Lifelines

The 7 trains runs above ground. The boxes in the basement hold my goodbyes, mostly. Let go. I repeat it accidentally or automatically.

"Do you want to stop at Starbucks for the ride in?"
"Sure, I haven't had a coffee yet today."
"I'll turn up here instead of at the light, we hardly take this road."
"I know, it's been a while."

I can cry, tears pooling and spilling, without my voice wavering. Trained, practiced. From the years when.

It had been a long time since I last cried. I can count the occasions in the past year and a half: a tear-shed move to dc and a late night whimper about a boy. After tear-stained years, I marvel at dry eyes. Who knew I could achieve this? If this is an acheivement.

Early morning, sweat-drenched trek, bus ride north, flu/cold/alergy change of plans, subway letters and numbers and transfers, neighborhoods without. An unexpected search for Whole Foods, reference to undergrad admissions, orientation, student ID, I've regressed, time folds in on itself. I'm twenty-eight, I'm twenty-five, I'm eighteen. The moon through the bedroom window. Her drawing of our portrait, once on my wall. The framed pact we made in fourth grade, "I promise to be best friends..." I'm sixteen, I'm fourteen, I'm nine. There's a storage unit waiting for my memories, waiting for my winter clothing. She's leaving too, the last of us. The house walls promise to keep better watch over the next family. I find Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. Freshman year summer reading.

"Ms. Independent." He hurls it at me, a quarterback in another life with a strong arm. It weighs on me now. That word. I've had to be. I am. I'd have to come undone, unravel myself, to pull it out, to set it aside. I would have to fall apart. But without it, I wouldn't know how to put myself back together. The pep talks I once had memorized have vanished; I grasp at the malnourished and slippery mantra, "I can do this." Empty and vacant but still there.

The return train pulls into Grand Central; I wait for the car to empty before I reach up for my backpack on the overhead shelf. "Let me help." He reaches up, grabs my bag, and places it next to me on the seat before he finishes the sentence. I look up to say thank you. He's waiting for my eyes to meet his, my smile to meet his. It does, they do, I do, and he's gone before I can form the words. My backpack waiting for me and suddenly a bit lighter.

The blankets aren't packed. My car battery is dead. I have two flat tires. Soon, it will no longer be mine. Any of it. Soon, I'll claim a seat on the subway, a view the skyline, the corner of a bedroom, and I'll begin again.

Romantic notions, really: beginnings, dreams, independence, home. They're tangled and heavy, too.

But there is always someone who sees me. Who knows not to trust my voice, to look for the tears. Someone who knows to reach for my bag before I can protest, before I know what is happening. Someone who lets me come undone, who lets me put myself back together. Someone who believes in romantic notions too: beginnings, dreams, independence, home. They're tangled and heavy lifelines. We hold on to them together.

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part vi.}

Cousins, the friendship.



{nicole. alivia. the end}

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part v.}

Brooklyn, the bridge.

The Days When

The days when the math is off and the deadline is blown and the work clothes are still on at 10 pm and the email response is less-than supportive and the mojitos are two blocks too far away and lil Miss Sunshine is just a little too bright... The days when it feels like not only is there a race but I'm losing the race, we're losing the race...

Those are the days when we find each other on the front porch. When we're there to greet each other after the long day, swat lazy mosquitos, and tell each other, "you're doing fine." And we are.

We're doing fine.

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part iv.}

East Village, the neighborhood. Street art, the medium of expression.
(and one of my favorite things to photograph)
 

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part iii.}

East Village, the neighborhood.

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part ii.}

We went to see each other, not so much to see the city. Our plan entailed not much more than spending the night at my brother's, heading to East Village, and spending a couple days with each other. Drinking coffee, tea, sangria (our staples and of courses) and meandering through thrift shops, vintage shops, coffee shops, perhaps tattoo shops. All of which we did. But my favorite part? Spending time with them.

{tennessee, the state. knoxville, the city. part i.}

so, so much to share. i know, i keep saying that, and i'll catch up someday, i promise. for now, here is the first set of photos from my weekend in knoxville, tennessee. iphone photos of course, because i have yet to upload the hundreds of photos i snapped with my real camera. yes, hundreds. because the city is so, so lovely. i can't wait to share more... but for now...

{new york, the city. manhattan, the borough. part i.}

Nicole, Alivia, and I spent the weekend in NYC.
It was wonderful.
Actually, wonderful doesn't cover how wonderful it was.
But I'm not going to grasp for the right words, because that nap never happened.

More, and more, and more to come,
but for now
this is how the weekend looked from my phone.

[And yes, amid NYC recaps, I still have some news I'll share.]