btw, i'm in paris
Jessica started sending me packages. They arrive at the most opportune times, like when I’m all tired and grumpy from a day of class, running around the city, and my clothes are dirty and the metro was overcrowded and creepy guys kept leering at me all day. I’ll come home and there will be a big juicy envelope, or a box sitting on the wooden table in the kitchen. She never includes letters, so I never know how she’s doing, but she fills these boxes with the most wondrous things. Strawberry ice cream scented bubbles in a plastic ice cream cone, earrings with bright red revolvers and glow in the dark stars, a photo album with pictures from Dina’s pirate birthday party, costumes proudly displayed, Japanese milky gummy candy, a rainbow pinwheel. She sent me a mysterious utopian book from the 70s with dried flowers and the definition of love ripped from a dictionary between its pages like a secret message from a lover. One day I got a box full of flower seeds-poppies, daisies, marigolds, forget-me-nots, sunflowers and cosmos, all with their own individual mini pots for planting. Her packages are like buried treasures. They are full of whimsy, and remind me of who I want to be. I am young and crafty and connected with the world. They make me want to write long pretty letters and collage all over them, and start a zine with a stranger, or find an old bicycle and learn how to fix it up. They make me want to bake and make dresses and write silly pop songs and dance around my room in my underwear. The sun is brighter, the air smells cleaner, and everything feels just a bit easier. A box of treasure, sent from home, full of love. This is what grounds me.