They Say It Gets Better
I was sitting at Backstreet Cafe eating some seared fish as the walls closed in on me. The ceiling leaned down and started falling, and the panic set in as I shifted in my chair, my white linen hands gripping the tablecloth in a cold sweat. I was looking across the table at what I always feared I'd become. Alone, desperate, negotiating holidays I once loved to celebrate, but are now mere recognitions of all that truly has been lost.
"I'm a size 8."
"Brown or black? Leather or suede?"
"Well, I've always admired your taste, Ray. Pick what you think I'd like best, it's the Season of Giving, after all."
"Excuse me one second."
In the bathroom, my red eyes in the mirror looked just like my mom's. A brown, blue, green, a hazel. I guess they will never quite be sure what color to be, or to whom they wish to please or play. Crying seems so passé, but so does writing in a journal when you're 23, going quick on 24.
"I never want to guilt you. I hope you have a great time skiing. Colorado is beautiful this time of year, and you will have a great time at your aunt's New Year's Eve party. She's quite the legend, and she definitely shares your taste for Veuve Clicquot. If only lung cancer doesn't get her first."
It seems my aunt Mary Elizabeth and I have more in common than just Veuve Clicquot.
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"How is your father? How was dinner? Did you give him my letter?"
"Okay. Fine. Yes." ("Miserably aloof. Awful. Does no one even care what I am feeling?")
"Well, he needs to realize what he's done. I know it's never been about the money, but I will grasp for anything that will hurt him."
"I don't know what to say."
"You will one day, when someone hurts you and leaves you when you are at one of the hardest points in your life. Someone who always said they'd be there, but then leaves you when you're at your weakest."
"Maybe we were never good at sharing our weaknesses. Maybe we covered them up in spite and maleficence."
Not too different from gods in Greece, nor too different from my own life. Comfort mother, understand me.
"You wouldn't understand, Ray. You're young, you haven't been hurt, and even had you been, you're far too self-absorbed to notice," mother says.
"I'm sorry," I mutter back.
Why do I mutter so these days? Why does nothing that comes out my mouth matter?
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"I know, mom."
"Where is your brother?"
"He is in DC, at school."
"Well, clearly I know that much, but why isn't he here?" she asks.
"Am I not enough?" I don't ask this. I already know the answer.
I am not enough. I am just something in between to everyone.
As I walked down the street, I kept beginning to cry, but then I would stop short. Nothing would come out, and it would pass as if there were simply a fleeting fleck of sand in my eye.
Tell me, what's left when the tears are gone?
"I'm a size 8."
"Brown or black? Leather or suede?"
"Well, I've always admired your taste, Ray. Pick what you think I'd like best, it's the Season of Giving, after all."
"Excuse me one second."
In the bathroom, my red eyes in the mirror looked just like my mom's. A brown, blue, green, a hazel. I guess they will never quite be sure what color to be, or to whom they wish to please or play. Crying seems so passé, but so does writing in a journal when you're 23, going quick on 24.
"I never want to guilt you. I hope you have a great time skiing. Colorado is beautiful this time of year, and you will have a great time at your aunt's New Year's Eve party. She's quite the legend, and she definitely shares your taste for Veuve Clicquot. If only lung cancer doesn't get her first."
It seems my aunt Mary Elizabeth and I have more in common than just Veuve Clicquot.
--------------------
"How is your father? How was dinner? Did you give him my letter?"
"Okay. Fine. Yes." ("Miserably aloof. Awful. Does no one even care what I am feeling?")
"Well, he needs to realize what he's done. I know it's never been about the money, but I will grasp for anything that will hurt him."
"I don't know what to say."
"You will one day, when someone hurts you and leaves you when you are at one of the hardest points in your life. Someone who always said they'd be there, but then leaves you when you're at your weakest."
"Maybe we were never good at sharing our weaknesses. Maybe we covered them up in spite and maleficence."
Not too different from gods in Greece, nor too different from my own life. Comfort mother, understand me.
"You wouldn't understand, Ray. You're young, you haven't been hurt, and even had you been, you're far too self-absorbed to notice," mother says.
"I'm sorry," I mutter back.
Why do I mutter so these days? Why does nothing that comes out my mouth matter?
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"I know, mom."
"Where is your brother?"
"He is in DC, at school."
"Well, clearly I know that much, but why isn't he here?" she asks.
"Am I not enough?" I don't ask this. I already know the answer.
I am not enough. I am just something in between to everyone.
As I walked down the street, I kept beginning to cry, but then I would stop short. Nothing would come out, and it would pass as if there were simply a fleeting fleck of sand in my eye.
Tell me, what's left when the tears are gone?