Over Troubled Water

Struck

How much has happened, all these months past. Your babies have grown, their big eyes absorb every corner of the world and then they lay there talking to each other about it during nap time. We sat in the next room laughing at them, trying to catch up amidst loose words and signed letters. Your eyes are the same, your laugh; you are in there.

The tears came later; they surprised my blurry eyes on the freeway and proved relentless through rerouted construction zones. I wasn't sure what I cried for. Or perhaps what I didn't.

We were so young together, once, do you remember? We had our entire lives ahead of us, and at every shaky moment we held each other's hands. Who would I be without your friendship lining my backbone? How can I possibly do anything to steady yours, now?

Your babies are beautiful. You hold them as though you'd never done anything else in your life. As though no evil could ever keep you from them. These were not the lives we thought we had to live. But they are ours, now. And I will hold your hand, forever.

Precipitation

Rain, rain, nothing but rain. Mist in the morning, rows of vines draped in velvet fogs, you dress and drive and have no idea the land you traverse. No matter. The content of the people, welcoming you to their homes, their vines, their wines, is substance enough. You return home replenished.

A dear friend sends a question, and suddenly an interview lies potentially waiting in the wings for your return. Another friend leaves bowls, and forks, and a couch, and hopes your home will not echo too loudly upon your return. There is a life waiting on the other side of that ocean. You do not choose to claim it, but you do not leave it, either.

Our host speaks of his children, raised here, born there, how they keep a house, how they wait to figure out what direction to lean, what topography will be home in the future. You will not know, we say. Life does not reveal itself so easily. The wine speaks volumes. That is fine.

California

It's in the wind, it's a special scent on the breeze, it tells you you are elsewhere, you are away. California. Remembering the first time you reached its shores and ran giddy to the Venice Beach water. As though California was made to be seen from that car window.

Palm trees sway, the sun deceiving you into thinking it's warm. Turn on the A/C, won't you? but it's still winter and the sun sets in fires and pinks before you are ready.

I had to go out to the car after dinner. Middle of a vineyard, not a smidgeon of light around. The sky was painted its blackest black, and there they were: a trillion bright stars, twinkling away as though they'd always been there, despite the light polluted urban nights, despite my ignorance of their existence. A coyote rustled in the olive grove.

We are not in Kansas, anymore.

Touch Down

Everywhere mountains. Appearing through the mist, carrying sunrises, sunsets, snow flurries, respite. My parents ask me what I am doing with my life and I have nothing but question marks to return, nothing but obstacles to paint. Mountains.

I do not land, this time, I merely repack. Wash clothes, wash mind. Tomorrow another flight, another journey. I relish the feeling. I am haunted by the knowledge that I cannot keep this up.

It all looks so pretty on paper. You wish paper was living your life, instead.

Never Easy

What is there to say, that has not been said? We all know the story. The agony of another goodbye, the tearing flesh and gaping wounds, the salty tears, how impossibly far away the distant future. A week has passed; does it feel like hundred years or a minute? So hard to trust your dizzy heart, why bother.

Revel in gratitude. In the beauty of there being a home to nestle in at all. In remembering what this city meant and who it made you. In a head held high and the feeling that anything is possible. That is the magic; it follows you wherever you go. You remember.

New York does not disappear. It lies in wait for when you are ready. Your limbs tremble in the starting blocks. Your life begins, anew.

by Chance

...but if you knew the day I'd had and why I can't go home, you would understand why I need to sit here. There was no question, no request, she simply plopped her magazine down on the table and sat. Didn't buy a coffee, who was going to make her. She started to talk, and she did not stop.

Did you know I made my whole career just knowing how to type! RCA on 23rd street; of course, when I came to L.A. with my husband I could get a job anywhere, coming from New York. She grew up in the East Village, with the library on 10th, with her Russian parents making a new life for her, we didn't have brand names then, but of course, my sister always liked the material things. She spoke of how clean the city used to be, how it amazed her that people moved here, what was this, it was all a myth and no place to be. But I'm stuck. I moved back and I can't ever leave, that's how it is. It took an hour before she explained she had bed bugs. She spoke of her friend who lives at the Chelsea Hotel, of her fondness for Dickens, of when Scribner had a store on 5th avenue and you would wear your one coat for years. Equal parts old complaints and New York fire.

If I can tell you just one thing, she said, it is to travel. Don't get married too soon, don't have kids. I'm not sure I'd have them at all now, given the chance. Travel, see the world, enjoy your own life. There'll be time for the rest later. New York is good for the time in between. When you are not too young, not too old. It's amazing.

Where I'd Happily Drown

The way the sun rises over water tanks, brick buildings, graffitied walls.
The way traffic flows on the sidewalk and you never get stuck.
The way the population on the subway excludes no one, there is every color, there is every style.
The way dreams are made, and used, and broken but never run out.
The way walking a million street corners still leaves a million more to discover.
The way subway tremors and delivery clatter are weaved into even silence.
The way buildings expand while neighborhoods shrink.
The way everything changes, and everything feels the same.

The way I stood on the subway platform, and felt like I belonged, like I knew who I was and was her unshakeably.

I talk a big talk about feeling like myself in New York, but it turns out it's true. I don't make excuses for myself here.
This is my home.