__________
Rain patters loudly on the soft top. It's too early for the rest of the world to be awake and I'm alone on these winding country roads. I listen to the same smattering of songs on repeat, letting their words make me feel things I'm tired of feeling.
I want to rage, but I force myself to stuff it back inside. It's not that bad. Why do I make it so dramatic?
You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.
It's the dead of winter, but my shoes are still off as I drive. I tap the brake pedal through the curves and my tires inch over the line. My coffee is long gone and I chew wintergreen mints, wondering if they are sparking in the dark.
I'm ambivalent about first light. It would be far easier to see the faded line on these dark roads, but I want to stay right here. My inclination is always flight, flight, flight. Avoid the conflict. Run away from it all. This cocoon of darkness and solitude protects me.
I want to rage, but I force myself to stuff it back inside. It's not that bad. Why do I make it so dramatic?
You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.
It's the dead of winter, but my shoes are still off as I drive. I tap the brake pedal through the curves and my tires inch over the line. My coffee is long gone and I chew wintergreen mints, wondering if they are sparking in the dark.
I'm ambivalent about first light. It would be far easier to see the faded line on these dark roads, but I want to stay right here. My inclination is always flight, flight, flight. Avoid the conflict. Run away from it all. This cocoon of darkness and solitude protects me.
______
I run my thumb down the condensation of the glass, truths leaking out with each sip. How can I be in a hurry to get to the bottom and also want to stay right here? I feel bold, but tired. My words are littered with self-preservation. Like tip-toeing over rocks, I navigate carefully. The cogs in my brain feel dusty, operating in this world that only feels partially real.
I wash the loose dirt off my calves, watching it circle down the drain. The blood is dried now and I sigh with relief as the water causes no pain. The only suffering is between my ears. I rest my back against the wall and tilt my head down. The scalding water pours over my nose. I'm too tired for tears, too numb for anger.
Conflict as thick as the skies. The town coated in gray, the sharpness of everything softened by the impending storm. Time is all I have and it evaporates before my very eyes. I hold my tongue and fight off my superstitions. It won't change anything. I put my headphones back on, the muted melodies no longer satisfying after hearing them live.
I wash the loose dirt off my calves, watching it circle down the drain. The blood is dried now and I sigh with relief as the water causes no pain. The only suffering is between my ears. I rest my back against the wall and tilt my head down. The scalding water pours over my nose. I'm too tired for tears, too numb for anger.
Conflict as thick as the skies. The town coated in gray, the sharpness of everything softened by the impending storm. Time is all I have and it evaporates before my very eyes. I hold my tongue and fight off my superstitions. It won't change anything. I put my headphones back on, the muted melodies no longer satisfying after hearing them live.
______
Hygge, EDM mixes, country mixes, duets, acoustic covers, when driving, when running, when showering, when making dinner, writing and writing and writing, juicy IPAs, nutty porters and creamy stouts, delicate pinots, bitter and bold french press, cotton candy skies, trailhead beers, summit snacks, chocolate cake, where the sand meets the water, a midnight thunderstorm, hot and cold wind on the prairie, pizza standing in front of the refrigerator, take-offs, national anthems at sports events, the final puzzle piece, the middle of a great book, having my hair washed, Saturday afternoons, nights that end in the morning, surprises, movie trailers, people greeting loved ones at the airport, July peaches, start lines, finish lines,, arcade basketball, porch coffee, long walks, longer runs, fries so hot they burn your fingers
______
I repeat we should all be so lucky as a tireless cliché. But there is only truth to it for now. I know I'll shed tears when I'm with my family, our emotions bubbling off each other. It's a sadness to never get to receive another letter, chat with her on the phone, sit on the edge of her bed, watching her watch the chaos in her room.
I'll always remember her sitting in a house dress, drinking coffee at the table and reading the paper in the wee hours of the morning. When my grandpa was still alive, he might be up too, reading next to her. Or, if it were light enough, he'd be tinkering in the yard or the basement with one of his many projects. In a house that small, their spaces were forced to overlap except in a few small areas.
Hers was the kitchen. It was the tiniest of galleys, but we'd sit on the stool backed against the wall as kids. Likely we sat there so she could keep an eye on us when we were really young, but then to slowly start to be a part of the process when we were older. Snapping green beans, stirring pancake batter, rolling out pie dough. We'd help set the table, pull condiments from the refrigerator, and dry the dishes. It was her domain, a living stereotype of an era when few women worked outside the home.
Starting from a time I was a teenager, I remember I'd wake up early to go run during the summertime from her house. I'd tiptoe to the door and we'd whisper so as to not wake anyone in the house. It was a futile effort as the storm door always seemed to give me away. No matter what time I left, I'd come back in a pool of sweat. The breakfast feast would be in full swing and it seemed impossible to bypass a piece of bacon on my way to the shower.
She'd lay out coffee cups, tiny juice glasses, and possibly 2 different plates for just breakfast. There was bacon or sausage, eggs on request, pancakes, fruit, cereal, and my favorite, her cinnamon rolls. She never even ate breakfast. She'd sip on coffee in the morning. Maybe have the smallest glass of orange juice you've ever seen. She'd lay out an entire feast and not touch it.
______
______
I repeat we should all be so lucky as a tireless cliché. But there is only truth to it for now. I know I'll shed tears when I'm with my family, our emotions bubbling off each other. It's a sadness to never get to receive another letter, chat with her on the phone, sit on the edge of her bed, watching her watch the chaos in her room.
I'll always remember her sitting in a house dress, drinking coffee at the table and reading the paper in the wee hours of the morning. When my grandpa was still alive, he might be up too, reading next to her. Or, if it were light enough, he'd be tinkering in the yard or the basement with one of his many projects. In a house that small, their spaces were forced to overlap except in a few small areas.
Hers was the kitchen. It was the tiniest of galleys, but we'd sit on the stool backed against the wall as kids. Likely we sat there so she could keep an eye on us when we were really young, but then to slowly start to be a part of the process when we were older. Snapping green beans, stirring pancake batter, rolling out pie dough. We'd help set the table, pull condiments from the refrigerator, and dry the dishes. It was her domain, a living stereotype of an era when few women worked outside the home.
Starting from a time I was a teenager, I remember I'd wake up early to go run during the summertime from her house. I'd tiptoe to the door and we'd whisper so as to not wake anyone in the house. It was a futile effort as the storm door always seemed to give me away. No matter what time I left, I'd come back in a pool of sweat. The breakfast feast would be in full swing and it seemed impossible to bypass a piece of bacon on my way to the shower.
She'd lay out coffee cups, tiny juice glasses, and possibly 2 different plates for just breakfast. There was bacon or sausage, eggs on request, pancakes, fruit, cereal, and my favorite, her cinnamon rolls. She never even ate breakfast. She'd sip on coffee in the morning. Maybe have the smallest glass of orange juice you've ever seen. She'd lay out an entire feast and not touch it.
______
We're hurtling through space and time on this tiny orb, a blip itself in the universe. I'm pulling my hood tighter around my face to keep my sunglasses from flying off and my hair from blinding me as it whips wildly around. I can't hear the music or the conversation from my cramped space in the back seat. The sky is so blue it looks fake and we're flying east across I-70 like we're late for our destination. Wind and sun beat my face, but I smile from the intensity of the feeling, aware of my physical existence. If I'm numb, I can't feel, and if I can't feel, am I indeed alive?
So while I spend most of my life shutting out the noise with work and running and plunging myself into things that keep me from actually feeling, it is here that I must sit with it. Feel my feelings. Feel sad I won't get to talk to her again. Feel guilty for everything I think I might have missed saying or doing. Feel happy I got this time with my siblings. Feel angry that it still feels too short. Feel joy for a warm sunny February day. Feel. Feel. Feel.
So while I spend most of my life shutting out the noise with work and running and plunging myself into things that keep me from actually feeling, it is here that I must sit with it. Feel my feelings. Feel sad I won't get to talk to her again. Feel guilty for everything I think I might have missed saying or doing. Feel happy I got this time with my siblings. Feel angry that it still feels too short. Feel joy for a warm sunny February day. Feel. Feel. Feel.
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