The Fourteenth of February

Last night I dreamt that we were talking to each-other in that long distance style, that "Can you hear me?," "Your face is frozen," "Hello?" style, that new decade technology that we're already bored with style. All of a sudden I realized that if I reached forward, I would be able to touch you. And I did and I could feel your real, honest-to-God skin stretched over your frame. And then all of a sudden you pulled me in to you and I couldn't tell you how it happened, but it did. I was so happy because finally we were close and it was the culmination of every perfect moment I've ever had, and it smelled like sweat, and deodorant, and woodsmoke and leaves. And my leg wasn't in this silly brace, and I had never gotten hit by that car, so I wrapped my legs around you. Maybe it's just my broken blues wishing me out of this foreign bed and over to you, but it was the best dream-moment I've ever had. Then it slipped out of my consciousness as quickly as it came, and the dream took its own turn, evading my desires, pushing me into the spiral of nonsensicals that dreams live for.

I woke up, and Valentine's Day was over. Time runs out very fast. 

enough for a new year

I just found out that it's 749 miles to get to you. And I'm sick of welcoming the new year in alone. Home feels more right now than it ever has before, but it's still hard when I think about making sausages in our small, slovenly kitchen. I just want to go to a time where I'm not afraid to miss you so much, but I have a lot to do before that—so do you.

Soon it will be 7,147 miles to find you and there will be a continent between us. I don't regret it, but the distance will still sting. 

I don't care if you read this and I don't care if you think I'm lame for writing it. All I can do is put this down and make it enough.

We're just waiting, waiting to begin

I can't seem to write anything good anymore. I think it's because I've been in this awful, orange chaired waiting room for the past few months. Waiting to leave, waiting for my friends to come back, waiting for my relationship to fall apart or click together like some magnetic puzzle. I've been thinking backwards most days, back to when every minute was new and I wasn't sitting in bed wondering why my head hurts so much.

But I haven't been honest with myself. I know why my head hurts, and I know why I can't write. I made my own complacent prison. I'm here because I was too afraid to ask myself if I really did have things figured. And now I don't know how to leave. They say that Only you can change your life! but when you've just stirred from a waking dream, how do you find the time you lost staring at a screen?

This place isn't dark, but there isn't much light either. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel good. It's a flat nothingness, like Nebraska on a gray spring day. I'm ready to hear thunder and see the sun, but I don't know how.

Goblin Market

Last night I dreamt
That we walked in the sunlight
And you began to run
And you led me to your car
And I asked
"Where are we going?"
And you didn't answer, so we drove.
And we drove, and drove.
Until we reached a market:
"The Fabulous Farmer's Market"
Full of ripe, strange fruits
Big purple eggplants with swirls of white
Full, neon green peppers
Apple sauce with a sprig of mint
And mashed pears with honeycomb
It was the best place we could have ever thought of
You turned to me and put your arm around my shoulders
And grinned.
And I said, "Should I get the apple sauce, or the pears?"
And you thought about it.
And you said, "How about both?"
And you kissed me.
And the sun washed in from the window in our bedroom,
Taking the eggplants, and peppers,
The apple sauce and pears—
but not you.

9/11

I've read so many blog-posts trying to sum up the day in numbers. In concepts. In emotionally charged adjectives. But I cannot take that single day into my hands and root out the profound moment where my life changed forever. To be honest, the strongest desire I felt on September 11, 2001 was for the day to be over. As I realized what happened and as more information came in and as things began to sink in as far as they could in my 10-year-old brain, I desperately just wanted the day finish. I wanted to wake up to a new day and at least know where the world stood. 

Because there was life before, the life that I knew from July 3, 1991 to September 10, 2001. And then there was the world after. And I could accept that things would be different. And worse, maybe. But what I hated more than anything—more than watching my parents cry, more than worrying about planes overhead, more than trying to make it all real—was this horrible, unstable Limbo that was that day. 

And when it finally was over, when I woke up on September 12—my mother's 53rd birthday, although we did not celebrate it that year—things were different. Things were rawer. And they were ugly. And I know that people want to move forward from that. The only memories they want to draw upon are those of the country coming together out of the ashes. But I will never forget the week that followed the 11th.

It was a few days after the attacks. It was all anyone talked about. But we were still going to school; some things had to stay the same. I was at lunch, sitting next to my friend Nabiha, who is Pakistani. She offered me some Pakistani candy. I took it because it looked good and because my friend had offered it to me. As I unwrapped it, another girl sitting at our table—Rebekah—wrinkled her nose at me.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked

"Yes?" I replied, questioningly.

"Are you sure you should...I mean...because, it's like...Arab. Is it safe?"

I was so embarrassed.

I was so embarrassed.

I was so fucking embarrassed and I was so fucking sad. 

I could feel Nabiha sinking a little next to me, ashamed. I paused, a mili-second.

"What?" I said. "Of course I'm going to eat it. Why would you even say that?"

Rebekah looked at me unapologetically. I knew why she said it. I ate the candy and tried to console Nabiha. 

And here it was. In this moment. The suspicion and fear and anger and hate. It had already trickled down to fifth graders. People can talk about the Patriot Act, or the reports of anti-Muslim sentiment and hate crimes, or even about the horrific act itself but for me, that was it. That was the destruction. That was what 9/11 had done. It had taken us and turned us in on ourselves. And it was so easy.

Today is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City. This number is important to us because we like to measure history in neat quantities. But it is not the years or the decades that pass, but rather the days and the hours and the minutes that we should watch for. The unconstructed moments that reveal much more about our insides than an anniversary memorial service, or a 12 minute remembrance segment on the nightly news, or the reflective blog post or Facebook status.

I remembered that moment at the lunch table one year ago today. And I will remember it one year from now. And probably for the rest of my life. 

reasoning

Because it's almost September of a new year and I miss the September from two years ago. Because you still smell like you. Because I looked at your bed and fought the urge to jump into it and wrap myself in the blankets that touched your body last night. Because everything here is mine and yours. Because I am very scared. Because I cried. Because there are so many things to do and I have not done them yet. Because there is a coffee mug on the table that says "MAUNA KEA OBSERVATORIES CLEARLY THE BEST HAWAI'I." Because I am tired. Because I am full. Because I should be doing laundry. Because you are everything I want.  Because I want to look up and watch someone walk through the door. Because...because I am sitting here looking at the dark green shadows the trees are making against the night sky and I am alone. Those are all of the reasons I am writing this and more.

that girl

She was so pretty, in the way that girls who like to laugh are. Happy girls—you know. She made him feel so good when she laughed, like he had done something right to make her smile like that.

She knew, even now, that he still had this thing. For her. After all this time. Just a small thing, almost harmless. But she knew, in the way that girls do, and she danced with it a little, while they sat at that small little Mexican restaurant up on Harlem. It wasn’t mean of her to do it, because nothing real would happen. And everyone at the table knew it too—so it was okay. But he was still hurt, hurt that she'd never wanted him the way he'd wanted—wants— her, not really, never the way he wanted—wants— her.

And maybe no one else could really have him. Not with this small part of himself that he'd saved for her, a meek little candle burning bravely; a wartime wife. And despite all his best efforts, he found that he still thought about her late at night, or when he was having sex with other girls. And he didn't want to do that because it was the slightest bit painful, like cold water hitting a sore tooth. Like picking at a scab.

He wanted that small part of himself back. She owed him that. But he couldn't find it when he looked at her. All that was there was her sweet, sweet laugh that didn't quite seem like it could come out of her. Maybe he would let her keep him.