Love
I Texted Him, “I love you.”
Last night, I texted him, “I love you”. With a small, bubbling hearts emoji. 💕 . I had been reading Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed. Something in her words scraped away my blubbered protections. It’s funny how I need to read the words of other people to undo what I’m unwilling to see in myself.
He had never been afraid of pain, or loving me, it seemed. He had never held back from me. He sent me morning texts and evening texts. He listened excitedly as we walked together, the sun setting along tree-lined streets, as I told him about what I’d been up to that day. But I had been too proud. I couldn’t even send him the emoji with the kissing heart. 😘 . Why? What on God’s green earth would I be giving up by being honest?
Then, even worse, I was torn off by the logic of other people when they scoffed in my face,
“He’s just a barista. I knew you’d get bored of him.”
“You can do so much better. Like, why are you even with him again?”
I served excuses, external things, like little teacakes, begging to justify it to everyone who asked.
“He makes me coffee. He makes me cocktails. He takes me out for dinner, sometimes,” I’d say. All along, unwilling to admit to myself that it was the moment when the sunshine beams along a wet, sodden country road. Taking him for granted until I realized that nothing in this life is given. Not even another day. Not even the back of my own hand.
Now I am fighting back with the might of an irrational lover. They don’t see what I see. They don’t know the real person that I am talking to. And I like him. I’m not afraid to admit that. Not right now, to you, anyway. What does it matter to the world if we make love once a week? What is an optimal, societal, b******t man anyway? A suiter like we’re still in times of Regency? A boring one, sitting in his multi-million dollar townhouse, but who doesn’t have enough humanity to ask me,
“How are you feeling?” like he does every day.
Dreams
A Dream That Came to Life
A couple months ago, I had a small and perhaps clichéd dream. I wanted to sell little prints of original poetry, or words and phrases, that people could frame and hang in their bathrooms. I spent a lot of money on the different kinds of paper I might want to use. Finally, eons later, I’m glad to say that this week I was able to see this little dream come to life, with the help of my friend Marko’s typewriter.
I don’t know why I had the vision of the typewriter. Maybe it was the nostalgia for former times that I’ve never lived in. Or maybe it’s because I had visited my grandmother’s storage unit so many times in Los Angeles. And I wanted to write like my grandfather’s letters to Universal, and my great-grandmother’s letters to him.
Well, it all came together. They say you can’t go backwards on a typewriter, kind of like life. With errors included, here’s what I had to say:
What is a small dream you have been stashing away? Waiting to be brought out into the world one day? Let me know in the comments. Perhaps this is the sign you have been waiting for….
