2011

I was 12 when I went to my first funeral. My Aunt Terry had died while her friend Maribelle was visiting her. Maribelle said she and Terry were talking. Terry leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Maribelle sat in silence. She thought Terry had fallen asleep. She approached Terry and tried to wake her up, discovering she was dead she changed Terry's socks and vacuumed the living room. She removed my Aunts glasses and put them in the glass container. She washed the dishes and prayed a rosary. Afterwards she called my mom and then called 911. Maribelle knew my Aunt had a DNR, but under the law, paramedics have to attempt CPR etc, even with a DNR in place. 

I went to the hospital along with my mom, sister, grandma and aunt Kathy. I didn't know my aunt Terry had died. The doctor asked my mom, grandma and aunt Kathy into another room, my mom didn't want to leave my sister and I in the waiting room, so we accompanied them.

The doctor said my aunt was unable to be revived and was dead. My sister began to cry and my mom held her close. My aunt Kathy was holding onto my grandmother and crying. I sat there, unsure of what to do. I decided it would be silly to cry. I looked at the doctor, and asked, "What do we do now?"

Whenever a new year comes around I think about people I've lost. I think about them and try to figure out what I learned about myself from them. My aunt Terry liked me, she gave me candy and was always quizzing me on my spelling. She let me help her wash clothes and made us hot chocolate. She was extremely catholic and her house always smelled like church. 

Never new

We were dancing. It was amazing. We were sharing a bottle of rum and talking about Puerto Rico. He asked if I wanted to see the view from his room. I laughed and handed him the bottle. We listened to different kinds of music and had conversations I can't remember. He touched my face gently and whispered in my ear, "I want to kiss you."

I told him no.

We kept talking, laughing. 

Tired from dancing we were sitting next to one another on the carpet. We talked about what we would eat for our last meal if we were on death row. Where we would go if we had a magic carpet. What animal we would like to be reincarnated as. We talked about God and zombies. 

He put his arm around me and brought his face closer to mine. He said, "I've never kissed you. I want to know what it feels like."

I said no.

The kiss wasn't about me. 

It wasn't we, it was "I". It was all about his "I". His selfish, reckless, arrogant and thoughtless "I".

We had been best friends for 15 yrs. 

He only wanted to kiss me because I am what he has never and would never have the courage to be. Alone.

I would rather fail than to live a life that is comfortable and safe. 

He is in a mediocre relationship, with a 9-5 job, a house mortgage and a car payment. It's rare that I am disgusted with someone. After the second  no, he got upset, angry, annoyed and left. I called, he didn't answer. I sent him a text, he didn't reply. I'm disappointed and hurt. 

He was my best friend. The person who held me break up after break up. The person who picked me up break down after break down. The one person I trusted with every stupid dream and hope I ever had. I'm the one who encouraged him and told him he could be anything. I'm the one who was there when he was unsure and scared. There was a time when I would have kissed him back, there was a time when I probably would have asked him to kiss me. But we make choices in life, and he is in a relationship, he is locked inside a whole like that he can't walk away from. My heart is breaking, and there isn't anyone here. Not anymore. 

Happy New Year.

Letting go of the ghost.

Everyone in our past can be a saint or a sinner, depending on how we tell the story.

I can say he called me a whore and told me to leave. And that would be part of the truth. What I'm not telling you is; he said that after he found out I had slept with his brother. 

In the retelling of our own histories, we can be whoever we want to be. 

And today I feel like being the bad guy. I'll take all the blame. It was my fault. Everything. 

When I was in the 2nd grade we moved, I had to change schools. At my new school I was having trouble making friends. Unbeknown to me, my mom would drive by during lunch and look for me on the school yard (the schoolyard was fully viewable from the street). She noticed that I was sitting by myself.

She asked everyday if I had made any new friends. I said no. One morning I said I didn't want to go to school. I started to cry. My sister had a similar problem when she was younger. My father had told her that not everyone had friends, so she should approach other kids that were by themselves. She did, and by her 6th grade year she had a bunch of misfits for friends. The leftovers.

I was crying and he told me the same sage advice. 

I told him, "I don't want to be there friends either! They're gross!"

He said, "Well then you won't have any friends."

I said, "I don't want friends if I have to have those friends." and cried even more.

I wish I could say that my attitude has changed, that I've grown and learned. But that would be a lie. 

A few years ago I was in a long-term relationship. We were hanging out all the time, we were best friends. We even talked about getting married. One night we were at a bookstore, I'm flipping through a book and he's in the magazine section. In my head I saw this complete life, the wedding, the kids, the 9-5 job, the house, the garage, the summer vacations and the family dinners. The retirement fund, the family photos, the anniversaries, game nights, birthdays- I saw everything that was possible if I stayed with him, and I didn't want any of it. 

We broke up shortly afterwards. 

Eclipse

There is a house in my dreams. I visit it often. It is by the sea. Sometimes the house is scary and broken, other times the house smells like bread and there are baby clothes hanging on the line outside. Sometimes I sit and watch the sunrise or sunset. Sometimes I am alone and other times I am with someone. Sometimes I am scared, sometimes I am wounded. Once, I was pregnant. I think of this house and wonder if it ever existed, but I'm sure it has, in some way or another. My thoughts, dreams, hopes, are fragments of stories I've read, people I've met, places I've gone to. I am the unremarkable collage of a lifetime of observations. 

Indulgent

It's raining again. I'm drinking again. Everything in its inappropriate time. I have the nauseating feeling of missing someone. Not really missing any particular person, just missing. The closest feeling I can compare it to would be when you are driving away from home and you feel like you forgot something. You don't know what it is or if you forgot anything at all. But the feeling persists, it gnaws and makes you second guess yourself. You're on your way someplace, you can't go home, and you don't.

That's how I feel. There isn't anyway to fix this.

I was reading Neruda the other day and remembered what it sounded like when my boyfriends had read it to me.

Today, before it rained, I was smoking my cigarette outside. I didn't have any shoes or socks on. I took a drag of my cigarette, outstretched my arms and closed my eyes. I exhaled. My feet were cold on the sidewalk. There was no one around to tell me to put socks on. There is no one around to tell me to go to bed.

I don't feel sad. Maybe a little. I don't regret whatever decisions I've made that have brought me to this point.

It was years ago when I felt fearless, chaotic and powerful. I took a few years to be scattered, reckless and afraid. I'm ok now. I am whoever I am without regrets, asking for no one's permission or approval and comparing myself to no one. I don't seek forgiveness or redemption. I guess this is what it feels like to get up after you've fallen down.

I was fearless because I had never gotten hurt.
I was chaotic because I thought control meant controlled by
I was powerful because I refused to believe I could be anything other than that.

I was scattered because I was scared and didn't want to face it.
I was reckless because I wanted to feel something other than fear.
I was afraid because I had been hurt and I didn't know I could be anything other than that.

And now?

I'm recovering.

Almost Broken

When you smash your finger with a hammer you will at once feel an all encompassing pain. When you try to make a fist your finger will tremble and you won’t be able to make it stop trembling. You’ll tell yourself it’s fine. You’ll move it to make sure you can still move it and then the pain will be expected. Tolerable.

Hours later, after you’ve been careful not to move it. Your finger will begin to swell. And after it swells it will begin to change colors. You will see the swelling and the blood gathering to the point of impact underneath the pink skin of your fingertip.

And after awhile you’ll adapt. You’ll type with nine fingers instead of ten. And you’ll put ice to stop it from swelling more.

Because accidents happen. Sometimes to us, sometimes by us.

I once saw a kitten. I picked the kitten up. I nuzzled the kittens tummy. I named it. I claimed it. And then I couldn’t breath.

I’m allergic to cats.

Some things are just toxic to us. Some things we can’t co-habitat with.

Why am I telling you all this?

For no reason. Because I’m practicing typing with a finger I thought was broken. Because when I initially hit it, I thought for sure, beyond a doubt, the finger was broken. But I was wrong.

I’m wrong about a lot of things.