oh, you look so beautiful tonight.
so very-much to write. i've been trying to get it out for the last two weeks, and i finally feel like i've made a little headway in that department. so, bear with my disjointed, non-linear-ness, okay? okay.
----
when i was little and still wore saddle-oxfords and pigtails, there was nothing more exciting to me than knowing that my relatives were coming to visit. i would fidget for a whole week before my various aunt-and-uncles came to town, and when my mom got the phone call that they'd arrived, i would be waiting at the door for her to walk the two blocks to my grandmother's house with me. when we got there, i'd dash through the screen-door and stand, grinning, for a moment in the living room, taking in the scene: undoubtedly, an aunt would be sitting in the lounge chair by the picture-window, and an uncle would be perched on a chair near the kitchen table, one leg crossed-over the other.
both the aunt and the uncle would stand, and both would envelop me in a hug, kissing me on the and saying, "hi, megan," or "it's good to see you." the exception to this rule was my uncle frank: instead of standing, he would turn and look at me, a grin spreading slowly across his face. "well, well, well," he'd say, "look what the wind blew in." and then i'd dissolve into giggles and throw my arms around him, and he'd hug me back and say quietly, "it's great to see you."
this tradition continued, without fail, until last august, when my uncle's body began to be eaten by cancer: first his prostate, then his liver, and then his brain. the last time i saw him was at my graduation party this past-winter; he died in february. my aunt jean--his wife--is here now, and so is the rest of my mom's family: my aunt judy, uncle perry, and their two daughters, my aunt ann, and my grandmother. but still, even with all of this full-ness, there's an empty place where uncle frank used to sit, watching the rest of us with an air of amusement. i'll never hear him say "look what the wind blew in," or see him smile at me, again.
today, though, when aunt judy, uncle perry, and the kids arrived, my mom, aunt jean, and aunt ann were already at my grandmother's house, waiting. the girls bounded through the old screen-door like i used to: expectant, hopeful, ready. i stood up and before i could think about it, crushed the youngest to me, holding her tight against my heart.
"well," i said after a moment, taking a step back and holding her at arm's-length, "look what the wind blew in."
----
what is the nature of knowing someone? what is the nature of remembering someone, of smelling them, of synchronizing? with people we feel we know deeply, we actualize together: we become real-er with them in our lives. our synapses fire; our senses awaken; our phermones flow. the nature of closeness is beyond tangibility. it is something that leaves an indelible mark.
----
observation: i am very-much like my father. we are both volatile, emotive, expressive. unlike my mother's family, who stays ice-cool at all times, except for when they're laughing, my father's lets their emotion go. we feel things the same way, and he told me once that it's a different way than most other people do. we are very-different, as well: he is less disciplined and less in-control, his personality leaves room for life-absorption in a way that's not always good, but we are of the same strand. we are interwoven.
----
i applied for a paid-internship in washington d.c., and i should be hearing back about it within the next ten days. i'm excited. i'm ready for a change, and i think i know i'm ready because i've gotten very-very comfortable here lately. i want to challenge myself in a different way. i want to prove to myself that i can do it--whatever and wherever "it" may be.
i can.
i can.
i will.
----
today, while grocery-shopping, i became very aware of the fact that i am alone. i am not lonely--how can i be, with the wonderful-wonderful friends that fill my days and my conversations and my life? but i'm certainly alone. and sometimes, i think: "i would like to have someone to buy bread with."
----
my birthday is soon. i will be twenty-three. i will be TWENTY-THREE. i look at myself in the mirror sometimes and think, "you can't be older than eighteen." sometimes, i see myself like i was when i was six, running through my grandmother's front door in saddle-oxfords and a yellow smock-dress. sometimes, though, i see myself as i am: as a twenty-something who is trying to find her way, as someone who is learning that she can be an adult, as someone who is just learning to be, to love, to live this life that is mine.
----
when i was little and still wore saddle-oxfords and pigtails, there was nothing more exciting to me than knowing that my relatives were coming to visit. i would fidget for a whole week before my various aunt-and-uncles came to town, and when my mom got the phone call that they'd arrived, i would be waiting at the door for her to walk the two blocks to my grandmother's house with me. when we got there, i'd dash through the screen-door and stand, grinning, for a moment in the living room, taking in the scene: undoubtedly, an aunt would be sitting in the lounge chair by the picture-window, and an uncle would be perched on a chair near the kitchen table, one leg crossed-over the other.
both the aunt and the uncle would stand, and both would envelop me in a hug, kissing me on the and saying, "hi, megan," or "it's good to see you." the exception to this rule was my uncle frank: instead of standing, he would turn and look at me, a grin spreading slowly across his face. "well, well, well," he'd say, "look what the wind blew in." and then i'd dissolve into giggles and throw my arms around him, and he'd hug me back and say quietly, "it's great to see you."
this tradition continued, without fail, until last august, when my uncle's body began to be eaten by cancer: first his prostate, then his liver, and then his brain. the last time i saw him was at my graduation party this past-winter; he died in february. my aunt jean--his wife--is here now, and so is the rest of my mom's family: my aunt judy, uncle perry, and their two daughters, my aunt ann, and my grandmother. but still, even with all of this full-ness, there's an empty place where uncle frank used to sit, watching the rest of us with an air of amusement. i'll never hear him say "look what the wind blew in," or see him smile at me, again.
today, though, when aunt judy, uncle perry, and the kids arrived, my mom, aunt jean, and aunt ann were already at my grandmother's house, waiting. the girls bounded through the old screen-door like i used to: expectant, hopeful, ready. i stood up and before i could think about it, crushed the youngest to me, holding her tight against my heart.
"well," i said after a moment, taking a step back and holding her at arm's-length, "look what the wind blew in."
----
what is the nature of knowing someone? what is the nature of remembering someone, of smelling them, of synchronizing? with people we feel we know deeply, we actualize together: we become real-er with them in our lives. our synapses fire; our senses awaken; our phermones flow. the nature of closeness is beyond tangibility. it is something that leaves an indelible mark.
----
observation: i am very-much like my father. we are both volatile, emotive, expressive. unlike my mother's family, who stays ice-cool at all times, except for when they're laughing, my father's lets their emotion go. we feel things the same way, and he told me once that it's a different way than most other people do. we are very-different, as well: he is less disciplined and less in-control, his personality leaves room for life-absorption in a way that's not always good, but we are of the same strand. we are interwoven.
----
i applied for a paid-internship in washington d.c., and i should be hearing back about it within the next ten days. i'm excited. i'm ready for a change, and i think i know i'm ready because i've gotten very-very comfortable here lately. i want to challenge myself in a different way. i want to prove to myself that i can do it--whatever and wherever "it" may be.
i can.
i can.
i will.
----
today, while grocery-shopping, i became very aware of the fact that i am alone. i am not lonely--how can i be, with the wonderful-wonderful friends that fill my days and my conversations and my life? but i'm certainly alone. and sometimes, i think: "i would like to have someone to buy bread with."
----
my birthday is soon. i will be twenty-three. i will be TWENTY-THREE. i look at myself in the mirror sometimes and think, "you can't be older than eighteen." sometimes, i see myself like i was when i was six, running through my grandmother's front door in saddle-oxfords and a yellow smock-dress. sometimes, though, i see myself as i am: as a twenty-something who is trying to find her way, as someone who is learning that she can be an adult, as someone who is just learning to be, to love, to live this life that is mine.