thirty-five seconds

I was in New Orleans last week. It's a beautiful part of the earth, that city. I fell in love very deeply and I want to go back.

When I first arrived, I had dinner with a friend who I don't get to see so much. He's the best kind of egg, and we had a grand time sitting atop a balcony on Bourbon street talking, listening, and taking in the senses from below.

Fast-forward to me being very, very sick for the rest of the week. And me needing to be "on" at 8 a.m. on Saturday for work. This transition takes you to where I was Friday night: the emergency room of Touro Hospital, New Orleans, trying to get some drugs.

I have a lot of stories from this night, but this will be the first.

Three cab drivers I met that night, and how they hit me deep down inside the tender parts of my soul. Right in the spot I needed to be touched, and when I needed to be noticed.

* * *

I had been crying on the phone to my husband because I was so sick and tired. I couldn't stop being ill and I still had so much to do and I had nothing left.

"You need to go to the doctor," he said.

"I don't want to go," I said.

So the conversation continued with lots of support in other areas until we parted. And then I made up my mind to do as he said, and go get help.

The ER. Dammit.

I went to the concierge to find my way. Urgent care was closed, of course. You'll have to go to the hospital, doll. They're so nice in the South. Even when they're telling you how royally fucked you are.

He took out a map and showed me the cross streets.

"Tell the cab driver to take you right here, and to take St. Charles street. You know how some of these guys are," he said.

I had no idea how they are, because I'm from someplace else and we only talk like that in veiled slips of passive-aggressive mysteries. But I was grateful for the map all the same.

To my left I saw four friends pass by and out the doors, including my good egg from the first night. They were off to dinner and a show. Next time, I thought. I'll go with them the next time we're together.

I caught my cab in front of the hotel, a red minivan. I showed the driver the map and asked him to take St. Charles street to Touro hospital.

"Are you sick?" he said.

"Don't worry, I won't get sick in here," I said.

"I'm not worried."

We drove awhile, and it was clear we weren't on St. Charles.

There were mansions and weeping trees that fell heavy with rain. It was just how I felt. Full of lead that weighed down the promise I might have had within.

"Where are we?"

"The Garden District."

It was magnificent. Above ground cemeteries and pages from an Ann Rice novel. Everything around me seemed deep without color, all white and pale yellows. We passed the urgent care, boarded up for the night, or had it been closed for longer? I didn't know if Katrina had gotten this far.

"You know, you are sick and you're not from here. You just don't know when that's going to happen to you."

I shook a little inside and acknowledged with a sigh.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Haiti."

"Do you still have family there?"

"Yes."

Some more silence. And then he said:

"It took 35 seconds. It was like you closed your eyes and then you opened them, and everything was gone."

I cried openly but held back the whimpers. It was just that fast. And then he said:

"Like here. Like the hurricane. You think you have control. Some men, I think, they just get curious and they think they can do it. They think they have control and then they open their eyes and there is nothing there."

I thought about this underneath my own emotions. It has been a month of profound loss. More than I will ever be able to talk about here. But I thought of something in response to this.

"We have control over ourselves," I said.

"Oh yes. We can choose to be good or evil. Every day."

And just as fast as we had left, we were at the hospital.

I wanted him to come back and get me when I was done, but I was fairly certain this wouldn't be a short trip. He told me to call a United Cab because they take credit cards, but he gave me his number if I got in a bind. He said he'd pick me up any time I wanted. I thanked him and left, walking a block away so he didn't have to go the wrong way down a one way. He waited until I got inside, and then he said good-bye.

* * *

Four hours later and I was done with the ER. I had been waiting for my cab for an hour.

The first one had shown up and didn't take credit cards. Apparently, this is something you have to request when you call. I had no idea, but it makes sense now. So I was waiting for my credit card-taking cab in front of Touro. And up pulls a beautiful United Cab with a lovely elderly lady in the back. I held the heavy door open for her and started to climb in. And the driver, a guy younger than me with nothing but gold for teeth, an straight-brimmed Reds cap and black tattoos everywhere looked at me in confusion.

"Are you my cab?" I said.

"Uhhh, no."

Of course you're not. Because this is where I'm going to wait for the rest of my life.

"Do you take credit cards?"

"No."

I sighed, told him I was waiting for a United Cab that took credit cards. He wished me luck and drove away. I stood in the warm wind and waited. 11 p.m. I was so exhausted. I thought about calling my first driver but something didn't seem right about it. I felt like I was trouble.

A catering van had pulled up in front of the ER entrance, promising hot wings, corn on the cob, various fried things and soda and coffee. Amazing, I thought. People waited in line as though they were expecting it. I turned away and watched some nurses smoke and a guy dance and sing aloud to himself.

"HEY!"

I looked at the catering van and saw the United Cab driver with the Reds hat.

"I'll give you a ride."

My hope shot through the sky, and I walked quickly toward him. I promised him that if he gave me a ride, I'd run inside to the cash machine and tip him well. He said it wasn't a problem. He had gotten stiffed for $140 on credit card trips before and he didn't like to do it, but he didn't want to leave me stranded. His order came through the catering van window.

"I'll buy you dinner," I said.

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Do you want cheese on your broccoli?" asked the catering van owner.

"Whatever's easy," he said.

"Do you want cheese or don't you?"

"Sure," he grinned all gold.

I stuck out my hand and told him my name.

"I'm Cedric," he said. And we shook. He commented that a) He had never had a woman buy him dinner before and b) My handshake was so strong it hurt his arm. This was particularly hilarious because the physical advantage did not lay with me. About the dinner, I said there was a first time for everything. That's something I really believe in.

We stood there and talked while his order came through. About being nice to people and why it's important. He had a wonderful way about him, and he teased me about my handshake some more, and punched me lightly on the arm to let me know he was just foolin'.

And then my cab pulled up.

Cedric told me he would still take me if I wanted to. I said I didn't want to stiff the other cab, and walked over to make sure he had the credit card machine. Sure enough, the new driver held up the swiper. I felt like I was in Tron all of the sudden.

"Bye, Cedric!" I yelled.

He yelled and waved good-bye. I'm glad I got to buy him dinner. It felt good to make Cedric smile.

* * *

I settled into the deep seat of my final cab of the evening. The driver was silent, except to ask me which way I wanted to go. I asked him to take Magazine Street. So up we went, looking at all the beautiful people just beginning their night. It was 11:30 now, and there was still so much life around. I breathed and took it all in, thinking of Cedric and my first driver whose name I never got. There was everything else in-between that I haven't shared yet. An adventure. I swallowed it all and decided it had been a good night. I was on the other side of that evening's tears. We pulled into the cul-de-sac of the hotel, and I gave him my credit card, that which had delayed my arrival by an hour and a half.

"Which one of these is your first name?" he asked.

I set him straight. I guess they're both strange names.

"Where is that from?"

"It's Swedish," I said.

"You're Swedish?"

I never know how to answer this, being an American. No, I'm not Swedish. I'm no more Swedish than the way the letters scramble together. My great-grandparents were from Sweden. But me? I'm so far from anyplace not Midwest, it's immeasurable.

"Yes, I'm Swedish."

"Is that why you're so beautiful?"

I snorted and blushed and laughed my obnoxious laugh.

"No," I said. "I'm beautiful because of my mother."

"Is she Swedish?"

I bellowed and signed the slip.

"Why are you so beautiful?" I asked.

"From my father," he said.

I laughed and thanked him. It was a good answer. We all look like Christmas to someone.

here begins the lesson

He and I. We've been talking a lot about what we have learned. And how everything we did before that was petty and personal, now just has done "poof-ed" into the thin. There are no arguments to be had. It just isn't worth it.

I don't think I believe in lessons. Or meaning. Or "everything happens for a reason." If you're a regular reader, I think you know I believe this entire idea is a crock mixed with...organic matter.

Yet, we are still here. And we have to go on after all of the bigness of the moment.

Two years ago, we lost a child. "Alone in a room" is the entry. Right after this, I had to go away for work. Two weeks after. It was soon after, and I was tender all over. While I was gone, I completely let go of every reasonable feeling I had. I stayed up until the next morning drinking, sulking. In hot tubs and bars where you can't help but be trapped, because there's nothing else to do there. I was in the middle of nowhere doing the middle of nothing. Feeling sorry for myself and silent in the shadow. Consumed by this first big thing that had happened to me. The loss of a child. A person I wouldn't know ever.

These past two weeks, we lost someone with a name and a past and a future before her. And we watched the unbelievable grace of her mother. The Mother. Telling stories in the middle of making decisions about what would happen next, and the even next after that. She gains a brief moment of strength, I think, when we talk about what it was like to be with her daughter. Silly stuff. The person she was and will always be, and what she gave to all and the imprint of her experience on our adult selves. More profound than we knew at the time, because if you thought about it too hard...about how much you take for granted the people you love with every piece of yourself...I think you might explode, and be gone forever.

I spoke with her today, and she doesn't want us to go away. We made a tether, together. The remembering is a string of life. A cord that has some give, but keeps a joining.

"Meaning." Bullshit, that is. "Meant to happen?" I simply will not believe it.

But the lesson.

Let's hold each other close, shall we? Let us keep the bonds tight like nerves and systems and corporeal vines.

The ones who are closest.

My love, my sweetest child's father and my partner in all that is good and otherwise. He is the one I keep wrapped to my heart. He knows everything about me that is good and oh-so-very-wrong. He loves me for all the bruises on the inside and out. He tells me I am amazing.

And our friends on Tuesday nights. You're right, gorgeous; we have kind of grown up together. I can't tell you how lucky I feel that my daughter has such beautiful women around to show her how to be in this crazy world.

The Family Game Night friends who I don't get to see. I eat the leftovers he brings home. They're magnificent.

Next week, I have to go away for work again. Shortly after, a repeated verse. To a different place but for the same thing. I think I will have a balance, this time, between the disconnecting from reality and the hunt for home. It's good to be gone, I suppose. To be selfish and blaming my absence on needing to be there for some reason that isn't connected to "me." Pushing away with anger and feeling pulled by in all directions.

But I promise a balance. I swear I will remain tethered so you're never afraid. Pick out the things she will wear for the season; tell me how she was that day. Every single detail. Tell me she was perfect Tuesday night, playing on the floor of the kitchen. Face-to-face minutes where we say we wish I were home and we were together.

The lesson; it's that I have everything right in front of me. And at any moment. I could lose it all forever.

she is quite wonderful

Sweetness is like sand.

Through your fingers and onto your toes. Little pebbles that turn into delicate piles, forming here and there. And then, all of the sudden, you think it's gone. But that's not the case, really. You find it in the most unexpected places. In-between your sheets and on the baseboards. Your shoes. Everywhere, even. All over the god-damned place.

A very dear person we know has passed away. Or, perhaps, she is in the middle of it all as she continues to give herself to others. In the process of one place to the next.

But neverthemind.

The point of the matter is we cannot see her.

We cannot hear her.

No new challenges between you and one of us to be meted out over time. She belongs to something else. And we all want to see her again. A whole big lot.

Sarah.

The nexus of my life is you, and I had no idea until I came home Monday and looked around the space I see everyday. And the life I have. All that is here. Everything from the walls around me to the person I kiss goodnight. In some way, it all connects to you.

I don't know if this was the way you wanted it to be; that everyone would be so affected by your "you." But you did it.

There was some point over the last two days when I was walking and thinking about what I would say. I'm sure there were some poignant things, crafted in such a way to make me seem on the inside of it all. I knew you when she knew you when and everybody knew you. That's just not the way it was. But you made me feel like I mattered.

Sarah, sweetest darling girl.

You gave me more than you probably planned.

I'm public hiding behind a private me, or perhaps its the other way around. Whichever way I was you turned me inside out. You flipped it all so wherever I thought I had landed, really it was someplace else. And that place was so good. There were concerts and parties and dinners. Friends that last. And there were moments between you and "the him" who is mine that I get to share. Twins games underneath the covers. Frozen candy bars and bad teen pop. Jesus, Sarah. You gave me a history of the person I'll be with forever. You gave him a past that isn't high school.

We have had the Family Room. A condensed version of life with stories and muffins and fruit and homemade truffles. These times of immense intense, vivid memories, plucked sharply with silence and tears that just won't end. A word or two will set us off into a sobbing jag, where we need a shoulder even though we don't want it. I want to be with everyone at all at once, I just want to be alone, too.

There is so much love for you. Abounding and amazing. Profound and everlasting.

Whatever happens after all of this, you know it now. Before any of us.

Sarah, everyone is very sad.

If you could do one last thing. If you could give us a moment to transcend the days in the Family Room. Where we see you smiling and saying something we would quote later when telling a story of Sarah to each other. Putting your hand just barely to your mouth in a faux "shocked" way of being, more for effect than for anything. If you could just give us one more moment of you, I think we would make it to wherever we need to be much sooner than we probably will.

As it is, all we have is each other. It is intense and important to be here. As good as it can be. I love to tell you all that I love you. I love that it is ok to say those words.

But Sarah, it would be better with you here.

It would be so good with you. To tell you that we love you.

He and I; we just said good-bye, and didn't say we would miss you.

No regrets. But for the record, the missing lasts forever. The whole life long.

The sweetness piles up between our toes. We will build a castle right on the part of the shore where it wears away slowly. One wave at a time.

the keeping is not forever

Secrets are phantoms. They are terrors, even.

I have thought a lot about what to write here for a long time. About secrets. I am almost afraid to start. There are the things people tell us, the secrets shared with us, about other people. When we are trusted to be the keeper of a third party story--the person who would rather we didn't know, but we end up knowing all the same. It is just often too compelling to keep it a true secret. Secrets become trivialized the further they spread outside the center. Actions with context and explanation become reduced, like the farthest ripples of the biggest stone when it lands. And then you can't separate it from the rest of the water.

There are our own secrets. Stories about our families or our friends and experiences we have had together. Silent moments, deep hurt. Those are the things worth keeping quiet about, right? Because it takes so much to explain why these are not bad things. There are choices we make, all of us, that we don't want to talk about. So we think about them or not, depending on our style. Songs remind us of secrets. Skies remind us. And smells and words. And we hope everything passes outside of memory someday, and that we forget. But that's not the way of ghosts, really. Secrets are the most profound hauntings.

When I was in the fifth grade, my family experienced something very difficult we all had to keep secret. It was a big deal, and has certainly informed "me." I will tell you if you ask me, if you really need to know. But it's not my secret alone. So I can't give it away that easily. Many of you know it already anyway.

For all kinds of reasons that made sense for all types of realities, we all had occasion to tell lies to keep the secret. Its integrity. That was much harder than having the secret in the first place. Maintaining the fortification so it could not escape. That was the challenge. Given the scope and reach of the event, it affected so much of my daily existence that little sub-lies had to emerge. Snowballing into something greater and grander than what would have happened, possibly, if there had been nothing to keep quiet about. The burden grew like weeds. I can tell you that I have things I cannot pull out of my garden each year because their roots are too deep. And they remind me of this.

There was a day that may be remembered be one of you, too. Sitting down by the creek. The same creek where two years later I would have my first kiss. And I was wearing a shirt of my mother's, like kids do because they think some of their parents clothes are cool (before they realize this is wrong, wrong, wrong). Green and black big, art deco dice print, I think. And bad jeans with tennies. I was with a friend, and I started crying. Out of nowhere. The pressure of keeping this quiet, while dealing with all of its impacts was just too much for the little me. And the greatness of it was probably more than should have been shared with a fellow fifth grader. But I told her anyway. Just to have someone else hear it. Like I was shifting the burden. Roll it up the hill with me, will you?

This person I told, this child who is now a woman, was very kind. And I remember never speaking of it with her again. But I knew that she knew, and it was just fine. She may have told someone else. And that's just fine, too.

I told other people after that, with a measured choice that surprises me. But I was always expecting the world to fall down around me, you see. It felt like betrayal to not have a secret anymore.

But it wasn't.

Because it happened to me, too.

At the end here, I often don't know where to go. I am left creating an epilogue, translating these memories into a way I will behave going forward because I want so much for my daughter, the only child I have, the only child I ever want to understand a way to be in the world that is strong and honest. A way to be that is without secrets that weigh you down.

My darling, if you keep writings of your own--any reflections or sussing out of the world--someday your children will read it. As you will read mine. Near the lamp from my teenage room and the books you avoid as you reach for my glasses.

Every way you act in the world in some way belongs to the world.

You can have thoughts. You can have private thoughts that no one knows.

Actions are owned by the many. The everything. You can make mistakes. You can do what you want at the time, and you should. There is, in many cases, no other way to learn. Be stronger than the secrets you make for yourself. Outlast them with the choices you have yet to print upon who you will be. Never be afraid of your worst day; the day you answer for it...that is when the freedom comes.

needed

My daughter is curious. She is 13 months old and passionate about discovery. Like most new people in the world. I don't remember a time when she wasn't this way, so growing up together thus far has been void of her seeming to need me for much. She loves me to be sure. She loves with her whole body, throwing herself on me and rolling around. But most of the time, she just wants to do her own thing. And I can watch if I want to. She'll love me as part of her play.

Her curiousness is not confined to stuff. She loves people, too. A flirt. At breakfast, she smiles and waves "Hi" to strangers. She even taps people on the back. When she went to her newest daycare--her third--they warned us that we may have to pick her up early on the first day, to maintain her sense of security. There was no phone call. She introduced herself to everyone and everything was just fine.

This morning we went to the doctor for her several month check-up. The nurse we see is lovely. "I love big babies," she says. "It's good for them." Undress, weight, height. Back to the room to wait for the actual physician.

Her doctor is an interesting character. A Boomer. Jeans somewhat pegged and plaid flannel showing where the cuffs turn up. We saw him walk past us in a leather jacket once. He has mentioned that he goes to the gym, and tells me that he hates our governor as much as I must, because he knows where I work and knows how brutal it has been with the budget cuts. A mix of familiarity and a bedside manner from, perhaps, the 1940s. He's sweet, really.

The point of this description is to let you know there is nothing strange about him. He's a normal person. With a medical degree.

My daughter was playing near me but not on me. Reading books. Talking and making cow noises. In walks the doctor.

And she loses her cotton-picking mind. Complete and total meltdown. Planets exploding in her eyes.

I laughed in disbelief. I couldn't help it. I was thunderstruck. She reached for me and held onto me like a cub, clinging her paws on the undersides of my arms. I couldn't even turn her around without her wailing. He listening to her chest and said loudly above her cries, "You look like you played volleyball!" "I did!" I said. Really, is was just my freshman year, and I wasn't good. At all. He kept asking me sports questions and I answered back, gently holding her down as he examined her further for whatever she is supposed to be. We were talking at a loud yell over the tomato-faced cub. Which was interesting, because I currently don't have a voice. It has been taken temporarily, I assume, by some viral illness or something. I wasn't yelling at the Olympics.

It was over. At least that part. Next were the shots, but a reprieve before. Us alone in the room. Me and her.

She held me close and I held her back. I pressed my hand to the side of her head to move it closer to my chest. I swayed a little and because I can't talk, I whispered a song to her. Her breathing slowed. I moved my hand to her back and noticed that her head stayed just as tightly pressed as if I had been forcing it there. The niceness of this moment. The need I felt from her, there was almost a sense of guilt at my joy of being needed while she feared the world that has always been her pearl. I felt so much a mom. It was so nice.

The rest of the visit was tough for her as well. And I coaxed her into comfort and back into her clothes. "Time to go to school," I said. I wondered if I would need to take her home and hold her tightly again. Maybe she was too traumatized to be apart from me. I'll drive here there and see how it goes. One foot in front of the other has always been my motto. One foot in front until you fall down.

We arrived at daycare. Step one and two and three. Into the bungalow. Washed her hands. Four and five and six.

"She went to the doctor this morning. It was a little rough."

"Well, she seems fine now."

I looked at her fully then. She was playing far away from me again. I started to walk away.

"Bye!" The enthusiastic familiar jewel she gives me and everyone else.

The phantom embrace was still there. I felt it, warmer than the sun that fell around me. The only sun there is to feel.

bite thy tongue

When I was a kid, I thought living in this state was a stroke of great fortune because of the changing seasons. Specifically, the snow. We get snow. A lot of snow. With this comes the cold, but this wasn't something I ever really noticed, probably because I was kept warm by sugar, emotions for which I had no conduit, and moon boots. I loved the snow and couldn't imagine living in a place where it was green and brown all year round. It made me feel lucky. And little hipper than warm climate dwellers.

To be young. To be young and totally insane.

My adoration for the seasons has waned, a direct inverse relationship to my age. I started to give myself tricks to keep appreciating things. "Anyone can be creative when it's warm; it takes true genius to have a great idea in the winter." Or I would force myself into a moment of awe as we drove past the river, the trees creating a decadent, diamond arch above our passage. This majesty was only present immediately following a snowfall, lasting all of about 24 hours before it became a bunny flop of dirty mess. And then it was just cold again.

I have lost my appreciation for the beauty of winter and the snow. It represents exhaustion. Responsibility. Agony. It feels like death. I'm tired of being stuck in the road, stuck in my house, wet feet. No one holding hands because it's too hard with gloves. No faces seen through scarves. Pale and repetitive. There's this scene in Fargo where Steve Buscemi is burying the money in the middle of nothing. He looks around, making a mind map of his surroundings so he can return for the loot in a scene or two. To his left: a blanket of nothing. His right: a mirror image of the left and everything around and besides is all the same. He takes the red window scraper he has used to dig a shallow hole, and plants it there. An angry scar. A desperate, hail mary hope that he'll be able to get back to this same spot that looks like everything else in its description of "eternal sameness."

That's pretty much how I feel. I do not feel creative enough to appreciate what is happening around me. I feel the same as yesterday.

I have to take a different approach. I have to do something that I generally try to avoid, because I feel like this strategy is placing an undue burden on someone who can't quite speak for herself yet. Using her for something I need without her consent. But I've got to do something. So I turn to my daughter. And I use her.

She is just starting to marvel at the white blanket around her. We took her sledding once, and she drug her hand along the sidewalk, leaning into the puff. She has seen it snow, and laughed. She is just starting to get it. Next year will be better; she'll be able to play more, and will understand but a bit more about the importance of wearing a hat and gloves. She'll start to saturate her mind with the possibilities of this season.

It will be different with this than with other things I have discovered again with her as though it were the first time. Because she cannot make me like it. Because I don't. It's not like pasta or cheese or animals. But there will be this brief time in her life when the snow means something else to her. A gift from this land, from Kepler, dendritic and singular. So I will learn to keep my head level. Not curse at biting wind. I will give her space to discover what it means for her, and let her learn to tell herself whatever stories she wants about the remarkable nature of the earth. I won't destroy the possibilities for her with my own developed, prejudiced mind.

It means something, this. Letting something be special for someone. Even when you think otherwise.

tell me

I have a vibrant love affair with change. I get bored with frightening ease. I don't pay attention to that many things for that long because I'm afraid I'm missing something else. Must shift the attention so I don't lose a moment over there, let me tiptoe to see. I like to have ideas and thoughts and share them with people and hope that they take flight. And then I like to go about my way to something else.

I have a couple of uncles. When I was a kid, one of them used to have a trick for getting me to calm down in my hyper-extended fury of doings. He would gently touch his thumbs and pointer fingers together, making somewhat of a Hershey Kiss-shaped triangle, and he would say in a slow breath, "Mellow." I also had a teacher who forbade me from eating sugar.

For someone who moves around a lot, I do actually listen. I like to listen. And I'm highly impressionable. So I took the mellow very seriously, confident that it had an actual impact on my vibes. It's a strange mix of superstition and, even in this, a want to be different in five minutes. I don't have to be hyper all the time, that would get old. I can be chill, too. I can be anything for a little while.

The older I get, the more intentional I am about directing the frantic me into appropriate channels, and the greater desire I have to work on things until they are at a seeming state of "done." Since I have become a mother, this re-routing of energy has become more important, because I want my daughter to be able to focus on something. Like homework (which I almost never did). I want her to be able to be satisfied sitting still and dwelling on a problem without drifting off into contexts and connections. At least I think that's what I want. I'm not at all certain what she has in mind for herself. She may have other ideas.

I place so much value on the things that I can't or don't do. If I can do it, it must not be important. I have tried to talk myself out of this logic, but that is something I'm really not good at. Because I will listen to everyone before I listen to myself. This probably stems as much from a desire to make people happy as it does to change. Whichever comes first in that equation, I'm not sure. Another post another time. The point is I see other people being focused. Doing math. Keeping a really clean house. I think about the things I am good at: change and listening. Following orders which leads to change, even if it's becoming someone's vision of what you should be. When I was in labor, the nurse commented on how perfectly I did exactly what she told me to do, causing my husband to say, "She would be great in the Army."

There's a line in a movie (always points if you know which one). A woman is introducing her boyfriend to all her friends and the dialogue goes something like, "This is Jack. He's an artist, but right now he works at a bank." "This is Charlene, she's in real estate, but she's really a dancer." After several of these exchanges, the boyfriend says this:

"Let me ask you something; why is it all your friends are on their way to becoming somebody else?"

In those words I sit, anxious but peeking around the corner of the phrase. So wonderful to dream and imagine who I am going to be when I grow up. So frightening to wonder that I am not yet somewhere I might be. I could, and probably will, do this for the rest of my life. But I will sit still, making the mellow sign, and tell myself who I am as though I have traits locked firmly to my every action and blink, that are with me even when I'm being a good soldier. If I could choose who I am and what I would do in a future yet-to-be-determined, these things, I would take them with me. The me who can be someone else but will show you how to make the mellow sign. The me who wants to hear what you have to say and is so interested in you, for real. The me who asks questions to understand and remembers what you said the next time I see you. Who wants to look at pictures of people I have never met because you want to show them to someone, and I feel lucky. And it is this me who daydreams with you on the cloud of your choice, about the person you will be someday, too.