In thirty days or so, Iāll leave France and itās all Iāve been able to think about this weekend. This is my routine for the next month: Iāll unpeel an onion and tinker with the hot plates. Iāll cook another box of pasta and heat the sauce on a silver pan. Iāll listen to new music by an old artist. My mind steps back to two years ago. I find myself living in a new language in an old body. I wonder: Am I still the same scared girl who stepped off that Paris-bound airplane? I was shaking and splintering with fear when I met the soft-faced woman who would open her home to me that year. She doesnāt know that I collapsed on the bed on the floor as soon as she shut the door.
It follows that my skin was flushed to my boyfriendās first touch. I am glad that I found him, that the next plane I boarded was bound for his childhood world, that I now get to inhabit that space, and that they are now my family, too. I think that I am lucky that a lot of my dreams habitually come true. I think I need to learn another new language, another scribbled set of codes, another ring of keys.
I donāt know how, but all of that misplaced shivering stopped this winter. I do a lot less fainting. I stay inside and it makes me happy, in the quietest way that I have ever known to be possible.
I think I used to think too much, but maybe I donāt do it enough, now.
Thinking backward makes it harder for me to go forward. Itās easier to say āI forgetā than to delve into all of the sharp, shimmering ways that I remember. Dreams and songs bring it all back, in lightning bolts, at such frightening speed. When I remember, itās in multicolor. When I remember, I could cry. It happens at the drop of a hat, or a stone. Remember the stone? Natashaās long fingers dropped it into my flat hand, the hems of our dresses skimming the blades above our green home. I had it around my neck as I looked down at the new continent. I thought it looked perfect. And now Iāve lost it, or left it in my bedroom.
My mom replaced my mattress, the one that carried me through my teenage years. Thinking backward again: Itās the one that propped up my shoulders as I flicked some ash out of the window, daring someone to care. Itās the one that I soaked with tears, over boys, tests, and my physical self. It had so many uses: hideout, cradle, camouflage. It had so many stains, so much cat fur, so much DNA. One big imprint of my changing body. I wonder if it wouldnāt be so bad if it just got all torn up, someplace far away.
Meanwhile, I feel like a human punching bag over here. So far away from my best friend and my family. They tell me my brother is sad like I used to be. (Theyāre great at spinning stories about my mental health and stability.) I have always wanted to hug people and instead I have spent my life pushing them. Not away, exactly, just toward a specific edge. And pulling them. I make plans to fix all of my relationships when I get home. I donāt know how to extend my arms any longer than this. They are exhausted, but only metaphorically.
Home. It exists in flashes. Some so loud and others with their volumes muted.
āThere is no other, only this,ā Yoni Wolf croons in his new tunes and reminds my younger self of things I have always known, always lived by. According to this, I have never lost sight of who I am, but somehow I have, indeed, changed. And itās okay. It will be okay.
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
