Swim

As I was scrolling through my phone the other day, passing words of a Gothamist article caught my eye -  “ - dismantling of the 24th street sky-bridge - ” Wait, what? No, I thought with some sight panic fluttering in my chest. It can’t be. The Art Deco piece of architecture was one that dazzled and filled me with wonder from the first instant I had laid eyes on it. And, having become part of my daily commute, every time since. It had also become a sort of “the one that got away” if you will, in the photographer corner of my life: I could never quite capture its magic on film, not the way it evoked it within you when you gazed upon it in real life. And now, it was apparently being strategically dismantled and removed from the Manhattan skyline for good, to make way for a new office building.

This wasn’t even a new story, or a worse-than-usual one. New buildings replace the old all the time, with reports of the latest casualty littering city newspapers as if it were no more than the weather. In fact, it’s been the very reason I give when I tell people why I love this city, my city: like me, like any living breathing human, this city evolves, it shifts, it morphs. Streets will never be the same twice. Favorite bars will close and become a distant memory that tugs at the heart. The skyline oscillates like a restless sea; and you? You can fight it, or learn to swim with it. But it’ll keep going, whether you’re along for the ride or not. And there’s a magic in that, too.

Why then, was the news of this sky-bridge hitting me so hard? Perhaps because most things are hitting me harder than usual this year. Loss is a difficult emotion to grapple with even in the best of times, but 2020 has been a special level of ass-kickingly brutal. So, on my walk to the train tonight after work, I decided to walk past the 24^th street sky-bridge, see if it was true. Maybe I’d mixed it up with another sky-bridge, I thought desperately. Maybe the article got it wrong. I had just seen the thing, just last week...how....

I headed up 24^th, towards Park Avenue. It was cold, dark; though it was barely the end of November, the brisk air was framed with the quiet only found in the depths of a city winter. I was half a block away now, and my heart leapt. Yes - even in the blur of the shadows, I could see it. It was still there. But as I drew closer, squinted up past the glare of the blinding construction lights that lined the street beneath it, it was...a skeleton. A desolate ruin suspended by rusted threads. The Art Deco plating was entirely gone. All that remained was its hard, tired metal underbelly that was closer in aesthetic to the Gates of Mordor than a gateway through heaven.

My heart felt heavy as I crossed Park Avenue. “Really though,” I thought with annoyance, noting the street had been unnecessarily torn up to be repaved; Park Avenue wasn’t exactly ridden with potholes. The crosswalk timer was ticking down, and my feet were making their ginger way across the jagged concrete. I was torn between keeping an eye out so I didn’t trip, and glances up above at heartbreak in the sky. I saw that clock dwindling down to 4, 3, yet I slowed my pace, wanting to take my time, to exhale. To live in a leisurely moment looking upwards at something miraculous, that was all but erased. But the clock was out, and the headlights of the cars champing at the bit were bathing my legs. Begrudgingly, I stepped onto the curb, pausing for half a second.

Despite it being thirty minutes into curfew, there were still a handful of others like me, in black coats, rushing to get to wherever New Yorkers rush to get to. That strange winter quiet was gone for the moment, with muffled sounds of rushing cars and rushing people swirling around me. I wanted to stop. I should’ve stopped. Even there, in that briefest of pauses that felt like time itself had halted just for me, I was filled with regret. I wanted to look up, and take up the whole crosswalk to do it, cars and cabs and passerby be damned. But this pause was getting messy, loud, dizzy. And I had to get home. With a sigh, I gave that bare, drab looking thing in the sky one last glance before tucking my head down and making the left to walk up 23rd.

In the long avenue blocks I had left to walk to get to the F train, I became a sea myself, of thoughts and emotions and questions. Was this just me, going through what everyone goes through as they age – wanting to cling to something from their time, from their life, no matter how outdated it might be? Was this me, refusing to accept the inevitable cycle of this city, hell - of life, one I’ve always so adamantly defended and even applauded? Was this me, mourning a year that had already taken so much away from all of us – why this, too? Was this me, being privileged as fuck, that this is the thing I’m mourning?

I didn’t know. I still don’t know. But I know I hate that I’m going to take that walk to work, that I’m going to bike up that street, and never see that sky-bridge again. Maybe not everything should be born only to fade into a memory, lost when the pages of time have dissolved its faded photos and the hearts that held it dear are gone. But... isn’t that what we're all destined for?

I got to the train station. I saw on the train arrival clock that I had a 13-minute wait until the next one. 26 for the one after that. Which meant-

I clattered down the steps. Yes, the train’s here, oh my god, can I catch it in time- I hurried through the turnstile, saw the doors closing, the conductor held it for the guy in front me – closing again – I ran –

The doors opened one more time, and I dashed on, waving a quick hand of gratitude to the conductor. God, nothing clears the head like trying to catch a train, I mused. And then I smiled, almost drunkenly, woozy from the the spectrum of emotions I'd lived from that walk, to the sky-bridge, to the steps, to the rushing through closing doors, to sitting down here, now. This city really is like a tumultuous sea. It gives and it takes, it pushes and it pulls. It lifts and it sinks. And it's brutal and unforgiving in all of it. But that, in essence, is life itself. It's up and downs, it's loves and loss. And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.

Exit Poll

     So, in what feels like a thousand years after 2016, the 2020 election finally happened. As of this morning, it’s drawing to a close, and looking like a Biden win. And yet…I’ve been feeling steadily worse since Tuesday, almost more than I ever did in all four years of the Trump presidency. 

    Not, mind you, for the same reason as a lot of my friends, customers, and family, who all seem shell-shocked and dismayed. “How can they be so stupid?”, they’ve been asking me, in regards to the people who voted for Trump a second time. I bite my tongue and I don’t say what I think, which is – it has nothing to do with stupidity. And if you’re genuinely taken aback by the closeness of these results, then you haven’t been paying attention. 

    So many of us became politically-engaged for the first time in 2016 - myself included. I don’t know what it was that drew me in exactly (probably a number of things), and I don’t know if it matters (for this article, anyway). Suffice to say, I became a woman obsessed, ingesting independent news and cable news and podcasts and documentaries and docu-series. Morning coffee and bike ride commutes became consumed by all of it. I was in my leftist little world, and every day it seemed like Trump stooped to new lows, while people who supported him reached new levels of rabid. And I was continually disgusted, shocked, and appalled by all of it. 

    But then, two years later, something happened. I started to talk, really talk, to right-wing conservatives. People who were self-proclaimed red-pillers, if you will. I dropped my clinging attachment and tentatively peered beyond the walls of my leftist echo chamber (difficult a thing as it was at first). Not to say I started thinking like a right-winger, but I stopped needing to...talk. I stopped needing to argue. I stopped regurgitating rhetoric. I had my world shaken by differing perspectives, and in turn, experienced the most important development yet: being curious above all else. 

    It may have been a natural progression for me; I’ve always found people fascinating. Ever since I was in grade school, I had an inexplicable love for reading autobiographies of legends and icons. Who were they, really? How did they get there? What stars had to align? How many failures did they have? How much drama packed their lives, and how did that shape them, as well as their path? And that inclination began to cross over, into my real life, with people I would talk to, whom all viewed the world so differently than I. It wasn’t about them being wrong, or me being right. It was about understanding them, as people. How did they get to have the views they have? What was their upbringing like? What sort of psychological trauma or life-changing events did they go through? And I started to find that, almost 100% of the time, there was deeper shit underlining the political stances they take. Some of it’s ugly, some of it’s understandable, some of it’s even relatable. But it’s the reason I’m so markedly unsurprised about the results of this election. Because that deeper shit, for so many people, is precisely the thing that makes them susceptible to why this election turned out the way it did. I’m talking about, of course, the misinformation network.

    As I listened to the news coverage do its usual charade over election results trickling in, I found myself getting pretty pissed. All this wide-eyed bafflement about the polls...seriously? Are we just...not going to talk about it? Because for me, the clear culprit behind this whole shit-stain of a situation was absolutely misinformation. QAnon, news radio, conspiracy sites like, oh, TheGateWayPundit; you name it. I’m telling you, it’s not some boogeyman, and it’s not something to laugh about or shrug off. It’s a symptom of a much more pervasive problem, one that makes me think we might be past the point of return - especially if we don’t do anything to address it. 

    And no, I don’t mean the new and completely wrong approach social media platforms are taking. Banning people or groups? Okay, pause and think about it the way I do, and ask the “why”. People aren't just drawn to these fringe sites and extremist “pundits” and groups like QAnon because they’re dumb or racist or whatever (okay, maybe some of them). It’s because they are riddled with a massive, massive distrust. Yes, much of that distrust is learned from the very misinformation network I’m talking about, but beyond that - can you blame them? Look at our government. What have they done, really done, on a broad scale, to actually pass policy that changes all of our lives for the better? When have you ever heard someone talk about how competent and efficient government is? Why should we have faith in them, when it’s clear that the system is all about rich, the media, and the politicians, all working together to benefit only themselves (profits, ratings, and reelection, respectively). I mean, come on. If you really think people who look towards the fringe ends of the spectrum for their news are going to "see the light" because media platforms are exercising control, then you may be as delusional as they are. 

    To me, that’s the only real answer to the problem that will only get worse as time goes on: effective change, bold policy, and politicians who are able to lay their goddamn ego to the side. So, good luck to Joe Biden and his administration, because if they’re unable to get the wheels of government really moving, if they decide to take the usual establishment, pandering, meandering path, if they aren’t held to account, and if we don’t hold them there: say goodbye to 50% of this country for good, and be prepared for a future full of Trumps.

The Slippery Slant

This morning, I turned off my usual Amanpour&Co and Yang Speaks, to go check out a site called “Citizen Free Press”. I had never heard of it before yesterday, but a conservative guy I’m good friends with sent me the link. “Spend 15 minutes perusing,” he said. Like it was some 50% off sale, or something (oh, who am I kidding; I’d need wayyy more than 15 minutes for that.)

I wholeheartedly clicked on the site link, with a fully-open mind. I hadn’t researched what CFP was beforehand, to see what it was about. Actually, that thought never even crossed my mind. My friend had seemed super amped about it, declaring it the place where citizens submit the stories, stories “news networks don’t report on”. (That notion wasn’t really that surprising to me; let’s be real, most news is the same five clips over and over, the way late night television is the same five jokes over and over.) So, I was curious to see what a site like that might hold, being seemingly so desperate to get the full scope of what’s going in our country into the hands of the people. (And, in a foolish, almost naïve way, I read “Citizen Free Press!” and thought – ooh. A press that’s not biased by the media or profit-driven board members! I’m here for it!)

No.

No.

Not even a little bit.

I can’t fully explain the feeling I got, reading some of the links posted there, and even more so, the comment sections below those articles and videos. “Nausea” is probably the closest word to encapsulate how I felt. The hatred there literally took me aback. This wasn’t some source for all citizens, this was a source for, and by, extremely right-wing ideologists, a place where hatred towards the left, democrats, and liberalism reigns supreme.

But politics aside, all I could think of in the several minutes I managed to spend on that site, desperately hoping to find rationale, reason, or any semblance of curiosity or intellectual thought, was: why? Why are so many of us so drawn to politics? And what is it about politics that brings out the ugliest parts in us?

2016 was a political awakening, for many people. I know I’m not alone in being one of the millions who nose-dived into politics after election night. I had watched the results come in at my parent’s house, and I distinctly remember turning to my mom at one point and saying with a nervous laugh, “What the fuck is going on?” I felt…unsettled, baffled, and even – though I couldn’t say why – afraid? Like I knew some real uncertain shit was coming.

The natural response for me, almost immediately, was a daily routine that included news-watching in the morning, pod-cast listening on my bike commute and at the gym, political subreddit scrolling, facebook-posting, and of course, watching every single hearing the Trump administration went through. Which, if you know, altogether probably adds up to a full fucking year. I mean, lord, the time spent…but it didn’t feel like time lost. There was a comfort, in seeing online strangers who felt the same way I did. There was a thrill, in the emotions that were palpable through the typed words I would read. I couldn’t look away, I couldn't tune out. I was fully invested in every news story, every moment, every latest scandal…but why? What was the allure, and what did I gain – outside of a daily emotional upheaval and general sense of helplessness?

After a while, particularly given the job I have and the vastly different views many of my customers express, I stopped being outraged. I stopped watching hours of news in the morning, and I started listening. I became more curious. It wasn’t about right and wrong anymore, or even right and left, it was about understanding people, and understanding the cores of issues. I'd ask things like: Why do you feel the way you do? What happened in your life to shape the views you have? You’re mad about (x), but what’s the answer? You’re spitting rhetoric, but what’s the actual root of the issue, and what’s the action needed to fix it? You hate policy (x), but what’s the better policy then, and why? And – inevitably - what’s the source on that? (lol…but really, though.)

The point I’m trying to make here, is that politics, from what I can gather, seems to fill something in us that we need filled. It could be a sense of belonging to something, whether to a group of like-minded thinkers that provide you with confirmation-bias, or being a part of that oh-so-colorful online community that posts hate-comments all day long. It could be having a susceptibility to feelings of anger and fear. It could be a fascination with history, with how our country was formed, and the brilliance of the ideas our nation was built on. It could be frustration that there are problems in your community that seem to forever fall on deaf ears, and a passion to have yourself heard. It could be disgust over classism and corruption. It could be a constant need to discuss the finer points of policy and ideas (lol...but really, though.)

For me, politics provided something endlessly captivating, that steadily held my usual fleeting, ADD-level of interest. It was human, it was theater. It a stream of personality, and it was debate. It was learning about systems I knew so little about, and diving into a world I had never explored or even been remotely curious to. It was rooting for humanity, feeling despair when wealth and title won out, and realizing how out of touch and broken so many aspects of our government and people in charge truly are. All of that indeed gives me something – something to think about, something to talk about, and even more so, something that challenges me. But I think, more than that, and deeper than that? It gave me something to feel. That might be purely personal, but I think there are many of us, like me, who haven't felt in a long, long time. To feel a semblance of something beyond myself, greater than myself, and yet that I was somehow still a part of, was intoxicating and addicting.

When I look at sites like CFP, however, and I wonder the same questions, the answers are far less encouraging. The only thing I can see viewers standing to gain from sites like that is further distrust towards the left, and any institution, really. A greater tendency to believe conspiracy theories. More anger. More fear. And more partisanship. Those are feelings, and as someone who craved something similar, I can appreciate that, and understand the need for it. But what do those feelings give a person? A “WAKE UP, SHEEPLE” mentality? An unending rage to want to bring the system down, specifically, the left side of it? Toxic emotions that rule their life and up their stress-levels? Those sites don’t give answers, they give hate, and they give a serious distaste for anyone on “the other side”, and any healthy curiosity at all. I mean, seriously: how does any of that benefit someone? And how does any of that solve the problems we as a country, face?

What my political mantra has become, regardless of the issue, is: okay, so…what do we do about it? What’s the action? None of that involves, or should ever involve, visiting sites like CFP or Facebook or Reddit, or whatever other slanted media source one might gravitate towards. It's too easy to fall into the bathwater of something that satiates a human desire to feel, and it's so much more difficult to instead focus that energy on brainstorming solutions and figuring out how we move forward. I think we're all overdue to climb out of the comfort of our tub, and start thinking in a more productive way. Towel, anyone?

For Your Consideration

All right. Angry, controversial post: here we go.

There aren’t many hills I would die on. That the Harry Potter movies are total trash for example, is one. That patchouli should be registered as a lethal weapon, considering that every time I smell it, I want to die, is another. But really, one of my biggest hills? If you’re that person who blasts their music from speakers, at full volume, in an area where people can’t tune it out or escape it, you’re a fucking piece of shit asshole and I want you to know that.

Look, I get it. On the spectrum of Shit That Actually Matters, this doesn’t. As l scroll through the usual news clips I watch every morning over coffee, I’m thinking to myself, “Girl, why you so mad though.” But, it’s my thing, right? Like that song in Avenue Q – “Everyone’s a little bit racist”? Well, “Everyone’s a little bit Karen”, too. And this is something that drives me to the point where I could literally punch through a wall in frustration.

I can’t explain it. I have no idea why it drives me as crazy as it does. It interrupts my thought processes, which I’m sure we could all say would be a massive loss for humanity, so you can only imagine how I feel about it. But more seriously, it’s an imposition on my space. I shouldn’t have to be forced to listen to your shitty music because you don’t feel like wearing headphones. I shouldn’t have move train cars because you want to play your music as loud as humanly fucking possible. I shouldn’t have to be woken out of sleep, in my bedroom, at 8 a.m. because you feel like that’s the *perfect* time to start raging on your back-porch. We’re all in this together after all, right? So why not make it easier on each other?

In truth, I’m not at this level of anger all the time (unless I’m biking, then I’m at a solid 10.) I’m only writing this at level 11 because I have a new neighbor who is that 8 a.m. back-porch dickwad. I lived in shitty buildings for a long time, okay, filled with noise and music from shitty neighbors at all hours of the day and night. And I hated it. I was miserable. To me, home is a place to escape people and the frenetic energy of a city that often makes me crazy. So I moved to where I live now, to get away from all of that. Into a house. Into a quiet neighborhood.

But apparently, this new neighbor has decided – well, this is my house. Imma do what I want. If that means blasting music for hours, so be it. Because, fuck all these houses and apartments around me. Fuck the fact that maybe people work from home now, or work late nights and need to sleep. Because it’s my music, my back-porch, and I should be allowed to play it as loudly and for as long as I goddamn want – right?

So as I stewed over this morning in a rage, having been forced to get out of bed far earlier than I had planned, I was reminded of an interesting question my father posed the other week, when I was over at my parent’s house: "What’s the social contract?"

We’d been talking about the Actual Important Shit – not shitty neighbors, but Covid, BLM and the protests, climate change, the state of the economy, all of the things. And every issue’s core could go back to that question of the social contract: what do we owe ourselves, and what do we owe our fellow citizens, in order to have a society that functions not only to its fullest potential, but one that’s better for everyone?

It was an interesting way to phrase it. Normally, when someone does the inevitable inconsiderate thing, my head just becomes a jumble of fury. But to think of it in that wording, really gave me pause and wonder – huh. What the heck is the social contract in this country?

For example: yeah, drivers are idiots who don’t seem to understand what a blinker is, what a red light signifies, or what the “right of way” means. But in the context of a social contract – is any of that in there? Do we, as a country, think that using a blinker, or stopping at a red light, is optional, because it’s an inconvenience for us? Or, is it something that exists to effectively communicate with other drivers and pedestrians, not to mention making the road safer and less stressful for everyone? I think we all know what my answer is. And, I think we all know that I’m giving a heavy af eye-roll to what I think the average driver’s answer is. Because in my social contract? It’s sooooooo easy to not be an asshole, and to be a considerate human being. But other people’s social contract? *cue me punching a wall*

The point being, to the question of “What’s the social contract?” My answer is: quite simply, we don’t have one in this country.

Is it the root of all our problems? No, not necessarily. But why don't we have one - these days, anyway? Well, there's context that I think helps explain it. For one thing, people in this country don't feel like they owe anyone anything because, well, no one's ever done anything for them. We also live in a time where most of us effectively feel powerless, and on a variety of levels. Whether it be a hustle that never seems to get us anywhere, economic insecurity, or the toxicity of social media that makes us feel small and alone, this downward spiral of people becoming more inwardly focused and more awful is a reaction, not an action. They’re doing what they feel they need to do – consciously or subconsciously - to not only feel a sense of power, but also, to feel seen. And I understand that, in a big city especially. Where my bedroom is – ideally – my escape, my quiet happy place, other people’s version of that might be their back-porch, where they can blast music and dance away and feel like the world is theirs and theirs alone.

But, it's not. It's not their world, and it's not mine. It's ours. And to perfectly honest, I'm tired. I'm tired of trying to understand and explain away the inconsiderate behaviors of others. I'm tired of making an effort, while no one else seems to. I think it's time for a social contract, and it doesn't even have be a long, complicated one. Something as basic as this: you should be able to do whatever it is you want to do, as long as it doesn’t impose on others. Pretty simple, right? But truth is, I'm pretty sure even that's too much to ask for.

I know people will read this and tell me to meditate, move out of the city, get medicated, you know. And sure, maybe. Maybe all of this is on me, and I'm crazy, and none of these things bother anyone else but me. But what a telling thing it is, that someone who is simply asking for people to be more considerate of others, is the one people will say is the person who needs to change.

Not Another Engagement Story

A lot of people have asked to hear “the engagement story”. I guess that’s the normal reaction, right - the obligatory “oh my god!”s, “so how’d he doooo it” and “where did it happen”s. You know, the questions where everyone's voices seem to go up about an octave as they kinda squeal? All waiting with bated breath for me to verbally map out every last centimeter of a moment that’s supposed to be so pivotal, and one every girl recounts and remembers in golden tones, forever.

But I told the story the only way I know how: honestly.

We had talked about it, you know, getting married. I had brought it up several months prior. I said - fuck it. Let’s just do it. We knew we wanted to be together. And I wanted my grandma to be there while she’s still around, and he wanted the same for his grandmothers. So, why not? Not a big ceremony or anything like that, given that I never really wanted to get married in the first place. Just a wild, awesome party. His best friend would officiate as we stand next to the bar. Maybe we even take shots during the vows, or make the vows a drinking game; who knows? Who cares? As long as everyone has a great time, right?

But back then, it was all still an innocent idea. A conversation of a possibility. And for some reason, when I got home from work that fateful night when he proposed, all of that changed. In the blink of an eye, it went from an exciting imagining to something very, very real. I nearly threw up, almost had a panic attack, went white as a sheet and fell totally mute as my boyfriend nervously waited for my answer.

I was finding it impossible to say yes. Why? This was the healthiest relationship I’d ever been in. The man on his knee was one who made me be better, who supported and loved me more than any other man ever had. We had our issues, and when I wanted to throw in the towel, he refused to let me leave. He had us work through it, and we came out stronger for it. So the problem wasn’t him. It wasn’t even that I wanted other men, or to stay single. The problem was what had formed invisible hands clutching my lungs so I could barely breathe: that this could be...it.

That “it” had always been the stick in my craw. "It" being the result of me making a choice, turning a perfect something that lived only in my head into a real-life, transitional decision that might be heart-breakingly disappointing. I’ve never been good with finality for myself, and for me, decisions represent exactly that: finality. And in that moment - him proposing - I could see my path fast-forwarding like some terrifying amusement park ride. Narrowing into a single track, while my hand desperately grasps for Straws of Possibility as I whiz past them not only too fast, but forever. How could I say yes to this? How could this really be it?

I only started to admit that maybe I had commitment issues twice before: when I wanted to leave NYC, and later, when I was thinking about leaving the service industry. In my head, the idea of a major change always seems exhilarating at first. But then I would think about it. Really, really think about it, until I pushed myself right off the cliff of overthinking and changed my mind. Excuses and rationales would branch out on the conspiracy theory board of my brain, with lines of red string and math equations. And inevitably (meaning in like 3 hours), I’d have officially talked myself out of whatever it was that I'd been so hyped up about. Seriously, the only decision that I had no hesitation in making, and that I couldn’t imagine ever having chosen otherwise, was getting my boobs done. And good god, what the hell does that say about me?

So yeah, one might slowly nod in agreement that my reaction of feeling sick, eking out a “yes”, and then weeping for a half hour the next morning could literally be the only way an engagement of mine could have gone.

I’ve started to warm up to the concept since, especially after talking to my fiancée as I blew my nose through a box of tissues. He was so understanding, and listened to what I was saying despite how painful some of it must have been for him to hear.

What it came down to for me was this: who do I want to be, and what kind of life do I want?

Do I want to be that girl I was for years, (the girl a part of me admittedly still craves to be)? Working constantly but otherwise keeping to myself, with the occasional magical night of whirlwind fantasies come to life? Who writes about those sporadic encounters, who's always learning about herself and people but never really getting anywhere? Who’s impulsive and destructive and has bad habits and craves toxic men? Who lets her fears keep her in that safe place of never having to decide? Where - of course - everything in her dreamy world will always be magical... because it never has to be real?

Or, do I want to let myself be strong enough to turn the page on that chapter, to admit staying that girl will only suit to keep me stagnant? To understand that choosing a path doesn’t mean it’s all over, or this is good-bye to that girl forever. This path can include all of me, even the free-spirited wild child, but combined with acceptance that I have to make choices and pick directions, be proactive and commit to things - romantic, or otherwise - if I ever do want to get anywhere. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong, but to at least have the courage to decide. Because otherwise I’ll be bobbing along in that pleasant haze forever, and die exactly where I started.

It’s tough, especially as a writer. I'm someone who is constantly in my head. My imagination and inner voice rule me more powerfully, and in more areas of my life, than I'd care to admit. So I don't always mind that bobbing along, you know? But I also don't want to stay in the same place forever. I wish I could say I did some mediation and came out on the other side with all the zen and answers one could want. But I didn’t. I still have no idea if engagement and marriage are right for me - all I know is the person I said yes to, is. And for someone who never really imagined being proposed to, that's really all I could ever hope for.

To Protest is Human, To Understand Divine

When I initially starting writing about the protest I attended in NYC yesterday, it was more-or-less a recounting of what I had seen, heard, and felt. My plan was to shape that sensory experience around the noted absence of a leader - you know, that elusive political jesus we always seem to hope will emerge. And how maybe, after experiencing what I did, it’s okay if one doesn’t. Because truth is, one might not. And if we keep waiting in our little bubbles of indifference and inaction, hoping for this hypothetical messiah to save us all, the ground we stand on is going to sink while walls and strongmen continue to rise up all around us. The only leader we have right now is our own proactivity: our protests, our taking to the streets to be sure we are heard, is the voice that is needed for this moment.

I was happy with that as an idea. Sure, maybe I was mourning a bit in my execution of it, slightly miffed that I didn’t sound more like Hunter S. Thompson. But then, I was sober, after all.

Today, though… today, something else happened, something that made me scrap that whole draft (not that it will be greatly missed, but still.) Today, I had posted a series of photos of the very protest I had attended, captioned by sarcasm: “Heard criminals and thugs were causing trouble and instilling terror…found only empathy and cries for justice. Huh. Imagine that.” Some people messaged me, irritated that my choice of words were misleading at best, cable news anchor level bullshit at worst. That things had been violent, that criminals and thugs had taken to vandalism, looting, and general assholery. Which is true; while the protest I was at was nothing but peaceful and amazing, I had seen the broken glass of shattered storefronts walking home afterwards.

Still, I stood my ground, noting that most of those people were opportunists. Not to mention others who had posed as Antifa as either cover to do shitty things, to sway the narrative of what antifa even is, as well as doing what they could to incite riots in the first place. I was scolded for saying such things, that I was eating up propaganda and taking Vice articles as fact. (Which, okay, quick side-note: I think I was most mad at that assumption than anything else. Vice, though? Really?)

But that being said, as the conversation progressed, I grew more frustrated as I was sent one link after another. Sure, you could look at CNN’s coverage of the protests and see its reporting and choice of words as defense of the looting, which is absurd and hypocritical to condone. You could look at MSM coverage, and be outraged at how all of a sudden, CoVid doesn’t seem to matter anymore. You could look at the New York Post, see video of the vandalism from just last night, and be pissed off that no one seems to mind, how it’s all being excused away. Like anything in our current world, you could look at anything, and see total slant, total lack of nuance, and total hypocrisy.

I didn’t write the caption I did to mislead, but to simply point out that not all of these protests are turning violent, and not all protesters are out there to be violent. For the most part – in the same way that for the most part, our country isn’t majority extremists – these protests consist of people who are fed up, disgusted, and pleading for accountability and change. Their ask isn’t anything crazy, either: they want to be seen as human. To eliminate certain police practices and reteach others, and to hold law enforcement to the same standard any of them would be held to. And of course, due justice for those taken both in the recent weeks, and in the dozens of years before.

It’s been a while since we’ve been here. For decades, most of us have been numb and complacent, uninformed and apathetic. Things got comfortable, distractions happened, cynicism and distrust in leadership grew strong. So maybe, some of us just don’t remember. Maybe history we were taught left out a few things, or seemed less offensive in sepia tones. But when movements happen, it doesn’t always go seamlessly. It won’t always be organized. There will be a select few who take it too far and wind up hurting and damaging people, property, and the cause itself. It will seem like end of times and that our country is falling apart. But we’ve been here before. We’ve survived, and come out of it for the better. And at the of the day, that’s all those who are marching want: to change things for the better.

The Broader Question

Some years back, a friend and I were at a bar. I had asked her the kind of question you don’t normally ask at a bar - not before you’ve finished your first drink, anyway: “Where do you wanna be 5 years from now?”

To be fair, it hadn’t come out of nowhere; she was in the midst of potential career change and, well, it was making her ponder shit. She loved her current job, but she had received an offer from somewhere new, for almost double the salary. So of course, she expected little more than to hand in her resignation and throw deuces (I mean…). But to her surprise, and a little dismay, her current boss had made a comparable counteroffer. Either way, she would wind up making way more money than she was. But which job to take?

So I said, what it would come down to is: where did she want to be 5 years from now? And which job would help to best get her there?

It’s an age-old question, ya know…what’s it all about? Why are we here? But in the years leading up to our CoVid moment, there didn’t seem to be much of those sorts of discussions anymore. Instead, things seemed to be reaching a burnout point. There was just…too much of everything, and it was all a clog on the brain and the senses. Too much excess, too much anger, too much instability, too much FaceTune. And worse, it was an environment to which, and in which, we’d all become numbly complacent. There was no time to protest or make stands or ask the real questions, but there was all the time in the world for things like 2+ hour commutes, 60-hour work weeks, 2 or 3 jobs. Seeking promotion after promotion. Buying shit and more shit.

For what? And why?

And in a way, things did crash: this virus grinded things to a halt in a way that I am convinced needed to happen, and in a way that I don't know we would have been able to do on our own. But the conversations I kept hearing, reading, being dragged into, are those which say "I want things to get back to normal.” Let’s just get back to work. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why are we risking the economy over this? How soon can we re-open? On and on. And while I understand – people need their job to make a living and survive, and we certainly can’t have our economy collapse (check out Pramila Jayapal’s proposal on ensuring that doesn’t happen, btw) – I see that whole viewpoint, and the debate it ensues, as a real loss.

For we’ve been given something that I don’t think any of us have ever had, and might never get again: months of time, and perhaps months more.

My hope at the beginning of it was that this would be a “pause” from the constant noise and grind of what our country has molded our lives to be, and become an opportunity for us to step back from it. For many of us, it could be a time to figure out what we value, and what we really want our lives to be. Not just as individuals, but as a society as well. Maybe we should question the necessity of commutes and office space. Maybe we should question our level of consumption. Maybe, once all the netflix and amazon has been watched, we should wonder we really enjoy doing with our time. Maybe we should wonder, what matters to me? Is it working to the point of stress and exhaustion, even for a fat paycheck, or is there something more?

Of course, most of the friends I told this to reacted with cynicism. "It’s all gonna go right back, right to how it was," they said, "Nothing’s gonna change. You have too much hope for people; they aren’t gonna be doing that sort of soul-searching.” And maybe they’re right. I’m sure plenty of people will be putting their focus on arguing over masks and if Fauci is lying and demanding to be allowed to go back to work so they can go right back into the routine they were in and WHO is corrupt trash and trolling in internet arguments and falling victim to the latest divisive thing.

But maybe…maybe not.

I’m not a huge believer in things like fate, but certain stars have seemed to align of late. Oftentimes, it takes terrible circumstances to push us to finally act against things that seemed for so long impossible to topple. Because right now, we’ve got this perfect storm: 40 million people out of work. We’re home, a captive audience to everything that unfolds before us every day. There’s nothing to keep us from it, other than actively tuning out; given that there’s a health crisis and people want to stay informed, I don’t know many who aren’t watching, reading, or listening. Only this time, instead of just being pissed off or shocked or disgusted, we have the addition of pent-up energy. Only this time, the routine that normally would wear us out or keep us preoccupied, is gone.

Watching the protests yesterday gave me hope. For so long, these sorts of protests haven't happened to such a degree because people just couldn't take off work, even for a day. But now they've got nothing to lose. And maybe it had to happen this way. Maybe these protests wouldn't have happened if we weren't all waiting for lockdown to be over. Maybe the outrage wouldn't have been as intense as it should be, had we all been in caught up our normal routines. But seeing what these protesters are fighting for - something bigger, something to hopefully change the way things have been for too long - should make us all reevaluate what's really important and what really matters. I truly hope these protests open a door that otherwise wouldn’t have been opened. And make us all understand that CoVid will be over eventually, and we have the ability to shift what's waiting for us when we get there.

To Measure The Value of a Thank-You Note

I don’t really know where to begin with this one.

No, seriously; I really don’t. For some reason, when I write in this style – first-person, memoir-esque – it just comes out in funny / self-deprecating / perhaps thoughtful. But when it comes to the sad, the painful…that voice just seems to show itself out. Maybe because the worst things I’ve felt in the course of my life – namely, whatever I couldn’t really turn into something funny - were the very things I kept to myself. But the irony is, when I talk now to friends and I tell them about “this shit thing” or “that shit thing”, they always say: gurl, you need to be writing about that.

So tonight, with the vestiges of tears still clinging to my eyes and cheeks, I’m going to try.

Oh – and I’m also playing Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr, ovbz) to, ya know – keep me in the mood.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did. It had all started off fun; hilarious, even. My parents had dropped off a bunch of old board games at my house earlier, and unbeknownst to me, they had also thrown in a large envelope filled with papers. I chuckled to myself, thinking, classic Mom. Always trying to sneak in things like that - drawings we had done as kids, old tests or notebooks from school. She likely just wants them out of the house, sure, but – also, she feels in her heart we (my siblings and I) would want them. Or at least, appreciate them.

So, I open the envelope and begin to curiously empty its contents, wondering what it’ll be this time. It starts off slightly confusing – why would Mom be giving me all the thank-you cards that I (ever, by the looks of it) wrote to my grandparents? But before I could puzzle the strangeness of getting back thank-you cards I had written so many years ago, there came some detours – such as, the synagogue program from the weekend of my bat mitzvah. A playbill from the drama show of my junior year, which featured a play written and directed by me (god, that day was one of the most fun in all four years of high school). The startlingly feminist poem I wrote in 8th grade (I apparently had some views at 13), which I read aloud to my boyfriend despite his pleading for me not to. I can’t imagine why he didn’t want to hear it: to give you an idea, one of my favorite parts compared the female gender to the queen in chess – the most powerful piece on the board, and the male gender to the king – slow, oafish, helpless, taking forever to move, and only able to do so one step at a time.

I laughed so loud I scared one of our cats out of the room.

And then, there came more and more thank-you cards. One after another, from the more sophisticated college ones, to high school. The ones from junior high where I was definitely still deciding what I wanted my handwriting to look like, to clumsily hand-drawn filled sheets from when I was 4 or 5. All of them from me, to my grandparents. And then - and I don’t why then, in that moment - it hit me.

My grandparents had kept these. They must have. For all these years.

It was such a powerful thing, and I didn’t even realize. All those years of “just cards” that I wrote or made or drew, even emails from college that my grandpa had printed out to keep, that didn’t mean little to me per se, but…that I certainly couldn’t have imagined had meant so much to my grandparents. Enough, in fact, that at age 91, this is the first time my grandma has chosen to part with them. And while I do always say apartment cleansing is cathartic as fuck – this time, my grandma's came with a slight casualty.

As I sat there sobbing, surrounded by decades of thank-you cards, it wasn’t a sea of memories in the way I normally experience it - though I do distinctly remember writing many of them. It was a wave, of life, of the past, of understanding my grandparents and what they cherished more than I ever had before.

Yet, I still didn’t know why I was so upset. I cried and cried for, oh god, 20 minutes straight? But why? It was a feeling, an overwhelming one, of memories and nostalgia, of yearning and heartbreak, but not that, and so much more than that. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, failing again and again. After talking for some time, which involved many tears over my (recently deceased) grandpa, he said to call my mom, talk to her about this. “If this is about your grandparents, she’ll understand,” he said, “It’ll be good to talk to her about that – you’re both going through the same emotions.” I sullenly stared at him, then the floor. “I wouldn’t even know what to say, I don’t know even know why I’m feeling like this.” Hugging me, he said, “Call her.”

So, I did. And I resorted to what I’ve always resorted to with writing – shameless honesty. Okay so, I don’t know what to say? Then, that is exactly what I say – “Hi mom, I don’t know why I’m so upset, but…”

It turned out to be the best thing I could have done. My mom, as always, was amazing, and knew all the things I needed to hear to feel better - classic Mom. “We were a family who wrote letters,” she said, “And in the world we live in now, of texts and emails…there’s no sentimental value in that. And sentimental value, is a powerful thing. That’s why I wanted you to have those cards.”

Which is true. We were a letter-writing family. As a kid, I had boxes filled with cards written to me, and my mom confessed tonight she may have a near-closet filled with correspondence she’s received. That she’ll never throw them away, for the same reason those letters left me sobbing – the sentimental value in them is immeasurable, and more powerful than I certainly could have ever imagined.

No, I don’t think everyone needs to go out and write letters, or panic over all the ones they may have discarded over the years (whoops). But maybe to simply remember, in the vapid and often lonely world we live in, there’s still room for a box – or two – of reminders of what really matters.

Farewell to Eden

The sign that hangs above the welcome desk is huge and shiny. “Welcome, Eastridge High Alum! Congrats on 20 Years!” 20 years, I muse; 20 fucking years. I receive my name-tag and pin it to my left lapel, then head down the tiled hallway towards the gymnasium. Christ, I think in amazement; it even smells the same.

I pause at the open doors. What the fuck am I doing here though, really, I think. But my heart picks up pace as I stand there, wondering the same thing I’ve wondered the whole journey here: if I’ll see her. If she remembers that secret pact that we made, all those years ago, as vividly as I do.

“You know I’ve always been in love with you, right,” I can hear the echo of her voice. We’re at the Lookout, passing the joint I’d nabbed from my older brother’s stash, staring up at the star-filled sky. I nod, “I know.” “But you’re leaving, and I’m leaving,” she continues. I nod, “This is true.” She sits up, her hair long and tumbling down her back. She looks at me, “I’ll probably never see you again.” I shrug, “Probably.” "Hey!" she grins, hitting me lightly. Then her face grows thoughtful. “Wait. Wait, okay. 20 years,” she says, “20 years. We’ll both go to the reunion-“

“Reunion?” I laugh, “I barely make it to school events as is-“

“Yes. Reunion,” she repeats loudly over me, poking me and laughing, “You’ll have pulled your shit together by then. Anyway, we'll both be there. You’ll look at me from across the floor, and I’ll look at you. And here's the deal: if we walk towards each other, we’ll take each other’s hands, drop everything in our lives, and run away together. Forever.”

I take a puff, exhale. “Why not just do that now?” Sarah frowns, “Because that’s not realistic.” I grin and look over at her, “And this 20-year-long game plan of yours, is?” She nods sagely, “Look, you’re with Dana. I’m with Brian. In two weeks, we all graduate. In college you’ll have more Dana’s, I’ll have more Brians. And then, you know. Life. Besides,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear, taking the spliff from my outreached hand, inhaling, “I like pacts. I like having a secret. I’ll even make it official, here-” She takes off her favorite ring and tucks it into my jean jacket pocket. “See?” she said, “How amazing do you feel now, having a pact with someone that no one else knows about?”

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. I pause, then slip off my silver chain bracelet. “Here,” I say, and she looks at it in surprise. “Come on. Wouldn’t be a pact if I didn’t give you something,” I say. Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her whole face, “Yeah.” She holds it in her palm, then wraps her fingers around it, closing it from sight.

I hop to my feet, stretching my arms in feigned tiredness, and say, “So, I guess that's it then? See you in, what, 20 years, right?” “What! Dumbass!” she exclaims, laughing. She’s pulling me back down- her hair smelled of flowers-

I smile, feeling her ring near my heart, where it’s hung on a chain, tucked away, since that night. And I wonder the same thing I always do every time I feel it, look at it: if she’s worn my bracelet since then, too. If it’ll be around her wrist, when I see her.

I take a deep breath, and walk into the gym.

The dimness of the lights is pleasantly hazy above the packed floor. A DJ plays in the corner. Sounds of chatter and the perfume of booze gently swirl in the air. I stroll around the outskirts, sipping my drink, when someone taps my shoulder.

“Holy shit - Josh?”

I turn. I’m met with a beaming, dimpled smile and shock of curls. Before I know it, she’s pulling me in, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I knew it was you, I fucking knew it,” her muffled voice says into my chest. “Hi, Marisa,” I say, chuckling. She breaks away, playfully hits me, “What the fuck! I can’t believe you actually came! Eileen, Mark, get over here!”

Before I know it, I’m being hugged, flanked, tousled - “Only took 20 years to get you to come to one of these things, huh Joshie?” - given a shot, then another. My ears fill with stories of marriage and families, careers and retirement dreams. But most of all, memories. Those four years of high school, where the only thing that seemed to matter was our crew’s friendship: me, Marisa, Mark, Eileen, and...Sarah.

"Hey," says Mark to me, "Remember that first day we all got together? Freshman year. Marisa and me are under that tree in the quad, waiting for this one to finally arrive," he claps me on the back for emphasis. I nod; the others smirk. "Then before you know it, this girl walks by. This beautiful girl. She must be new, we think; we don't recognize her. Marisa here, not one to ever hold back, calls out to her. We start talking. 'Sarah', she says her name is. Then Josh shows up, and that's when we knew: she was in. Anyone who can hold Josh's focus for more than 30 seconds, is in." Everyone is laughing in agreement. The reminiscing continues, an endless brook of happy babbling.

Sarah. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m assuming she’s off talking to people, like always. I keep looking around, my heart doing little leaps each time. Waiting for that moment when our eyes meet and we walk towards each other. How she’d grin wickedly at me in that moment, and we’d run out of here, away from the past 20 years of a foggy fever dream and into to a woken Eden.

“Course right after graduation, Josh here disappears,” Mark’s regaling. He shakes his head at me, “It was like you got on the plane straight from the ceremony. Where’d you even run off to, man? I heard so many rumors. South America, Asia, fucking Russia. Seducing socialites in between hedge funding and espionage.” He’s laughing, Marisa is protesting. Eileen pipes up, “Well, let’s be real. Of our whole graduating class, ‘Most Likely to Become an International Man of Mystery’ could only belong to Josh Evans.” I chuckle, but say only, “I traveled a bit, yeah.” Everyone grins. I clear my throat, saying, “Speaking of mystery, where’s uh, where’s Sarah at?”

The smiles fade. An odd hush falls over them. I search their faces, but eyes are averted, heads bowed. “What?” I say, my heart sinking a bit, “She couldn’t make it?” There’s a long pause. The music in the background seems to fill the void. Eileen answers, and her voice is low, gravelly. “She - she’s gone, Josh.” I take a step back, shake my head, “What?” “Yeah, man,” says Mark, nodding somberly, “Three years ago.” I stare at them all, hoping this is some stupid prank like we all used to play, that Marisa will break like she always did, and Sarah will pop up behind me and shout “BOO!”

But there’s nothing. Only that music, that goddamn music. The room is suddenly spinning. My legs are shaking. My throat feels swollen, maybe from the shards of my shattering heart. “You were off on your...travels, you know,” Marisa’s saying weakly, “No one knew how to reach you. No one’s known, really, not since we graduated. I guess we just assumed you...knew. And grieved in your own way. You were always like that, Josh.” “Right,” I say, “I, uh, I’m gonna go outside for a minu-“ My voice breaks, and in a daze, I stagger to the back exit.

It’s cold outside, or at least I guess it is; there’s snow and bare branches and dark sky, anyway, and my breath comes out in white wisps like winter has consumed my insides, too. But I can’t…feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the tears on my cheeks. I can barely taste whatever this drink in my hand is. But I tilt it back and chug til it’s gone, then toss it aside into one of the piles of snow.

I angrily yank out the chain from under my clothes and take it off. Like a curled snake, it huddles in my palm, with Sarah’s ring at the center. As I stare at it, I can see Sarah from across the swell of parents and graduation gowns. Brian was at her side, they were taking pictures with their families. As she turned to fix her cap, our eyes met. With a grin, she waved to me, then pointed to her wrist, my bracelet twinkling in the sun. Then, she was gone, slipped away in the crowd. That was the last time I ever saw her. And it was all seeming so much like a dream, more than it ever had.

I hop over the side of the steps and tramp through the snow of the quad, coming to a stop at the first tree, the tree where I first ever set eyes on her. She stopped my heart in that moment, with that smile, that halo of hers. “Hi,” she’d said, “I’m Sarah.”

The tree has grown taller since that day, but there’s still some branches that hang low. I look down and let my palm turn over. The chain falls loose, hanging but from a single finger, Sarah’s ring at the end of it making it swing like a pendulum. I toss it up, and it hooks around one of the branches. I look up at it for a long moment, then with a nod of silent good-bye, I turn away and head back towards the steps, where I can see Marisa, Mark, and Eileen waiting for me.

Bloom

“See those, there?” Grandma says to me as she points to the peaches hanging from the branches. Her wrinkled face crinkles as she smiles, “Almost, now.” She tilts back her head, exhales in happiness as she looks up at the bright blue sky, “We got real lucky with the weather this year, hm. Should be a real perfect crop, come Harvest Day.” I nod. I don’t know much about perfect peaches, but the scent of them is strong, dreamy. Bees buzz past our ears, and the spring sun is warm on our skin. Grandma’s blue eyes are twinkling in excitement as she continues to admire the crop; she looks forward to “Harvest Day” all winter long. She pats my cheek in joy, and I can’t help but smile, too.

“Hello, out there!”

We turn. Mom’s on the veranda, waving at us. My smile fades as quickly as it came. “Lauren, you mind helping me with this lemonade?” she calls. I sigh, nod, and jog up the yard back to the house.

The wooden steps creak as I climb them. “What’s up?” I say, somewhat defensively. “Are you going to go see your grandfather?” my mother asks, her sharp tone a stark contrast to her sweet smile. I roll my eyes. Even when she knows Grandma’s too far away to see shit, she still thinks she’s gotta hide that she’s pissed at me. I glare at her, “Yeah, of course I am.” Mom gives me a look, “When?” “Ma-” I start, my voice raising. Her eyes widen angrily in warning. I shake my head, but oblige as I growl out through gritted teeth, “After I’m done helping Grandma.” “She can manage, and if she can’t, I’ll help her,” Mom says, “You, go see your grandfather.” I groan inwardly. She clicks her tongue, “Go on!” “Fine,” I say in annoyance, and push the screen door open. It screeches softly, and bangs shut behind me.

The whole house smells of spring, the curtains at the open windows dancing in the breeze. Our house growing up, too, smelled the same when the warm weather came. It’s an ache of memory, and the jump through time leaves me dizzy as I breathe it in. I look up the staircase, and the spin of memory fades. Reality returns. I start to climb the carpeted wood stairs, slowly, quietly, the railing cool under my palm.

I knock gently on the bedroom door, which is only just ajar, and push it open. “Grandpa?”

I push the door open and pause on the threshold. He’s at the large curtained window on the left, his back to me, motionless in his wheelchair. The whole room feels motionless, with every window closed and his radio turned off.

“Hi, Grandpa,” I say. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even budge. Not that I would even know what to say to him, even if he did. I walk over to him. Still, he doesn’t turn. All right, I think, whatever. I pull over the rocking chair from one of the shadowed corners and sit next to him. His eyes remain steadily outward. They’ve gone blue in recent months, from worsening cataracts and age. But they’re sharp as ever, even with his inability to talk or hear well, to stand or walk on his own. I see them darting, blinking, taking in everything they can possibly take in. And when I look out, I see his view is directly of the peach grove. Through the small opening in the ivory curtains, I can see Grandma is right there, with Mom now, strolling up and down the rows.

Without a word, I get up and push the curtains fully to the side of the large window. I slide it open, and a breeze rushes in, as if it’s been waiting.

Grandpa coughs. I turn, but he stops almost instantly. He’s still gazing out the window. Like I’m not even here. I look around the room, which, too, has remained the same. Framed photos have been added over the years, of graduations and weddings and babies, but the furniture is all exactly as I remember it from when I was a kid. That color scheme of white-gold, faded sea green, dusty rose. All of it with a hint of Asian influence, I realize now, as if for the first time. I can only assume is from the time the two of them spent in Japan. Grandpa first, during the war. Then Grandma and him together, later on. Little touches, but it permeates everything, down to the wood bowls Grandpa himself carved that line some of the decorative shelves. But then, maybe they always liked this style. Maybe before they even met.

“So,” I say, “How are you doing today?” He actually moves, lifting a hand in a disinterested sort of wave, a slight nod of the head. “That’s good,” I say, “Maybe we can get you outside, huh?” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge this. “I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t been to see you and Grandma for awhile,” I say, “Work’s been busy, you know?” My voice lapses into silence upon hearing its own bullshit. Again, I feel that burning frustration. With myself, the not knowing what to say, or do. This man right here next to me is the man who raised my own mom, the man I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet, he feels like a stranger.

Grandpa shifts in his wheelchair. Tries to sit up straighter. I make as though to help him, but he holds up a hand that says no. So I watch him as he finishes readjusting. Then, he speaks. I frown. His speech drawling and slow, his jaw barely able to shape vowel sounds, let alone words. “Sorry, Grandpa, what did you say?” I ask, almost hating myself for having to. My older sister, our younger brother, Mom, they all seem to understand him. I alone seem to be unable to, like some unseen force deems me unworthy. Grandpa seems to sigh with impatience, then tries again. Louder, though his voice struggles past a rasp. This time, thankfully, I manage to grasp it. “Ah,” I repeat, “’The peaches are almost ready’. Yes, yes, they are.” Grandpa sinks into his chair in relief, nodding at my words, dabbing the drool at his lips with his handkerchief. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and a pang of self-hatred stings me again. Because I know part of me would be relieved if he did. We could go out there, and the crutch of others would alleviate all of this…this feeling that’s crushing me.

To my disappointment, Grandpa shakes his head no. I nod slowly, then sit back in my rocking chair once more, settling in for the long haul. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, the wood cool and smooth on my skin. I see his hand reach out then, shaky and covered in spots. Its skin is nearly to the bone, so thin he’s become, and his veins protrude like a map of swelling rivers. In silence, I watch his hand reach further still, until it lands on top of mine. I’m shocked at the contact. He’s patting my hand now, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to do so. But when I look up at his face, he’s smiling, as if it’s bringing him all the joy in the world.