I often think of little things to write about. A thread here or there that wraps up a moment. My intention is to scribble a note to myself to remember the gist of it, whatever it is I’m in, so when I have a moment, I can sit down and unwind a little narrative. One of the final scenes in Goodfellas has become a metaphor for my life. Ray Liotta is strung out big time. He’s about to get caught. He’s juggling drug trafficking, family, a mistress, and dinner. He narrates the back and forth of picking up the babysitter, her lucky hat, asking his brother to watch the meat sauce and keep an eye out for helicopters. Amidst the unraveling, he says he has to make the meatballs. The meatballs are important. You need to get the gravy right.
As we run around like crazy people, sometimes we’ll just stop. And look at each other, exhausted.
“I need to make the meatballs.”
It has been a year of loss and often awakening; the constant cocoon and emergence with different wings. The cycle of change is so repeated, so much that you just want a break from all the different all the time. You want things to say the same or not even that but just stop. Cut it out. But the only thing you can count on is that there will be snow, and that is what will make everything look the same.
Change is like a drug. Pick up the babysitter, make the plans, stack them on top of each other, and make the meatballs.
Being the subject of a little girl comes in handy here. Because I look at her,we look at her, and we want it both ways. We want her to grow up, right out of the narrow range of emotional expression and intense focus on repetition and into broader exploration and inquiry. But we want her to stay the same. The girl who tells me she’s not going to cry. The one who grabs my head and kisses me almost passionately on my face and who can watch Cindy Lauper’s Time After Time and say to me, earnestly, when Cindy hugs her mother for the last time on her way to the train station:
“It’s her mother. She’s saying good-bye to her mother.”
The girl who watched a tear fall onto her shirt when her eyes were weepy with sickness and said:
“Whoops.”
I would like to keep that for a while longer.
For the next week, I will have her all to myself. I will sit still in my heart and let it get strong while we spoil each other. I will look at her and try not to let her know quite how desperately I love her, because that’s almost too much to put on a little girl. If that makes sense.
I will forgo the fucking meatballs.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
she didn't want a service, so she threw herself a party
Last weekend, a friend of mine passed away after a long illness. I’ll miss her very much. But please refrain from feeling sad, because I’d like to tell you about some of our time together.
* * *
We were shopping together in Boston, the day before a conference started. When we went to check out, the woman behind the counter asked my friend if she was buying for me. I guess she thought we were related.
“Baby’s paying for herself today,” she said.
* * *
After a day of site visits during which we had gotten lost in our own neighborhood several times, we concluded our exhaustion at her house.
“Do you want a Bloody Mary or a beer?”
“I’ll take a Bloody Mary,” I said.
“Do you want a snit?”
For those of you who might be unaware, a "snit" is the same as a beer back. For those of you who don’t know what a beer back is, that is how we role.
“Yeah.”
She made me the biggest, baddest (bad as in good), best Bloody Mary I have ever had. Complete with all of the wonderful things those drinks bring, like olives, celery, cheese, and salt.
And then she handed me my snit. In the form of an entire bottle of Corona.
"What would you have done if I had asked for a beer?"
"Made you a Bloody."
* * *
When she found out she was not going to recover from her illness, it was very near her birthday. So she threw a giant party for herself. It was a beautiful evening with a couple hundred of her closest friends. Everyone’s name tag had a different plastic flower hot glued to it, or a golf tee. The food and wine were spectacular and abundant. Toward the end of the evening, we all gathering outside so she could tell us how much she loved us, and how grateful she was we were all there.
Someone started to cry.
“No crocodile tears,” she said.
* * *
I visited her a half dozen times during her last three months. Her house was a revolving door of guests and the phone rang off the hook when I was there. I had wanted to go out to dinner with her but it just was not possible. The first time I came, she was getting a hospital bed installed. She teased me about how the guy who was installing it was flirting with me.
“He didn’t say a word until you came in. Perked right up.”
“That’s hilarious.”
* * *
One time, she wanted me to bring her two fish sandwiches from McDonald’s which she ate with a glass of milk. She showed me a card she had bought for her friend who she described as “a big busted woman, but you would never know it to look at her.” And I wondered how she knew. I asked her how she was doing. We talked about how great her party was.
“I only regret not getting to go to Istanbul,” she said. “That would have been fun.”
* * *
A couple weeks before died, I took my first trip to see her with a group of people. We drank Bloody Marys and snits again and talked about sports and tequila. I gave her a kiss and we said we loved each other.
“I have a cold,” she said. “I don’t want to give it to you.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
* * *
The last time I saw her was two days before 7:20 a.m. on February 12. She was sleeping a deep, heavy sleep. We rubbed her hands and told her she was beautiful. And she is.
* * *
Losing people is such a pain in the ass. In so many ways.
It’s probably clear what I learned from Vickie. That relationships matter, that Paul was right; the love you take is equal to the love you make. That specifying the size of your beer back is advisable. All of that stuff everyone is pretty sure they knew already. That death is a part of life. That it’s sad when people go away. That life is for the living, even when you know your time is soon.
That life is for the living.
* * *
We were shopping together in Boston, the day before a conference started. When we went to check out, the woman behind the counter asked my friend if she was buying for me. I guess she thought we were related.
“Baby’s paying for herself today,” she said.
* * *
After a day of site visits during which we had gotten lost in our own neighborhood several times, we concluded our exhaustion at her house.
“Do you want a Bloody Mary or a beer?”
“I’ll take a Bloody Mary,” I said.
“Do you want a snit?”
For those of you who might be unaware, a "snit" is the same as a beer back. For those of you who don’t know what a beer back is, that is how we role.
“Yeah.”
She made me the biggest, baddest (bad as in good), best Bloody Mary I have ever had. Complete with all of the wonderful things those drinks bring, like olives, celery, cheese, and salt.
And then she handed me my snit. In the form of an entire bottle of Corona.
"What would you have done if I had asked for a beer?"
"Made you a Bloody."
* * *
When she found out she was not going to recover from her illness, it was very near her birthday. So she threw a giant party for herself. It was a beautiful evening with a couple hundred of her closest friends. Everyone’s name tag had a different plastic flower hot glued to it, or a golf tee. The food and wine were spectacular and abundant. Toward the end of the evening, we all gathering outside so she could tell us how much she loved us, and how grateful she was we were all there.
Someone started to cry.
“No crocodile tears,” she said.
* * *
I visited her a half dozen times during her last three months. Her house was a revolving door of guests and the phone rang off the hook when I was there. I had wanted to go out to dinner with her but it just was not possible. The first time I came, she was getting a hospital bed installed. She teased me about how the guy who was installing it was flirting with me.
“He didn’t say a word until you came in. Perked right up.”
“That’s hilarious.”
* * *
One time, she wanted me to bring her two fish sandwiches from McDonald’s which she ate with a glass of milk. She showed me a card she had bought for her friend who she described as “a big busted woman, but you would never know it to look at her.” And I wondered how she knew. I asked her how she was doing. We talked about how great her party was.
“I only regret not getting to go to Istanbul,” she said. “That would have been fun.”
* * *
A couple weeks before died, I took my first trip to see her with a group of people. We drank Bloody Marys and snits again and talked about sports and tequila. I gave her a kiss and we said we loved each other.
“I have a cold,” she said. “I don’t want to give it to you.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
* * *
The last time I saw her was two days before 7:20 a.m. on February 12. She was sleeping a deep, heavy sleep. We rubbed her hands and told her she was beautiful. And she is.
* * *
Losing people is such a pain in the ass. In so many ways.
It’s probably clear what I learned from Vickie. That relationships matter, that Paul was right; the love you take is equal to the love you make. That specifying the size of your beer back is advisable. All of that stuff everyone is pretty sure they knew already. That death is a part of life. That it’s sad when people go away. That life is for the living, even when you know your time is soon.
That life is for the living.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
my grandfather was a mailman. true story.
I have what is best described as an annual affair with my mail. We stopped visiting each other regularly three years ago. Now, we check in on each other, not too much so it’s always interesting. It never fails to disappoint. Thin, red packages raising up from all the shit I will have to tear in half to avoid having my identity stolen. The whole lover metaphor probably ended a sentence ago.
I don’t have a great excuse for why this is the way it is. If you know me, you probably could tell me. It probably has something to do with details or time.
I have sent exactly two letters in the last year. Two cards to two family members. And when I dropped them in the post box, I never expected for a moment to hear anything back. I even assumed they wouldn’t make it there. They held some tender matters of my heart. Writing them, I sent them on their way, wherever they land just does not matter. But I put them in a box here and somehow they end up there? That just seems nuts.
My willing mail ignorance has caused some issues.
My insurance got temporarily discontinued last year because I failed to verify that I didn’t have any other insurance. “We sent you a letter.” I discovered the error because in one of my hunt and peck sessions for a specific piece of something else, I found an unpaid bill for $700 for my daughter’s office visit.
I discovered a note from a former acquaintance that had been quietly slipped (not even mailed) onto my porch. She said she didn’t know if we still live here. Or if we wanted to be in touch. But she was interested in reconnecting. I found it four months after it landed. And then I re-lost it for another few months. I recently found it, and it’s sitting in my office near my phone. I’m working up the courage to write her and tell her what happened. Or maybe she’s better off.
I have almost thrown away tickets to Wrigley Field. Concerts. I have lapsed membership in various things. Seasonal discounts. Stuff.
I had occasion this evening to step onto the porch and search in the dark for something required. I mashed around the obvious garbage, looking for the tell-tale signs of legitimate business. And there were…all these other things in there. Notes about comings and goings over the past year. Pictures of children so much bigger even than the last time I saw them. Kind cards from family; fingerprints of time taken to send a note off on a journey, not expecting something in return, but still wanting to share something with us and with others.
We opened our mail this evening with our daughter and told her who all of it was from. And I think tomorrow, we will write our first letter together to someone.
I’m still not going to check it regularly, though.
I don’t have a great excuse for why this is the way it is. If you know me, you probably could tell me. It probably has something to do with details or time.
I have sent exactly two letters in the last year. Two cards to two family members. And when I dropped them in the post box, I never expected for a moment to hear anything back. I even assumed they wouldn’t make it there. They held some tender matters of my heart. Writing them, I sent them on their way, wherever they land just does not matter. But I put them in a box here and somehow they end up there? That just seems nuts.
My willing mail ignorance has caused some issues.
My insurance got temporarily discontinued last year because I failed to verify that I didn’t have any other insurance. “We sent you a letter.” I discovered the error because in one of my hunt and peck sessions for a specific piece of something else, I found an unpaid bill for $700 for my daughter’s office visit.
I discovered a note from a former acquaintance that had been quietly slipped (not even mailed) onto my porch. She said she didn’t know if we still live here. Or if we wanted to be in touch. But she was interested in reconnecting. I found it four months after it landed. And then I re-lost it for another few months. I recently found it, and it’s sitting in my office near my phone. I’m working up the courage to write her and tell her what happened. Or maybe she’s better off.
I have almost thrown away tickets to Wrigley Field. Concerts. I have lapsed membership in various things. Seasonal discounts. Stuff.
I had occasion this evening to step onto the porch and search in the dark for something required. I mashed around the obvious garbage, looking for the tell-tale signs of legitimate business. And there were…all these other things in there. Notes about comings and goings over the past year. Pictures of children so much bigger even than the last time I saw them. Kind cards from family; fingerprints of time taken to send a note off on a journey, not expecting something in return, but still wanting to share something with us and with others.
We opened our mail this evening with our daughter and told her who all of it was from. And I think tomorrow, we will write our first letter together to someone.
I’m still not going to check it regularly, though.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
resolute
It's never too late to wonder what might be. And imagine.
I started new behaviors before the new year. A false running start that comforts me. Exercise, eating habits, and internal promises of tranquility. It's my MO. I have been a Buddhist ten times over. A vegetarian. A regular writer.
Like most sapians, I have a long list of the things I would change. It should be noted here that the changes are not the sign of intense discontent with who I am. No, that's really not it at all. Consider it a heightened awareness of the world and the people in it, and what is all around me that is and are just not . . . me.
Debra Morgan's lips. And her quirky cat eyes.
Curly hair. A halo of fro.
Appropriate silence.
Really white teeth.
Tight triceps.
Boobs.
It.
There is so much to want in the world. More or less of something that you have or don't, and there are so many people that you see at least one person each day who has "it." At least one. And when there's more, that can hurt. Why can't you just do it? Why can't you just change?
Wouldn't it be better if we didn't use contractions?
It isn't the wanting that is so destructive, I don't think. It's when it turns into the belief that the "it" is the one thing that stands between you and happiness. If I could just master that one thing, I would have everything. Sometimes, seeing what you don't have is the only time to take stock in yourself. That's not fair to anyone.
I am resolute, in this new year, to take stock outside times when I notice what I do not have to assess everything I take for granted. My most astoundingly beautiful daughter, inside and out. My exceptional partner in life who I, quite simply, lucked into assbackwards. My ability to change. The ease with which I cry. My hair. Me.
Wanting; it's not so bad.
The having is hard to understand.
This year I will tie both together in each moment they appear. Give them the dance they deserve. By having each partner take a solo run. What I wish I were takes a turn. What I am dances to a longer song.
And--perhaps--it leads.
I started new behaviors before the new year. A false running start that comforts me. Exercise, eating habits, and internal promises of tranquility. It's my MO. I have been a Buddhist ten times over. A vegetarian. A regular writer.
Like most sapians, I have a long list of the things I would change. It should be noted here that the changes are not the sign of intense discontent with who I am. No, that's really not it at all. Consider it a heightened awareness of the world and the people in it, and what is all around me that is and are just not . . . me.
Debra Morgan's lips. And her quirky cat eyes.
Curly hair. A halo of fro.
Appropriate silence.
Really white teeth.
Tight triceps.
Boobs.
It.
There is so much to want in the world. More or less of something that you have or don't, and there are so many people that you see at least one person each day who has "it." At least one. And when there's more, that can hurt. Why can't you just do it? Why can't you just change?
Wouldn't it be better if we didn't use contractions?
It isn't the wanting that is so destructive, I don't think. It's when it turns into the belief that the "it" is the one thing that stands between you and happiness. If I could just master that one thing, I would have everything. Sometimes, seeing what you don't have is the only time to take stock in yourself. That's not fair to anyone.
I am resolute, in this new year, to take stock outside times when I notice what I do not have to assess everything I take for granted. My most astoundingly beautiful daughter, inside and out. My exceptional partner in life who I, quite simply, lucked into assbackwards. My ability to change. The ease with which I cry. My hair. Me.
Wanting; it's not so bad.
The having is hard to understand.
This year I will tie both together in each moment they appear. Give them the dance they deserve. By having each partner take a solo run. What I wish I were takes a turn. What I am dances to a longer song.
And--perhaps--it leads.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
the eagle has landed
In the summer, my writing dropped off. It lemming-ed off a cliff. There was too much fun to be had out there, and a lot of daylight to have the fun in. It was really a spectacular time. It aches a little to even imagine the summer. There are good times now, to be sure. But one must be more creative when there’s no sunshine.
It’s fascinating; I can sit down and work through a memory that’s hard to swallow no matter how deep into the past it goes. I could tell you about the time I got a D in math and an F in sewing. In the same trimester. My freshman year in high school. I remember driving past the McDonald's and telling my mom, and her being really upset, and it being near Christmas. And me giving her a copy of A Wish for Wings that Work that year, and the tears that ensued. Why didn’t I just do my homework? I think I was bored. I’m pretty sure that was it.
I remember when my sister told me our grandfather had died, and she explained death to me as something that happens to someone to make them go away forever. We were playing in my room, and she told me I would never see him again. I wasn’t upset. More curious than anything. I remember mom crying and dad hugging her. She was 34. I was 5.
I remember my first broken heart. It happened at a coffee shop. Smashed to smithereens.
Different coffee shop, different day. Not smashed, but thoroughly annoyed.
Where was I going with this? I am trying to remember.
I live inside my own head like everyone else. Making complicated stories and punishing myself and others for things that might happen maybe. Working out the steps one by one and making action plans for the just-in-cases. They rarely happen.
Writing renders it simple, all of the noise and the guessing. It allows me to confess, to step back; own my actions. I can go back to the beginning and start again, looking at life and making sense of the moments the best I can, or moving beyond the upset apple cart that has no meaning. It’s just a mess, plain and simple.
I’m closing my eyes, and I can see the joy in it all. I’m thinking of an animal that starts with the letter “L.” I’m waiting in line for both of us because it’s warm and we have no place to go. I’m wading through the crowd and I can’t hear anything but it’s so amazing to be with all these happy strangers. I’m thinking of dinner last night. I’m holding a weight above my head to see if I can do it the longest. And I can. I’m eating candy until I’m regretting not taking care of that cavity before I lost my dental insurance. And then I’ll have some more. I’m waiting in a different line and I see you again, and I wrap my scarf around myself like a straitjacket so you notice me. We're close together on the plane and I'm scared like always, but I'd go anywhere with you. I’m cleaning my daughter’s house of madness.
“What are you doing, kid?” I asked her.
“I’m closing my eyes.”
It’s fascinating; I can sit down and work through a memory that’s hard to swallow no matter how deep into the past it goes. I could tell you about the time I got a D in math and an F in sewing. In the same trimester. My freshman year in high school. I remember driving past the McDonald's and telling my mom, and her being really upset, and it being near Christmas. And me giving her a copy of A Wish for Wings that Work that year, and the tears that ensued. Why didn’t I just do my homework? I think I was bored. I’m pretty sure that was it.
I remember when my sister told me our grandfather had died, and she explained death to me as something that happens to someone to make them go away forever. We were playing in my room, and she told me I would never see him again. I wasn’t upset. More curious than anything. I remember mom crying and dad hugging her. She was 34. I was 5.
I remember my first broken heart. It happened at a coffee shop. Smashed to smithereens.
Different coffee shop, different day. Not smashed, but thoroughly annoyed.
Where was I going with this? I am trying to remember.
I live inside my own head like everyone else. Making complicated stories and punishing myself and others for things that might happen maybe. Working out the steps one by one and making action plans for the just-in-cases. They rarely happen.
Writing renders it simple, all of the noise and the guessing. It allows me to confess, to step back; own my actions. I can go back to the beginning and start again, looking at life and making sense of the moments the best I can, or moving beyond the upset apple cart that has no meaning. It’s just a mess, plain and simple.
I’m closing my eyes, and I can see the joy in it all. I’m thinking of an animal that starts with the letter “L.” I’m waiting in line for both of us because it’s warm and we have no place to go. I’m wading through the crowd and I can’t hear anything but it’s so amazing to be with all these happy strangers. I’m thinking of dinner last night. I’m holding a weight above my head to see if I can do it the longest. And I can. I’m eating candy until I’m regretting not taking care of that cavity before I lost my dental insurance. And then I’ll have some more. I’m waiting in a different line and I see you again, and I wrap my scarf around myself like a straitjacket so you notice me. We're close together on the plane and I'm scared like always, but I'd go anywhere with you. I’m cleaning my daughter’s house of madness.
“What are you doing, kid?” I asked her.
“I’m closing my eyes.”
Friday, July 9, 2010
a very small thought
I stared at the undersides of the maple trees from thirty feet below. They cut into the evening sky with three large bites, the black edges of the leaves trailing into a different blue. It was like looking at holes punched in the earth, like there were stars that sat past the ceiling we so often see.
Right then and there, I thought good and hard about what those trees looked like, and how I might describe them to you. Because I knew they were beautiful, but I didn't know how. I couldn't think of anything. It's only now I realize I could have wondered what the sky looked like because of them. What they were doing to the nature around. That's a different way of thinking about it. A very small thought that will remain right here.
Right then and there, I thought good and hard about what those trees looked like, and how I might describe them to you. Because I knew they were beautiful, but I didn't know how. I couldn't think of anything. It's only now I realize I could have wondered what the sky looked like because of them. What they were doing to the nature around. That's a different way of thinking about it. A very small thought that will remain right here.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
munich us
Before we had a kid, we went to Europe. Because that's what you do, right? It wasn't a last hurrah, actually. We didn't know at the time that we would have a family other than us two. We flew to Amsterdam--a much delayed flight through New Jersey--and took the night train to Munich. By the time we got on the train, we were squeezed out tubes of sloppy sauce. And the train was filled with co-eds giggling and in their jammies. Or so he told me when he went to find us a make-shift meal of wine and cheesy crackers.
We slept like thieves, and woke up nearly in Munich. The lowest fog hugged the tracks as we crept past outposts. There was no part of it that wasn't like the movies.
We were there just a couple days. There were long, long walks around the city, and ending in the English Garden. There are pictures of us in front bright purple explosions of wonder and rivers and lots of beer. Beer bigger than anything. It was a Monday, and we were sitting in the middle of several parties of after work friends at the center of the garden, near a Chinese tower. Rows of green benches and tables. Eating something like a pile of french fries, only way, way more amazing, covered in this sauce that I don't even know what it is. But it was white and had lumps. Nothing was complicated. Everything was just like what we wanted.
We both felt it. Welled up inside with contentment, if such a thing is possible. So we dubbed ourselves, "Munich us." The us who didn't drive, whose destinations were epicurean and grand with the world. We promised each other that when we got home, "Munich us" would prevail. We will bike or walk everywhere. We will dine al fresco. We will eat full-fat foods but in moderation (most of the time). And we will be merry. Always.
There have been long bike rides to fantastic destinations. From one end of the city to the other just for the chance to drink out of a silly glass and end the day with seafood in the park. Music. Block parties and tattoos and waterfalls. Munich us has done really well.
But only since she came into the world. Only since time became something else other than what we waste. We came home from that trip and we did things. But it wasn't Munich us. It was just us. She makes everything better, and makes us remember what's important.
Two weeks ago, we were in a neighboring state, a more rural place. We rode bikes downtown there and ate pizza and had drinks after. We mistook people for other people and passed ashtrays to smokers. Then we left, and wheeled past the fairgrounds. Onto the bike path, through the woods. There were bugs and nature and no one else could see us. We even had little lights on our hats.
And that was all the light there was.
There was some disagreement about the safety of the path. Surely, there were murderers.
"I feel like I'm riding through 48 Hours Mystery!" I said
"It's not 48 Hours Mystery. Except for that one episode."
He is...hilarious.
I often imagine myself watching myself doing things, and thinking about how it would be reported on the news.
"Look at the stars," he said.
If I'm honest, I was a little intimidated by all the nature.
"I've seen stars."
"Not like this."
It was so dark. If we hadn't had those lights, we'd have been in a velvet sea.
"Turn off your lights for a second."
"What?!"
"Turn them off."
Not everything he says is gentle. But this was gentle. So I did.
It was just as you might imagine. Frogs and other chirps. The strangest of sounds but none of them threatening. So much more powerful than the two of us, but inviting us in. Taking us with. Munich us.
"Thanks," he said.
"Of course," I said.
"This smells like my childhood," he said.
We could have been best friends, swinging from tires. We could have grown up together. I always thought we would never have fallen in love if we had met a day before we did. That there was this perfect moment when we came together. I don't think that's true, now. Because even though it didn't smell like my youth, I really wished it had. I wish I had known you when.
"I'm going to write about this," I said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Total Munich us."
We rode past the ditch weed and the high school. All the way to another adventure.
We slept like thieves, and woke up nearly in Munich. The lowest fog hugged the tracks as we crept past outposts. There was no part of it that wasn't like the movies.
We were there just a couple days. There were long, long walks around the city, and ending in the English Garden. There are pictures of us in front bright purple explosions of wonder and rivers and lots of beer. Beer bigger than anything. It was a Monday, and we were sitting in the middle of several parties of after work friends at the center of the garden, near a Chinese tower. Rows of green benches and tables. Eating something like a pile of french fries, only way, way more amazing, covered in this sauce that I don't even know what it is. But it was white and had lumps. Nothing was complicated. Everything was just like what we wanted.
We both felt it. Welled up inside with contentment, if such a thing is possible. So we dubbed ourselves, "Munich us." The us who didn't drive, whose destinations were epicurean and grand with the world. We promised each other that when we got home, "Munich us" would prevail. We will bike or walk everywhere. We will dine al fresco. We will eat full-fat foods but in moderation (most of the time). And we will be merry. Always.
There have been long bike rides to fantastic destinations. From one end of the city to the other just for the chance to drink out of a silly glass and end the day with seafood in the park. Music. Block parties and tattoos and waterfalls. Munich us has done really well.
But only since she came into the world. Only since time became something else other than what we waste. We came home from that trip and we did things. But it wasn't Munich us. It was just us. She makes everything better, and makes us remember what's important.
Two weeks ago, we were in a neighboring state, a more rural place. We rode bikes downtown there and ate pizza and had drinks after. We mistook people for other people and passed ashtrays to smokers. Then we left, and wheeled past the fairgrounds. Onto the bike path, through the woods. There were bugs and nature and no one else could see us. We even had little lights on our hats.
And that was all the light there was.
There was some disagreement about the safety of the path. Surely, there were murderers.
"I feel like I'm riding through 48 Hours Mystery!" I said
"It's not 48 Hours Mystery. Except for that one episode."
He is...hilarious.
I often imagine myself watching myself doing things, and thinking about how it would be reported on the news.
"Look at the stars," he said.
If I'm honest, I was a little intimidated by all the nature.
"I've seen stars."
"Not like this."
It was so dark. If we hadn't had those lights, we'd have been in a velvet sea.
"Turn off your lights for a second."
"What?!"
"Turn them off."
Not everything he says is gentle. But this was gentle. So I did.
It was just as you might imagine. Frogs and other chirps. The strangest of sounds but none of them threatening. So much more powerful than the two of us, but inviting us in. Taking us with. Munich us.
"Thanks," he said.
"Of course," I said.
"This smells like my childhood," he said.
We could have been best friends, swinging from tires. We could have grown up together. I always thought we would never have fallen in love if we had met a day before we did. That there was this perfect moment when we came together. I don't think that's true, now. Because even though it didn't smell like my youth, I really wished it had. I wish I had known you when.
"I'm going to write about this," I said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Total Munich us."
We rode past the ditch weed and the high school. All the way to another adventure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
