October rolls in and my lips chap every third hour, the patches of skin below my elbows grow rough. I throw split ends into a low braid, warmth for my neck, knots from my coat collar. My Brooklyn apartment suddenly feels too big, a vast wide open space, the couch not enough to fill it. I forget to worry about shoebox bedrooms and kitchens comprised of no more than a short row of cabinets. I forget, sometimes, that this is New York City, this is Brooklyn, this is how I learned to breathe in and out. "Do you ever just run across the floor in your socks? Slip and slide, you must do that all the time here." I forget I am the silliest.
October rolls in and the night arrives sooner. I don't finish my cupcake, the icing too sweet, and I bite my tongue. When will I learn how to exhale? I knew once. "You are a pattern," they say, all of them, but I don't even recognize myself. Some days I climb the stairs, pressing hard into my heels, and feel the strength in my legs. Muscles built by this city, I built these muscles, they carry me, and some days I think I need nothing else. Exhale.
October rolls in but I think it's spring. A change of seasons. An ending, the summersault, head over feet of the school year concluding and the brand new buds blossoming. I am waiting to lose something, someone again. A chilled park bench conversation, sweat dripping down my back on the subway platform, a song on repeat, over and over and over again. Octobers give, a harvest, a bounty, a cornucopia, I am not ready to receive. November will come, brown leaves, bare branches, dried weeds along the ocean banks. I wonder what will burn. Red embers and gray ashes.
Dark night windows and tall ceilings, everything echoes, my quiet, stockinged steps. I spin and spin and spin and lay myself out across the hard wood floor. "Fall in love whenever you can," we called it Practical Magic Crying because I was unconsolable. I've always mixed hopeful with hopeless, sweet and sour margaritas, dizzy. I am asking for magic. To circle time and tie its ends together, to bend the earth like it's a map, I step forward, I step backward, I roll over and we are together, to put the world into a snow globe at midnight, to stand at the edge of a lake deep enough to hold our dreams and drown our fears, to feel strong and soft, young and wise, to find heartbeats in the darkness. October rolls in and I ask for magic.
October 14, 2014
August 16, 2014
For the Record
When I would play my song
You would sing along.
I always seemed to forget
How fragile are the very strong.
I walked Back Cove in chilly October air, with the sun setting too soon, swallowed the tears, force-filled my lungs, and took another lap. I made the decision. Until it wasn't mine to make anymore. December. The news was quick and painful, but nothing like a ripped-off band-aid, instead the dull swoosh of a balloon deflating. After, I closed the bathroom door, strung together profanities, hurled them into the mouth piece of the phone, and she listened. Until it all became quiet. The Weather Channel blinking on the television screen through the night, tucked into the couch with a cranberry afghan. I studied for the final exam. I aced it. I let her hold me. I don't remember tears, although they must have arrived, singular, at least. Or perhaps not. A Bird's Song on repeat. Half the Carvel ice cream cake for New Year's Eve. Another's TV showing the countdown, I turned it off and went to bed.
I'm sorry I can't steal you.
I'm sorry I can't stay.
So I'll put band-aids on your knees
And watch you fly away.
March. I decided to buy a plane ticket. Late March. I decided to buy a bus ticket instead. A summer ticket for a shorter ride. Early April. I decided to decide later. Until that decision wasn't mine to make anymore. July. I walked the hot concrete sidewalks of DC in the heavy summer humidity. Mile and miles and miles. Every weekend. Between the Lines, on repeat. Step by step and mile by mile, I walked away. A meditation, a steadiness. Until knees down on the shower floor, a release, a flood, head down, the water gushing but only my tears streaming over my knees. A deep breath, a good night's sleep, the sound of my feet against the concrete, the piano notes memorized, I kept walking.
I'm sending you away tonight.
I'll put you on bird's strong wing.
I'm saving you the best way I know how.
I hope again one day to hear you sing.
Fall leaves and heavy winter snow and a life to sort through. Different types of decisions to make. Ones only I could make. And I did. For myself. For my life. One foot in front of the other, slow if not steady. Through the changing seasons. Yes's and no's and a life. My life. Changing cities and changing careers and changing hands who reach for me, a life in motion.
A promise to myself under a big, old tree, in front of a big, old church, walking through a historic section of DC, summers later. An old mixed CD in a brand new rental car as I drove through the mountains a decade later, and the old restroom stall almost too tiny for a cry. I was too close and too far away. An expert in letting go, I drove on. I kept walking.
For the record.
I'm sending you away tonight.
I'll put you on a bird's strong wing.
I'm saving you the best way I know how.
I hope again one day to hear you sing.
I'm saving you the only way that I know how.
I hope again one day to hear you sing.
I hope again one day to see you bring your smile back around
Again.
[Italics: Lyrics to "A Bird's Song" by Ingrid Michaelson]
February 23, 2014
Quiet
Quiet. I only want quiet these days. To hear the winter snow melting. The crack of the branch under the weight of the snow.
I looked back two blocks later, hands chapped by the iced wind, grasping my cellphone. My voice streaming, louder and louder while she listened, strained above the Madison Avenue engines and horns. I turned around, and it all fell silent. My voice, the traffic, the echos off the buildings fell away, fell silent for just a moment as I turned. Half expecting him to still be standing there. Half expecting to go running back to him.
A block too late.
The horns blare and I didn't miss a word scrambling to tell her what just happened. What just happened? My throat feels scratched but I toss the hot chocolate in the garbage pail rather than take a sip. Tourists shout at each other as I pass by the NY Public Library and even the lion statue roars too loudly. My voice gets lost. I hang up the phone. The lobby of school has students milling around with the fervor of the first week of classes. Too many. Too much. Too loud.
Classmates tripping over each other to make first-class impressions with their lengthy comments, a chorus and a round and it's all a hallow echo of voices inside a tin can. The screech of the subway against the rails and the roar of the train car as it travels through the tunnels and spits me out in a sea of people in Brooklyn. The laughter of roommates like juice glasses breaking. I put on headphones and the sound of a fan, turn the app volume up, and fall asleep in my coat, in my clothes.
When I wake, it's dark still. It's quiet. The sound of my suitcase rolling down the sidewalks stands out against the silence. The quiet hum of the plane as it takes off for Portland. Her arms as she retrieves me, her Prius' quiet, quiet engine, her pup's soft nose against the palm of my hand. Quiet, gentle, soft, calm, quiet, quiet, quiet. The mostly empty office building, the glass of red wine, the way he murmured, "the fam's back together again," the peach walls of my old bedroom as I put myself to bed, quiet, quiet, quiet.
I sang, I danced, I laughed, I discovered Pandora's "No Diggity" channel, I remembered how fiercely I love these women. I remembered how fiercely I am loved. It might have been loud, and I might have been the loudest, but it was still the quiet I needed. The hours we spent on that couch together. Sitting, reading, watching, eating, drinking, cuddling, sleeping, together and together and together. Quiet.
The Portland airport had rocking chairs in front of wide open windows. A few straggling passengers who came despite canceled flights and two delays and we finally boarded. I watched the sunset from the runway, from the assent, from the plane window as we broke through the clouds.
JKF is loud and noisy. NYC is loud and noisy. But I am still quiet.
The quiet settles easily. I carry it around lightly. Pack it in my bag as if it's just one more book.
I burry myself in books and piano notes amid long measures of rests. Turn my bedroom lights off early, curl up in the window of my hotel room during the conference, cross the street to find a coffee shop with fewer people, wake to see the sunrise, sit alone on the train ride home.
I wait to see when it will let go. Soon, I think, it's so light, it can't hang on for long. It's not the angry radio songs or the late night confessions, spilling out like marbles rolling across a metal counter. It's not the sound of my feet racing across the frozen ground or dewy grass. It's not even the dull hum of the weather channel, local on the 8s for the nineteenth time. It must not be much, I think. It's so quiet and still and light.
And yet. It remains.
Loyal. Steady. Unassuming. Constant.
I only want quiet these days. It think it means "this is not the right..." but I am realizing I am wrong. This time, the quiet might be the strength, the certainty, the falling away of the noise, my noise, the city's noise, all the noise. The falling away of the noise when I turned around on that second block corner. It might not matter whether he still stood there or whether I would have gone running. It is the noise that fell away. It is the quiet that matters, that perhaps, means the most.
I looked back two blocks later, hands chapped by the iced wind, grasping my cellphone. My voice streaming, louder and louder while she listened, strained above the Madison Avenue engines and horns. I turned around, and it all fell silent. My voice, the traffic, the echos off the buildings fell away, fell silent for just a moment as I turned. Half expecting him to still be standing there. Half expecting to go running back to him.
A block too late.
The horns blare and I didn't miss a word scrambling to tell her what just happened. What just happened? My throat feels scratched but I toss the hot chocolate in the garbage pail rather than take a sip. Tourists shout at each other as I pass by the NY Public Library and even the lion statue roars too loudly. My voice gets lost. I hang up the phone. The lobby of school has students milling around with the fervor of the first week of classes. Too many. Too much. Too loud.
Classmates tripping over each other to make first-class impressions with their lengthy comments, a chorus and a round and it's all a hallow echo of voices inside a tin can. The screech of the subway against the rails and the roar of the train car as it travels through the tunnels and spits me out in a sea of people in Brooklyn. The laughter of roommates like juice glasses breaking. I put on headphones and the sound of a fan, turn the app volume up, and fall asleep in my coat, in my clothes.
When I wake, it's dark still. It's quiet. The sound of my suitcase rolling down the sidewalks stands out against the silence. The quiet hum of the plane as it takes off for Portland. Her arms as she retrieves me, her Prius' quiet, quiet engine, her pup's soft nose against the palm of my hand. Quiet, gentle, soft, calm, quiet, quiet, quiet. The mostly empty office building, the glass of red wine, the way he murmured, "the fam's back together again," the peach walls of my old bedroom as I put myself to bed, quiet, quiet, quiet.
I sang, I danced, I laughed, I discovered Pandora's "No Diggity" channel, I remembered how fiercely I love these women. I remembered how fiercely I am loved. It might have been loud, and I might have been the loudest, but it was still the quiet I needed. The hours we spent on that couch together. Sitting, reading, watching, eating, drinking, cuddling, sleeping, together and together and together. Quiet.
The Portland airport had rocking chairs in front of wide open windows. A few straggling passengers who came despite canceled flights and two delays and we finally boarded. I watched the sunset from the runway, from the assent, from the plane window as we broke through the clouds.
JKF is loud and noisy. NYC is loud and noisy. But I am still quiet.
The quiet settles easily. I carry it around lightly. Pack it in my bag as if it's just one more book.
I burry myself in books and piano notes amid long measures of rests. Turn my bedroom lights off early, curl up in the window of my hotel room during the conference, cross the street to find a coffee shop with fewer people, wake to see the sunrise, sit alone on the train ride home.
I wait to see when it will let go. Soon, I think, it's so light, it can't hang on for long. It's not the angry radio songs or the late night confessions, spilling out like marbles rolling across a metal counter. It's not the sound of my feet racing across the frozen ground or dewy grass. It's not even the dull hum of the weather channel, local on the 8s for the nineteenth time. It must not be much, I think. It's so quiet and still and light.
And yet. It remains.
Loyal. Steady. Unassuming. Constant.
I only want quiet these days. It think it means "this is not the right..." but I am realizing I am wrong. This time, the quiet might be the strength, the certainty, the falling away of the noise, my noise, the city's noise, all the noise. The falling away of the noise when I turned around on that second block corner. It might not matter whether he still stood there or whether I would have gone running. It is the noise that fell away. It is the quiet that matters, that perhaps, means the most.
January 17, 2014
Before
My favorite moments, before the alarm, before the sun on cold winter mornings, wrapped up in, cocooned by, cradled in warm blankets, a deep breath, a nestling down in, before the day starts, before the coffee, before the to-do lists, when hope doesn't have to exist, it's a breath in and a breath out, roll over, stretch out, curl up, fall back to sleep, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...
When we can have entire conversations with a held glance, beyond words - syllables too complex, too simplistic, words as rough approximations weighted and turned over again and again - a breath in and a breath out, eyes held and held and held, a knowing. Before and before and before, precise definitions, periods, question marks, exclamations points, beginnings and endings.
When an arm's length away means a swoop and a swirl, a dip, and a giggle. A reach across the empty space, scooched closer across the couched futon, a pulling in, an embrace, an arm draped over my shoulder, forearms bow-tied at my sternum, hand at my waist. A gap to close, before the cushions mold to our bodies, before choreographed movement becomes muscle memory, before we put the puzzle pieces together with closed eyes, cushion-arm-waist-arm-leg-leg-head-cushion. Before arm's lengths measure in inches, centimeters, millimeters, that match speech intonations, dinner dishes in the sink, toothpaste caps, emails from the boss, the number of hours our arms draped over each other from sundown to sunup.
When every hello and every goodbye feels simultaneously like the first and the last and perhaps every one in between.
Before the best and the worst, or perhaps the nothingness, the sacred or the profane, before the day but after the night, in tiny moments, simple and pure, with depth and lightness, a breath in, a breath out, stretch out, curl up, fall back to sleep.
When we can have entire conversations with a held glance, beyond words - syllables too complex, too simplistic, words as rough approximations weighted and turned over again and again - a breath in and a breath out, eyes held and held and held, a knowing. Before and before and before, precise definitions, periods, question marks, exclamations points, beginnings and endings.
When an arm's length away means a swoop and a swirl, a dip, and a giggle. A reach across the empty space, scooched closer across the couched futon, a pulling in, an embrace, an arm draped over my shoulder, forearms bow-tied at my sternum, hand at my waist. A gap to close, before the cushions mold to our bodies, before choreographed movement becomes muscle memory, before we put the puzzle pieces together with closed eyes, cushion-arm-waist-arm-leg-leg-head-cushion. Before arm's lengths measure in inches, centimeters, millimeters, that match speech intonations, dinner dishes in the sink, toothpaste caps, emails from the boss, the number of hours our arms draped over each other from sundown to sunup.
When every hello and every goodbye feels simultaneously like the first and the last and perhaps every one in between.
Before the best and the worst, or perhaps the nothingness, the sacred or the profane, before the day but after the night, in tiny moments, simple and pure, with depth and lightness, a breath in, a breath out, stretch out, curl up, fall back to sleep.
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