Made my day

I’ve been meaning to do it for weeks. Write to Elizabeth Alexander. She’s the woman who wrote and read the poem “Praise Song for the Day” at Obama’s inauguration. It was a wonderful poem. It really was. I can’t imagine having to come up with something like that. A poem to be heard by the entire world.

Today, finally, I wrote to her, emailed. She’s a Yale professor so it wasn’t hard to find her email address. I wrote to her that I liked her poem. Short and to the point. She doesn’t know me so there really wasn’t much more to say. And then I hit send and went back to my day. Within a few minutes I had a reply. From Elizabeth Alexander herself.

“thank you very much.”

She didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t expecting a reply. But it was nice. And it made my day.

There are good people in the world. You just have to seek them out.

Progression

At first I saw it like a train. One of those tiny kinds that kids can ride. Going round and round a rickety set of tracks. The scenery the same every time. A succession of mistakes, missteps, misfortunes all gathering speed and becoming one.

And then I saw it like a Ferris wheel. Turning, stopping, lifting, dropping. The view from the top spectacular. The air soft and warm, like the fuzzy stomach of a puppy; like the velvety ears of a newborn lamb; like a down-filled pillow at the end of the day. Comfortable in an exciting kind of way.

But now I think it’s more like water or mercury or anything that can flow. Seeking out every nook and crevice. So many places to go. Like poetry. Like satiny words that go on forever. Like billowy rhymes that never stop. Wandering through a museum of my deepest emotions, a tourist, awestruck. A quiet song. A gentle touch. The slightest breeze from butterfly wings. Watching the minutes spark like matches. Each flame dying only to give life to the next.

Going in circles

When I first picked it out, I couldn’t wait to wear it. So pretty, shiny. I loved what it represented. Not alone anymore. A part of something, someone. Happy, content, complete. It just felt right.

And then, over time, it faded. Like all things do. Slightly, sadly, inevitably. Like everything does.

I took it off one day and it stayed off. For seven years. In a drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind. As everything around me faded away. And nothing felt right.

And then one day I was searching. For something. And there is was. Still pretty, still shiny. And I put it back on. To see how it would feel. To see if it would feel like it used to. And something told me it was time. To say goodbye; to say hello. To remember what was real and accept what could never be. To make things right.

Until today.

Once again the end has lead me back to the beginning.

Waiting

I think my wings are transparent enough. For me to be a swan. And strong enough, to take me away from all of this. So that I might gain a new perspective. That bird’s eye view we all crave. But I suspect the sky would dismiss me in tiny breezes. Like skipping stones across a pond. Sputtering, then gone.

Minutes turn into years when I’m made to wait like this. People I may only know for a little while and still I need proof. Monsters in damp basements, quizzing the darkness. Ghosts in stale attics, searching for their chains. The beauty of any lie is how hard it tries to protect me. Taking off my gloves to touch the glass. Only to discover it’s never been there.

Broken

The conversation went something like this:

AG: Are you close to your parents?
Me: No.

AG: Wow, that’s too bad. My parents are like everything to me.
Me: My mother emails every now and then, just fluff.

AG: Fluff?
Me: You know, the weather, stuff she did, the weather.

AG: Oh. Is your dad still alive?
Me: I guess.

AG: You don’t know?
Me: I haven’t spoken to him in over 10 years. I think my mother would have told me if he had died. Right after the weather.

AG: God, I hope so. That’s kinda sad.
Me: Yeah, everything kind of broke when I was six and never got put back together.

AG: Oh. You mean your parents got divorced?
Me: Oh, I wish.

More than ever

I’ve been listening to this radio station from New York City. I really miss NYC. I can’t remember the last time I was there. I’m not a city person, but here’s something about that city. Like running into an old friend you haven’t seen in years. I suspect I may have lived there in a past life. Maybe I grew up there, died there. Maybe I never left there. Because I had no desire to. Because it was home. And now it’s just a place I visit. And miss.

Missing someone or someplace is a strange feeling. Sometimes it’s a good feeling. And it makes you feel all warm inside. Sometimes it’s a bad feeling that makes you shiver and stomp your feet and wrap your arms around yourself. Because no one else is going to. No one that matters. No one that you miss.

Sometimes a certain place or person will remind you of another place or person. And for a moment, you’re actually there. You’re actually with them. But then something makes you snap out of it. Like a slap or a bang. Something tells you this isn’t real. And then you’re back to missing, you're back to shivering, more than ever.

I really miss him. I guess I always will. I wish there was a radio station that could trick my brain into believing. That we could run into each other on a sidewalk. So I could see him smile. Hear him laugh. That half grin that said everything was going to be alright. I wish he was in a place I could visit.

But he’s not. And so I do the best I can with memories and old photos and find little reminders of him in other people. Until I feel that slap. Or hear that bang. And something tells me this isn’t real. And then I’m back to missing him. More than ever.

Easy

It’s easier to pretend that she doesn’t exist. When he mentions her, and he always does. Or that she’s someone else. An ex, or a friend or a relative. A part of his life. A piece of the puzzle that makes him whole. But a piece that he could live without, if he had to. If it ever came to that.

It’s easier to pretend that she’ll never know. That a secret the size of the Atlantic Ocean can fit in the palm of my hand and stay there. That we could dream of forever without it having to be such a fairy tale.

It’s easier to pretend that he’s lying. When he says he’s happy. With his life with her. That he thinks it’s what I want to hear. Because it’s simpler that way. And somehow, it makes him a better person.

It’s easier to pretend I’ll be able to walk away. When all of this falls apart. That we’ll all just forgive. And forget.

Real

Not all wishes are meant to be heard by the stars. It’s not like they really care. If we confide in them or not. Some just wake up old memories; others lull them back to sleep. Like trying to give away what isn’t even mine. It’s best to just keep it folded up in my back pocket.

Different reasons for different secrets. Sometimes we’re lovers, sometimes friends. Eyes blaming each other for what we cannot say. In the way short words can be heavy on a page like that.

I brace myself for the love in his touch. But find it easier to breathe when I pretend that this just might be real.

What I get for thinking

I keep thinking that this is a good thing. Like dessert after a meal. Like watching the sunset after a long day. That’s what I’ve come to believe. That no one’s every going to get hurt. That these feelings are just little ladders that will never take me very far.

But the truth is that it’s all just lies. Little bedtime stories I tell myself at the end of the day. So I’ll be able to sleep. So I’ll be able to live with myself. Because the truth is that love is so close I could strangle it.

My impending breakdown

Sometimes I daydream old memories and imagine he was there. Next to me, his hand in mine. Through the worst and the best. Building a life together. Believing everything would be okay, and maybe it would have been. If he’d been there.

But he wasn’t, and he isn’t. And he never really can be. Like ice cubes or snow or anything that can melt or fade away.

And I'd write of this, the pain I feel, if only I could move my hand. But I’m so tired with the weight of it all. So tired with being unable to say what I need to say.

So instead, I’ll just memorize it. Learn it inside and out like a foreign language. As if my words were sparkles of color in his eyes. Commit it all to paper at a later date. To be filed away and lost with the rest of my drivel. To be found again, when I've forgotten what it was like.