Thispiecedoesnothaveatitle
I wrote the first line of this piece as I slipped out of a dream and grabbed my phone to type it into my notes. Enjoy some streamofconciousness honesty. xo
Recently, someone told me something of my life and it scared me.
What do others see about us that we don’t, in our humdrum, in our daily… do you learn something of me as I wash spilled bubble-blowing soap from my hands with the spigot of a rain barrel? Don’t get soap in the watering can! That I often prefer time spent in the company of small children who don’t ask me questions about the direction in which my life is going but do ask me questions about death, and the stars, and why lemons are sour but lemonade is so sweet. Because I don’t know what I’m doing, and the fact that I used to think I knew and now simply don’t strikes fear in my cold little heart. Which to others doesn’t seem cold.
You are kind. Only to people I like, I joke, but do I mean it? How good it feels to be kind, but who are you doing it for? Does giving come easily? Too easily? How much of yourself do you keep to yourself? What do you do when a new person sees you; a piece of you, that you hadn’t intended to share in the way that you speak, or the letters you write, or the same once-black sweatshirt with the ratty sleeves that you wear like it’s armor?
And what they said scared me so because I imagined my mom1 when they said it. Like they could see her in me even though they didn’t know her, and I don’t even know her in this moment because I’ve been grieving her death for three years with no end in sight. But it’s all linear right? Until it’s not. Until you’re holding your childhood best friend’s tiny baby, all peach fuzz and wide eyes, and thinking what a fucking miracle it is to sit on this open court in the dappled sunlight and hold a baby that comes from the same threads of a person you’ve always loved.
Nothing’s quite true until you sit with it. Until the backs of your knees are dripping and you can’t keep the place in your book because your eyes are going blurry from unexpected tears. You’re ruddy and sunned out, hopeful for clouds - a brief reprieve, but too warm to possibly move — this is your life, soap suds, death talks, and the marvel of it all.
Goddamn. That ending. You should be reading this outloud at a spoken word in Paris, or something.
Gorgeous. You're not alone in these feelings. Love and miss you.