terrified.
I am dead and he smiles sweetly, welcoming the days with a sublime serenity I used to know. Though he is far better at pretending than I. I'm only convincing on camera or on a stage. Retrospectively, this reflects a fundamental difference between us; I was an actress and he is a liar. He is the only thing I think about. Waking up in the morning, there's a moment where I don't remember. My mind is blank. This is the best I will feel all day. It ends abruptly with clips of dreams crashing through my head. In every single one he forgives me. In every single one he acknowledges my despair and saves me from it. Habit and my Mother's orders get me out of bed and to school. Getting dressed is useless. Food is horrifying. I am dazed. I am hopelessly alone.
We go through this repeatedly in the three years he spent relentlessly exploiting my feelings. Though I spend those three years relentlessly allowing him to. I am engulfed in brutal misery each time it happens, though never quite so tormented as the wretched first. I learn to numb, to disengage. I truly believe I will never feel alive again.
But I do. And she will. She will wallow languidly in anguish for what feels like decades, until the grief softens. It happens so gradually that it's nearly impossible to pinpoint. It just slowly gets less physically painful to get out of bed in the morning. And somewhere along the line, less psychologically so. Until it eventually feels okay.
For the first time in years, I remember this state vividly. Slouching lifelessly through hallways, disheveled in unlaundered pajamas. My hair straightener cold for weeks. My makeup drawer unopened. Thinking I'm dead. If I'm dead why do I still feel like this? Sitting through classes, dejected, without energy to hide the endless, though luckily usually silent, tears. "Do you need to go to the Guidance Office? I can give you the notes." Barely bothering to shake my head in response. Can't speak, can't even manage to mumble. What could I say? Words seem so meaningless.
Passing him in the halls is unbearable. He won't even look at me. He eases by so gracefully. I fall limp against lockers, struggling to breathe. I feel so abandoned. I am
Kid A was a dream come true. Long blonde hair, deep blue eyes and a guitar. And such a mind! Littering conversation with musical, literary and political references I couldn't yet wrap my head around, he was so clearly evolved beyond the rest of us. I was awestruck. And he was dangerous.
Any sixteen year old boy enjoys attention, but a skinny, awkward, lonely, manic depressive musician cosumes it. And Kid A's appetite proved insatiable.
We stayed up all night discussing music and psychology. I was as hungry as he was, though I fed off approval rather than devotion. We spun our desperation into superiority complexes, dismissing the people around us as oblivious, unoriginal and worthless. We interspersed our spiteful reproach with bouts of suicidal self-loathing, belied our jealousy with scorn and bitter self-congratulation. We were terrified. We had the entire world at our feet and we were terrified.
I am dead and he smiles sweetly, welcoming the days with a sublime serenity I used to know. Though he is far better at pretending than I. I'm only convincing on camera or on a stage. Retrospectively, this reflects a fundamental difference between us; I was an actress and he is a liar. He is the only thing I think about. Waking up in the morning, there's a moment where I don't remember. My mind is blank. This is the best I will feel all day. It ends abruptly with clips of dreams crashing through my head. In every single one he forgives me. In every single one he acknowledges my despair and saves me from it. Habit and my Mother's orders get me out of bed and to school. Getting dressed is useless. Food is horrifying. I am dazed. I am hopelessly alone.
We go through this repeatedly in the three years he spent relentlessly exploiting my feelings. Though I spend those three years relentlessly allowing him to. I am engulfed in brutal misery each time it happens, though never quite so tormented as the wretched first. I learn to numb, to disengage. I truly believe I will never feel alive again.
But I do. And she will. She will wallow languidly in anguish for what feels like decades, until the grief softens. It happens so gradually that it's nearly impossible to pinpoint. It just slowly gets less physically painful to get out of bed in the morning. And somewhere along the line, less psychologically so. Until it eventually feels okay.
Monday, December 7, 2009
You Can Bring Me Flowers
I love this part. It's perfect. I get so hopelessly lost in everything you say. I keep this part to myself. I spend days on end smiling to myself. I walk into tables and chairs in a dizzy bliss. I'm enamored with every single word. This is what no one else understands. This is why we stay together. This is why I stay with you. Because you make me helplessly, deliriously, trip-over-myself happy. And we're the only people who need to get that.
Each snowflake enchants me as it falls past my face. Somehow, in the dark and the cold, alone, I feel so complete. We are fools. I am so grateful for our foolishness.
I dissolve in every single smile. We confront our agonizing history where your unapologetic neediness meets my repressed maternity. And we transcend it where you coerce my nurturance out from within the self-defensive bitterness.
It's so much sweeter to let myself succumb to the moment. It's so rare that I relinquish even an instant of control.
Are we finally going to figure this out?
Each snowflake enchants me as it falls past my face. Somehow, in the dark and the cold, alone, I feel so complete. We are fools. I am so grateful for our foolishness.
I dissolve in every single smile. We confront our agonizing history where your unapologetic neediness meets my repressed maternity. And we transcend it where you coerce my nurturance out from within the self-defensive bitterness.
It's so much sweeter to let myself succumb to the moment. It's so rare that I relinquish even an instant of control.
Are we finally going to figure this out?
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Prelude to a Kiss
It's funny how the worst first kisses are the best ones too.
Driving home is the most nerve-wracking experience of my life thus far. I laugh too hard at everything he says. My lisp is becoming horrifically more pronounced by the syllable, but I can't. stop. talking. When we pull into my driveway, my heart stops. He leans in. I can't believe this is actually happening. I smile. I lean. I close my eyes. I form my lips to a kiss, and prepare for the magic. His lips touch... my eye.
My eyes fly open. I jerk back, alarmed. Thank God I closed them. That would have been so creepy if I hadn't. He stutters. I stutter back. We sit stuttering at each other. I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I don't want to emasculate him. He takes a deep breath.
"Let's try that again." Smile. We lean in precisely, carefully. Our lips make contact. Relief.
How long can we possibly sit on my parents' couch looking at each other? How long can we possibly watch movies and hold hands and be together and never kiss? Does he even like me? He just keeps talking. And smiling at me. I wish I was the kind of girl who could just go for it. I wonder how different my life would be. Those girls get what they want. Because they take it. I wish I had that kind of nerve. Maybe I do. Or I should! I do! This is how I is going to be from now on. I am going to take life by the balls. Did I get that from a car commercial? No... they wouldn't say that on TV. I must have heard it somewhere else. Where though? Who would say something that stupid? Well, I just did. But I must have gotten it from somewhere. It probably was a stupid car commercial. I mean, they say bastard on TV sometimes. Whatever. He's still talking?! How long can he possibly talk for? Oh God, I think he's almost done. Do it. I can't believe I'm about to do this. I have to pick exactly the right moment. And...NOW. I kiss him.
Precisely at the same time he licks his lips. My lips make direct contact with his tongue.
Are you fucking kidding me? This is humiliating. Is he going to say anything about that? He doesn't. He changes the subject. I pretend to listen for another half hour, until his ride pulls up outside. He gets up to leave. We walk to the door. Right before he leaves... he kisses me. And I kiss him back. And it's perfect.
"Will you come in the other room with me please? I need to talk to you." My nervousness is so obvious. He looks concerned. Of course he agrees. He follows me into the dining room. I decide it's probably best to be direct.
"Well, um, the thing is I, uh, lost a bet and uh... Well, we have to kiss. I mean, I have to kiss you. So. Yeah. I'm going to kiss you."
A smirk spreads across his face.
"Okay. Let's... Go ahead."
And then it's over. We join the rest of our youth group with secretive smiles. I never told him I only made the bet because I knew I was going to lose.
"Drop me off around the corner. I'll walk home from there. I don't want your car to wake up my parents." He nods, and passes my house. The frustration and confusion in the car are palpable. This wasn't what we planned. Things just didn't work out. I always get so nervous. What the hell is the matter with me? The car stops. He tries to smile. I turn towards him and kiss him softly. He responds aggressively, overzealously. I pull back.
"I'm just trying to kiss you."
"I'm just trying to kiss you."
"No... I'm just trying to kiss you."
He nods. He exercises an impressive amount of self-control.
We're not alone anymore. And we're leaving. As I stumble ahead, he reaches to stop me. He waits for everyone else to get ahead of us, then takes my hand in his and leads me to the car. I sit in the front seat, as usual. We drive in a daze, rushing everyone out of the car ahead of us.
We're alone again. Pulling into my parents' driveway, we sit and stare at each other, awkwardly. We both start talking at the same time and then fall silent. Then speak again. Then stop again.
Finally, he speaks alone. "
Well.. I'll see you tomorrow?"
My heart crashes to the bottom of my stomach. "Well yeah, um okay. So goodnight!"
"Yeah, goodnight."
I rush into the house, punching numbers into my phone as my hands shake.
"I think... I think we just ruined everything. We just hooked up. Kind of. Not really. I mean nothing really happened, but... I don't know. I think we crossed a line. I mean, what the FUCK was I thinking? What the fuck? I can't believe what just happened to my life." "Were you guys drunk?" "NO. I don't know what just happened. We're just stupid. And fuck... God, everything is ruined."
My phone beeps; I have a text message.
"Come back outside?"
"Fuck, he's back. I... I've gotta go. I'll call you after."
I go outside and get back in the car.
"What?"
"How bad are you freaking out right now?"
"What? I'm not freaking out! Why would I be freaking out?!"
He laughs. He takes my hand. "You really think I'm going to believe that? Where are we on a scale of 1-10?"
"...Eleven."
He sits up straight. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I... I froze. I'm sorry."
"You didn't even kiss me goodnight!"
"I know."
"No one has ever not kissed me goodnight. You have to kiss me goodnight!"
So he does. It ends short because we burst out laughing.
"I almost killed you, you know. You were about to be dead-zo. Like literally. I was going to kill you." He laughs, nervously. (He knows I meant it.)
Those are my favorites. Bobby McGee and Mr. Fantasy are both on the list. Any guesses which they are?
Driving home is the most nerve-wracking experience of my life thus far. I laugh too hard at everything he says. My lisp is becoming horrifically more pronounced by the syllable, but I can't. stop. talking. When we pull into my driveway, my heart stops. He leans in. I can't believe this is actually happening. I smile. I lean. I close my eyes. I form my lips to a kiss, and prepare for the magic. His lips touch... my eye.
My eyes fly open. I jerk back, alarmed. Thank God I closed them. That would have been so creepy if I hadn't. He stutters. I stutter back. We sit stuttering at each other. I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I don't want to emasculate him. He takes a deep breath.
"Let's try that again." Smile. We lean in precisely, carefully. Our lips make contact. Relief.
How long can we possibly sit on my parents' couch looking at each other? How long can we possibly watch movies and hold hands and be together and never kiss? Does he even like me? He just keeps talking. And smiling at me. I wish I was the kind of girl who could just go for it. I wonder how different my life would be. Those girls get what they want. Because they take it. I wish I had that kind of nerve. Maybe I do. Or I should! I do! This is how I is going to be from now on. I am going to take life by the balls. Did I get that from a car commercial? No... they wouldn't say that on TV. I must have heard it somewhere else. Where though? Who would say something that stupid? Well, I just did. But I must have gotten it from somewhere. It probably was a stupid car commercial. I mean, they say bastard on TV sometimes. Whatever. He's still talking?! How long can he possibly talk for? Oh God, I think he's almost done. Do it. I can't believe I'm about to do this. I have to pick exactly the right moment. And...NOW. I kiss him.
Precisely at the same time he licks his lips. My lips make direct contact with his tongue.
Are you fucking kidding me? This is humiliating. Is he going to say anything about that? He doesn't. He changes the subject. I pretend to listen for another half hour, until his ride pulls up outside. He gets up to leave. We walk to the door. Right before he leaves... he kisses me. And I kiss him back. And it's perfect.
"Will you come in the other room with me please? I need to talk to you." My nervousness is so obvious. He looks concerned. Of course he agrees. He follows me into the dining room. I decide it's probably best to be direct.
"Well, um, the thing is I, uh, lost a bet and uh... Well, we have to kiss. I mean, I have to kiss you. So. Yeah. I'm going to kiss you."
A smirk spreads across his face.
"Okay. Let's... Go ahead."
And then it's over. We join the rest of our youth group with secretive smiles. I never told him I only made the bet because I knew I was going to lose.
"Drop me off around the corner. I'll walk home from there. I don't want your car to wake up my parents." He nods, and passes my house. The frustration and confusion in the car are palpable. This wasn't what we planned. Things just didn't work out. I always get so nervous. What the hell is the matter with me? The car stops. He tries to smile. I turn towards him and kiss him softly. He responds aggressively, overzealously. I pull back.
"I'm just trying to kiss you."
"I'm just trying to kiss you."
"No... I'm just trying to kiss you."
He nods. He exercises an impressive amount of self-control.
We're not alone anymore. And we're leaving. As I stumble ahead, he reaches to stop me. He waits for everyone else to get ahead of us, then takes my hand in his and leads me to the car. I sit in the front seat, as usual. We drive in a daze, rushing everyone out of the car ahead of us.
We're alone again. Pulling into my parents' driveway, we sit and stare at each other, awkwardly. We both start talking at the same time and then fall silent. Then speak again. Then stop again.
Finally, he speaks alone. "
Well.. I'll see you tomorrow?"
My heart crashes to the bottom of my stomach. "Well yeah, um okay. So goodnight!"
"Yeah, goodnight."
I rush into the house, punching numbers into my phone as my hands shake.
"I think... I think we just ruined everything. We just hooked up. Kind of. Not really. I mean nothing really happened, but... I don't know. I think we crossed a line. I mean, what the FUCK was I thinking? What the fuck? I can't believe what just happened to my life." "Were you guys drunk?" "NO. I don't know what just happened. We're just stupid. And fuck... God, everything is ruined."
My phone beeps; I have a text message.
"Come back outside?"
"Fuck, he's back. I... I've gotta go. I'll call you after."
I go outside and get back in the car.
"What?"
"How bad are you freaking out right now?"
"What? I'm not freaking out! Why would I be freaking out?!"
He laughs. He takes my hand. "You really think I'm going to believe that? Where are we on a scale of 1-10?"
"...Eleven."
He sits up straight. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I... I froze. I'm sorry."
"You didn't even kiss me goodnight!"
"I know."
"No one has ever not kissed me goodnight. You have to kiss me goodnight!"
So he does. It ends short because we burst out laughing.
"I almost killed you, you know. You were about to be dead-zo. Like literally. I was going to kill you." He laughs, nervously. (He knows I meant it.)
Those are my favorites. Bobby McGee and Mr. Fantasy are both on the list. Any guesses which they are?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Nobody Does it Better
One walks away from the other feeling empowered. Invincible. Leaving the other feeling desolate. Deprived. (Neither of us is ever unscathed. And we're never both okay. I guess that's the problem with letting someone in. It's never going to end with both of you whole.) "I trust you. I promise. I trust you one hundred percent."
This time it was I, late at night, who confessed, as I have before, that it needs to be over. He should have seen it coming, but he didn't. I understand. He drops hints too, when it's his turn and I never notice them. Or I do, but I ignore them. Why do we think ignoring the signs will change the future? If anything, that will only guarantee it.
It takes awhile for me. I toy with the idea for too long. I can never do it as cleanly as he can. He's less invested. He can so easily be absorbed in distractions. I just focus singularly on loss.
I come right out with it. He laughs. "You're really drunk, aren't you?" I'm not. Fortunately. Another drink and I wouldn't have had the spine. Another couple and my assertion would have escalated into aggression.
"I'm sorry." He doesn't get angry. "It's up to you." "Do you think this is fair to me?" "No."
That night I fill page after page with the same two words. There are filler sentences, but I can really only comprehend a single thought. I'm devastated.
It isn't just the present we're losing. "I just wish you were here." It's the past. "I want to kiss you badly." It's the future. "I want our boat to have a fireplace. And be just like the Titanic." "You know that sank, right?" "Well, just like it except that part."
The next morning is positive. I'm excited to find out what I'm going to do next. "It's like anything is possible now. I'm devastated, but I feel so optimistic. Like anything can happen. I needed to do it. I put it off for way too long."
We last a week. You come back first, which surprises me, because I left. I guess you didn't think I'd come back. Maybe I wouldn't have.
"I'll be there." "I'll believe that when I see it." "I mean it!" "Maybe someday you'll actually prove me wrong." "I will. I'm going to."
My head's way too smart to believe that, but too romantic not to want to. In any event, I'm smiling. And tonight, that's enough.
This time it was I, late at night, who confessed, as I have before, that it needs to be over. He should have seen it coming, but he didn't. I understand. He drops hints too, when it's his turn and I never notice them. Or I do, but I ignore them. Why do we think ignoring the signs will change the future? If anything, that will only guarantee it.
It takes awhile for me. I toy with the idea for too long. I can never do it as cleanly as he can. He's less invested. He can so easily be absorbed in distractions. I just focus singularly on loss.
I come right out with it. He laughs. "You're really drunk, aren't you?" I'm not. Fortunately. Another drink and I wouldn't have had the spine. Another couple and my assertion would have escalated into aggression.
"I'm sorry." He doesn't get angry. "It's up to you." "Do you think this is fair to me?" "No."
That night I fill page after page with the same two words. There are filler sentences, but I can really only comprehend a single thought. I'm devastated.
It isn't just the present we're losing. "I just wish you were here." It's the past. "I want to kiss you badly." It's the future. "I want our boat to have a fireplace. And be just like the Titanic." "You know that sank, right?" "Well, just like it except that part."
The next morning is positive. I'm excited to find out what I'm going to do next. "It's like anything is possible now. I'm devastated, but I feel so optimistic. Like anything can happen. I needed to do it. I put it off for way too long."
We last a week. You come back first, which surprises me, because I left. I guess you didn't think I'd come back. Maybe I wouldn't have.
"I'll be there." "I'll believe that when I see it." "I mean it!" "Maybe someday you'll actually prove me wrong." "I will. I'm going to."
My head's way too smart to believe that, but too romantic not to want to. In any event, I'm smiling. And tonight, that's enough.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tangled up in Blue
I've been swimming this year. It started because I accepted an invitation to the pool from my Lithuanian friend and I've always liked swimming. So I went. I had no idea I would keep going, or what I would find in the water. (I'm more likely to search for meaning in books or music. I certainly wasn't looking for anything in a swimming pool.)
I found Rita. My grandmother, who died my senior year of high school.
Death was no stranger to me and hers wasn't entirely a surprise. She lost a short battle with a cruel disease. But leukemia didn't just take Rita from me. It took my heart.
She was the most wonderful, wicked woman I have ever met. Strength incarnate. She lived to eighty seven and every year she cut her own Christmas tree, hauled it into the house and decorated it. She always got the most pathetic looking tree. That just made it better, somehow.
And every summer she swam.
Rita's pool was above ground and four feet deep. It was secluded in her forest-y backyard completely surrounded by trees, which guaranteed it remain ice cold into August. While we gasped and shivered, squealing and giggling as we dipped in our toes, Rita was in the water every day.
Tonight the water is particularly cold, and I am taken back to those summers. It takes my breath away, literally. I make my way to the last empty lane, each step accompanied by a sharp intake of air, frequently emitting short squeals to express my discomfort.
I submerge myself entirely under water and start the breast stroke. Strong arms and legs and cupping the water, technique she stressed as I floundered in her cold little pool summer after summer after summer. Careful, deliberate strokes.
I frequently find myself under water smiling.
It's so rare to think of her and smile. Focusing on her for any significant period of time unfailingly results in tears.
I reach through the clear, icy laps, while my head glues patches to the bottom of her pool lining. There were so many holes. It would have been more practical to buy a new liner. She told everyone for months afterward how my hair shone in the sunlight, streaming out behind me as I struggled on the bottom of the pool. I felt a twinge of pride every time I overheard her tell the story, and touched at the affection in her voice. It was rare to hear such softness from a woman so fierce.
And I am twirling in her kitchen with its Fred Flinstone floors, showing her my dress, like I did every Sunday. I'm enveloped in her strong, thin arms as she reaches around to spank me.
That's Rita; no display of affection would be acceptable without just a hint of sass.
Memories linger as I dry my hair in the locker room and I find myself stifling tears. I force them away and focus on something else.
But the closeness to her stays. And tomorrow night, I'll be under water smiling at her again.
Sometimes we find healing in the most unexpected places.
I found Rita. My grandmother, who died my senior year of high school.
Death was no stranger to me and hers wasn't entirely a surprise. She lost a short battle with a cruel disease. But leukemia didn't just take Rita from me. It took my heart.
She was the most wonderful, wicked woman I have ever met. Strength incarnate. She lived to eighty seven and every year she cut her own Christmas tree, hauled it into the house and decorated it. She always got the most pathetic looking tree. That just made it better, somehow.
And every summer she swam.
Rita's pool was above ground and four feet deep. It was secluded in her forest-y backyard completely surrounded by trees, which guaranteed it remain ice cold into August. While we gasped and shivered, squealing and giggling as we dipped in our toes, Rita was in the water every day.
Tonight the water is particularly cold, and I am taken back to those summers. It takes my breath away, literally. I make my way to the last empty lane, each step accompanied by a sharp intake of air, frequently emitting short squeals to express my discomfort.
I submerge myself entirely under water and start the breast stroke. Strong arms and legs and cupping the water, technique she stressed as I floundered in her cold little pool summer after summer after summer. Careful, deliberate strokes.
I frequently find myself under water smiling.
It's so rare to think of her and smile. Focusing on her for any significant period of time unfailingly results in tears.
I reach through the clear, icy laps, while my head glues patches to the bottom of her pool lining. There were so many holes. It would have been more practical to buy a new liner. She told everyone for months afterward how my hair shone in the sunlight, streaming out behind me as I struggled on the bottom of the pool. I felt a twinge of pride every time I overheard her tell the story, and touched at the affection in her voice. It was rare to hear such softness from a woman so fierce.
And I am twirling in her kitchen with its Fred Flinstone floors, showing her my dress, like I did every Sunday. I'm enveloped in her strong, thin arms as she reaches around to spank me.
That's Rita; no display of affection would be acceptable without just a hint of sass.
Memories linger as I dry my hair in the locker room and I find myself stifling tears. I force them away and focus on something else.
But the closeness to her stays. And tomorrow night, I'll be under water smiling at her again.
Sometimes we find healing in the most unexpected places.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Naming of Things
I guess introductions are the best place to begin. I'll start with myself because I'm the author, and I'm a narcissist. (Just kidding!) (Kind of.)
3: 29, Always available to dress up and go somewhere fancy or to lie on the couch and watch TV for unbelievable amounts of time.
4: 26, Never without a plan or a system, can always make me laugh. Very matter of fact and easy to talk to.
5: 21, Possibly the most ridiculous person in the entire world. Makes me laugh until I cry.
Mr. Fantasy: 21. The rollercoaster. Tall, dark and handsome. Forever on again/off again. Will never grow up, will never settle down. Musician, athlete. Romantic, capable of being the sweetest person in the entire world, and then shortly thereafter the most insensitive. (Only to again be sweet!) Bearded. Impossible. Infuriating. Can always make me laugh, except when he's making me furious. (Sometimes even then.)
Lime Tree: I have delusions of grandeur. I am way beyond a daydreamer. I'm adventurous, goofy, and absurd. I either talk way too much or don't say anything. I am equally likely to be found on the middle of the dance floor as the corner of the room. Wearing either a beautiful dress or a dirty flannel. My belongings are either obsessively organized as in complete disrepair. I'm not very familiar with middle ground. I can be ambivalent because I want everything.
1, 2, 3, 4 and 5. The sisters, in birth order.
1, 2, 3, 4 and 5. The sisters, in birth order.
2: 31, Always available to laugh, and provide direct, reasonable advice that I am more likely to need than want.
3: 29, Always available to dress up and go somewhere fancy or to lie on the couch and watch TV for unbelievable amounts of time.
4: 26, Never without a plan or a system, can always make me laugh. Very matter of fact and easy to talk to.
5: 21, Possibly the most ridiculous person in the entire world. Makes me laugh until I cry.
Bobby McGee: My best friend.18, Oldest of three, Republican, Fundamentalist Christian, versatile musician, builds log cabins in forests for fun, is always prepared for an adventure, bearded, outdoorsy, shares my love of anything antique, vintage or homemade.
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