osmosis

I haven't been through the same pain, grief, and loss as some. I've had my share of different kinds, and I've come through (I realize now) stronger and better able to cope with the next crisis. And I've had my experiences with short-term "appreciation" after a tragedy. You think, "If I get through this, I will never be petty or small again. I'll be grateful for the little things and remember every day how short life is." Like when people in New York were so pleasant and courteous and patient with each other in the fall of 2001. Reaching out to strangers, smiling, letting people in front of them at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. It was like a whole new city. Until it wasn't anymore.

But now I feel gratitude and an appreciation for life and the little things in a way that I've never felt before. Not in a big grandiose way, after some disturbing event, where I'm compelled to move to the opposite end of the spectrum in an effort to neutralize the pain. Not that I have to shout it in the streets and analyze it in my head until it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I find myself smiling in places and situations that seem ... unusual. Being quietly grateful from my gut for something that's pretty trivial on the surface. Like sitting in a movie theater. Or husking corn. Or grocery shopping. It's really not the places, now that I think about it, but the people in those places. I am more thankful for a short-term plane ride or a trip to the mall than I ever thought I could be.

Nothing specific has happened to cause this shift. Just being around people who are grateful, who have known great loss and can still appreciate everything in their lives, has somehow instilled in me a new gratitude. It's a long-term effect from constant exposure to the ultimate in appreciation for what you have, not despair over what you don't.

And I like it. I like that fluttery feeling in my chest when I catch myself realizing how lucky I am. I like the odd look from strangers who catch me smiling unconsciously for no apparent reason. Most of all, I like that I like my life. It's a nice change of pace.

...like a hole in the head

That's how much 14th Street needs another video/electronics store. Yet another place to buy fell-off-the-back-of-a-truck DVD players and "rebuilt" iPod knock-offs for cheap that will last until about a week after the store goes out of business. Another place that sells bootleg movies up front and adult movies behind a black curtain in the back corner. Another place with so many "sale" and "buy it now" signs in the window that you can't see inside. Another place that entices the young mothers to spend their welfare checks on the latest and greatest "cool-as-shit" toys before they can waste it on another tattoo or some ghetto-gold earrings or diapers and milk. Yeah, that kid definitely needs a new Wii more than he needs new shoes.

things I’ll leave behind

Sleeping as late as I want to on a weekend. A veggie burger and a bag of Baked Doritos for dinner. Three nights in a row! My laptop next to me on the couch as I watch "The Office" or "American Idol" while flipping back to the Rangers game on commercials. Jewelry strewn all over the top of the dresser. About 80 pairs of shoes and boots in the closet, and some on the floor next to my bed. Walking back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom after a shower completely naked. Napping on the couch for 2 hours on Sunday afternoon with Court TV on for background noise. Changing into my PJs the minute I get home from work because I don't have to leave the apartment until the next morning. The trash/recycling room right across the hall. Bathroom spritz-and-dry for wrinkled clothes at the last minute. Spending money on whatever I want, maybe a seventh pair of black sandals (because really, they are all different!) and not explaining myself. Waiting until I need underwear to do laundry. And no stairs to carry it up or down. Eating half a sleeve (or more) of Girl Scout cookies in one sitting. On-site dry cleaning. Sushi, Mexican, Italian, and pub food all within a block. Cleaning in spurts. Holding onto catalogs that I know I'll never order from. Silence and solitude whenever I want it.

Silence and solitude when I really don't want it. That's enough to offset the laundry and the cookies and the sushi and the catalogs and the PJs several times over.

The shoes are a tough call!

answers

Seems I'm not blind. It's light, I'm safe, and the numbers add up. There are still hurdles -- some pretty big -- but I don't have to navigate them alone. And taken slowly and deliberately, this marathon will be worth more than a thousand sprints. More difficult and more challenging, but definitely the payoff I'm looking for. Guess I'll have to train on the Spanish Steps.

Ciao.

none so blind as she who will not see

Am I really living in the light? Or do I have my eyes closed so tightly that I can't see I'm still in the dark? Is it really my soft place to fall? Or have I insulated myself so tightly from reality that I can't feel the pain when I crash to the floor? Do I really have lucky numbers? Or am I using fuzzy math to ensure I don't end up on the wrong side of the balance sheet?

I won't know until I open my eyes, throw off that blanket, and take a hard, close look at that bottom line. You can't judge others' fears until you face your own.

fear and loathing on staten island

Well, maybe not loathing. There's caution, a bit of skepticism, a touch of dismissal, possibly a dash of disdain, too (though I admit, that last one could be my own paranoia). But the fear is definitely there. Fear of what I represent: the idea that you, too, could be replaced someday.

I see it in your eyes. It's not always easy to see because you won't make eye contact with me -- sometimes you don't even look at me -- but I know it's there. "If her shoes can be filled, can mine?" So you reduce the entire idea of me to runner-up, place-holder, a consolation prize that doesn't really count, because of your own irrational, selfish fears.

But it's not about filling shoes. It's not even about her. And it's certainly not about you. It's about life and loss and acceptance and not judging people and situations you know nothing about. It might be a temporary comfort to your ego to believe that no one could love your family, or worse, be loved by them, bring them happiness the way you could. But if you couldn't, would you deny them that love, comfort, support, and security because it's coming from someone else? Are you really that selfish? If only you knew a fraction of what you think you know.

You think you need to "protect" them, even if only in your head, from the vamp who just might swoop in and take over. You don't want to imagine that the people who love you could go on to live full, happy lives with only pictures and memories of you to make it through. But now you have to imagine it, see it, and believe it. It's standing in front of you; it's having lunch with your daughters or picking them up from the movies; it's holding his hand or sitting a little too close to him for your comfort at the dance recital. It's me, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry your friend is dead, but I'm not sorry I'm here, and neither is he.

So accept me. Have the guts to look me in the eye, make conversation and be pleasant when he's not looking, not because you have to, just because you want to be nice, because I could possibly be a decent person who wants nothing more than to love this family. And because there but for the grace of whatever you believe in goes your own family.

I hope that I would, in my heart of hearts, truly want my love to find another to share his life and not mourn and deify me until the day he dies. I hope that I wouldn't begrudge him happiness after I was gone. How egocentric is it to believe that he could only be happy with me, that I would take to the grave with me his very reason to live? How selfish to expect him to be alone for the rest of his life?

To borrow phrasing from FDR, I guess the only thing you have to fear is the woman who will swoop in and take over your family. So keep living in the darkness of fear. We'll be out here in the light, living, period.

the best laid plans

I didn't plan to love you. I never thought it would happen. It just didn't seem to be in the cards for me, and I was OK with that. I'd accepted my fate with no self-pity, no regrets, just gratitude that I was moving forward slowly but surely, only slightly worse for the wear but quite a bit smarter. I was finally able to pull my life together, make sense of it, and things were going along fine. No hassles, no expectations.

Then I met you. I wasn't sure at first. I'd traveled this road before and I was afraid to head down there again. Let's just keep things casual, nothing serious. This can work without a lot of fanfare. But you pulled me in. How could I not want to get to know you better, be a bigger part of your world? And you seemed willing to let me in. Only a little at first. We're all recovering from something, and caution is an underrated defense.

But time passed and our guards came down. I watched as our lives became slowly intertwined, even if you didn't realize it. I felt it in the little things -- a smile, a look, a laugh. And I started to relax. And now you've relaxed. There's a comfort level on both sides that I never imagined.

Now every day I feel a little closer to you, I fall in love with you a little more. The days when I thought I could keep you at a distance are barely a memory. The idea of a pseudo-commitment to you seems ludicrous. I didn't think I had it in me to love you. But I'm happy to say I was wrong. You've brought so much to my life and you probably don't even know it. Some day, when the time is right, I'll tell you how much you mean to me. Both of you.

remember me?

I wish I could have known you better. Or maybe not. Then I'd probably miss you more. And maybe the loss would have been harder for you if we'd been closer. I wouldn't want that. I wonder how you are from time to time. Clearly, or else I wouldn't be dreaming about you. I wonder what story you were told about why I was suddenly gone from your lives. And if it even mattered to you.

I wonder if you'll remember me years from now. That's a little selfish, but I can't help thinking about it. I don't expect you to look me up when you get out of college, just maybe have a fleeting memory and think, "Oh, yeah, I remember her. She gave me a souvenir penny from the Crayola factory." Or, "Her parents made me an Easter basket." Then again you might think, "She's the reason I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my father."

It's OK. I couldn't blame you for thinking that, or even if you think that now. You were little girls. But I can blame him. I couldn't see it at the time, but my god, how selfish he was. The smugness and sense of entitlement, expecting things to go smoothly just because he wanted them to. And the criticism when they didn't. He certainly didn't break a sweat fostering the relationships between us. I was an adult, too. I could have made an effort. But honestly, I didn't know how. My gut told me he wasn't doing us any favors with his methods. I knew it wasn't good, but I didn't know how to change it. What did I know about kids? Nothing, really. And what little I thought I knew he disregarded, simply because I'd never given birth, apparently a criterion for understanding children. Maybe this is all no excuse, but it's the truth.

I know now how things should have happened, or at least one scenario that would have helped us get on better, might have even endeared us to each other. Maybe on some level he didn't want that, wanted to keep things separate in a freakish way to maintain control, remain at the helm of two separate ships instead of risking what he would perceive as a mutiny if the crew actually weren't always at odds. That, or he was thoroughly delusional and ignorant. What a choice! I hope your senses of self are strong enough to overcome having such a selfish prick as a parental figure.

I hope your lives go well, that you thrive and prosper and travel smooth roads, the ones you've chosen for yourselves and not had laid out for you by one trying to live vicariously. And I hope if you do remember me, it's with some bit of fondness, at least one nice memory. If you can't, I'd rather you forget me altogether.

faces

I walk 14th, from 6th over to 8th and up to 15th. Lots of the same faces. I don't see them all every day, but every day I see at least one.

When I worked in Union Square the same thing happened: I'd see the same faces on my morning commute. Not sure why it didn't happen in the afternoon. I guess people's schedules are more "routine" earlier in the day. There was the skinny punk guy walking west on 15th Street, pale-faced and always dressed in skin-tight, narrow-to-the-ankle black jeans. And the woman by Au Bon Pain walking her Dalmatian-Chihuahua. That wasn't really the mix, but that's what it looked like: a white Chihuahua body with black spots, like a Dalmatian. I stopped to pet him once and the woman was friendly and eager to talk about her dog, but when I saw her 2 days later she looked right through me. Hey, I wasn’t looking for a new BFF, but what's wrong with being able to smile at someone a few times a week?

Anyway, now I'm on the west side and it's the same story, just different players. On the south side of the street there's mom and son and dog, coming out the door next to Spoon, maybe on the way to school. When summer comes I'll see if they’re still around or if they decide to sleep in. If I cross to the north there's Speedwalker Guy, in his black and silver Lycra pants, swinging his arms with feverish intent, lost behind his sunglasses and in the sounds of his iPod. Across 7th, about halfway down, past the framing store, I walk closer to the curb to avoid the fumes of Smokey Smokerson, who's leaning on the fence next to the Irish pub, puffing away. Then there's the girl with one leg. Seriously. One leg. A messenger bag is slung across her chest as she glides quickly up 14th on crutches. She never looks annoyed or put out, just makes her way to wherever she's going, with no sign of difficulty. Is she as OK with it as she looks, just playing the hand she was dealt, or is she a fountain of anger inside, mad at the world for the hassle she has no choice but to deal with every day? Either way, I should probably walk in her shoe for a day when I feel like taking the L out of sheer laziness. Then there's the crew of homeless on the corner of 8th Avenue, outside Associated Supermarkets. They laugh and joke (and approach random commuters for spare change, of course), like they're just a bunch of friends hanging out for the morning. A few have cardboard signs scrawled with a shorter-than-Reader's Digest version of how they ended up here. They're somewhat sheltered for now, under the scaffold, but what happens when the construction is finished? Maybe they'll find another corner.

Then there are people I see twice in one day. The woman in a leopard miniskirt and no stockings in the middle of January. It HAD to be 20 degrees. Did she not know the temperature when she left the apartment this morning? What would posses someone to dress that way in that weather? I like my fashion fine, but not at the cost of frostbite. I saw her on my way back to the PATH that night and laughed to myself. Did she notice me too, think it was funny to see the same person in the middle of, like, 8 million 9 hours later? I get a kick out of that.

I wonder if anyone looks for me in the morning. I could be Skechers Girl. Mock if you must, but I manage my way up the paper-littered PATH stairs and around cracked sidewalks much better and faster than High Heels at all Costs Fashion Chick. And my investments by the pair remain unscathed in my Franco Sarto tote bag, with my lunch and my Metro Card and the auto-close umbrella that I carry every day. Oh, and the small bottle of water I keep just in case I ever again feel like I'm going to pass out on the train. That's the kind of thing you only let happen once!

So, faces. And timing. That's a big factor. Which faces I see depends on whether I get my usual train or if I’m running late -- or, rarely, early. Who would I see if I had to be in the office at 8:30? Or not until 10:00? Another whole cast of New York characters with all-new stories that I could make up in my head.

my soft place to fall

A house I never would have chosen in a town whose name made me cringe. Floral prints and lacy table runners and enough wood to choke a horse. Ack! Art and statues I'd never buy -- angels and flowers and country landscapes. Talking about granite counters and science projects to people I couldn't imagine I'd have anything in common with.

There are dog hairs on my sweater and slobber on my hand. Not a real knife or a fresh vegetable in sight. (OK, maybe a tomato in the summer.) High-tech gadgets abound; TVs outnumber people 2 to 1, iPods 3 to 1. And there's not nearly enough closet space, I fear, to one day accommodate all my shoes.

But the couch, which is still most definitely not my taste, is soft and welcoming; the four legs that curl up on my own two bring me comfort, those brown eyes tell me she's happy I'm here and she feels safe in my lap. (Sucka!) The photos on that damn dark wood table show faces I've come to love. I try to imagine how I'll feel when my picture is among them.

I walk in to no fanfare. It's not a big deal that I'm there. And that's a good thing. There's diet soda in the basement and Splenda in the cabinet. And there's (almost) always a bottle of white chilling on the refrigerator door. I help myself to pretzels and Baby Bels, knowing there will always be enough for me. I'm even offered the occasional chicken nugget.

I can go there with a heavy heart and walk out with my head high, my load lighter. There's no judgment, no lectures, no grudges. Just love. And light. And acceptance.

It's my soft place to fall.

why don't I know you?

"You look like your mother."
I've heard it a hundred times, more, since I was 10 or so.
It never hit me one way or another.
Sometimes I thought so, sometimes not, depending on how my hair was styled or if I was angry with her that day.
I'm not old, but today the face in the mirror doesn't look so young anymore.
There are wrinkles around my eyes and hidden under my bangs, and they aren’t going anywhere.
I wonder when she decided she wasn't young anymore.
I wonder when she decided she was or wasn't anything.
We have had such different lives that I can't imagine I'm reaching the same stages at the same times.
But I see her in the mirror, in my face.
Did she feel this way? When? Did she tell anyone or simply move on, her heart just a little bit heavier for the silence?
What did she want when she was 32? Or 42? Or 12? Or now?
Why don't I know these things?
Because she's been only an extension of me my whole life.
Someone who did to me or for me or with me or because of me.
Who would she be if it hadn't been for me?
Her life began when mine began, and when her life ends mine will still mean something only if I truly knew her.
I stare in the mirror until my face is nothing more than a blur, looking for answers but getting only more questions.
I look like my mother.

lucky numbers

3, 23, 6, 21, 89

These are my lucky numbers. They weren’t always. My ultimate favorite number used to be 4, and I still really like it. It’s square, even. It satisfies my inner need (some call it a freakish compulsion) for things to be the same on all sides. Multiples of 4 are good, too. It made me very happy that my graduation years from grammar school, high school and college were 1980, 1984 and 1988, respectively.

I also like 914 and its handful of permutations. I thought it followed me around my whole life. It’s my birthday, as well as what I weighed when I was born (9 lbs + 14 oz = 1 big baby). When I moved into my first house, 914 was the area code to my new phone number, it was jumbled around to make up the address (149 Orange Turnpike), and all 3 digits were in my ZIP code (10974). And in 1994 the NY Rangers ended a 54-year championship drought when they won the Stanley Cup.

I thought it meant something that those numbers were somewhat of a constant in my life, related to things that made me happy, though I wasn’t sure what it meant. I’ve always had a weird "thing" about numbers, putting them in patterns to remember them, adding them up. I’ll always remember the last 4 digits to the phone number of the local garage in the town where I used to live (5861) because my brothers were born in 1957 and 1960; just add 1 to each and you have 58 and 61. Weird, yes. Convoluted, definitely. But I knew I would always be able to call for a tow truck. It’s a wonder I didn’t become an accountant or mathematician.

But I think my lucky numbers are changing.

I met him on March 23 at 6:00, at a bar on 21st Street. See? 3, 23, 6, 21. It’s as simple as that.

3 also works because, as "they" often say, the third time is the charm. It certainly is in my case. It’s a charm and a blessing and cause to actually reconsider whether there really is a higher power. 3 is also the number of people I am adding (hope to add) to my immediate family. (I said "people," so Maggie can’t be insulted or feel left out!) And 6 and 23 figure in again because he kissed me for the first time on the corner of 6th Avenue and 23rd Street.

89 is a little more unusual, but he’s the one who actually realized it. He told me when his daughter was born he added up the numbers of her birth date and year (3/11/94) and came up with 108; he did the same with his son (8/10/90) and got 108. Just a coincidence, probably, but it meant something to him. Add up the numbers to my birth date and year (9/14/66) and you get 89. Add up his (3/26/60) and you get 89. Does it mean anything? I don’t know. But it’s another case of numbers bringing me an odd sort of comfort. If nothing else, he’s as preoccupied with seemingly inconsequential numbers as I am.

I’ll always have a place in my heart for 914, and especially for 4. Its evenness still brings me comfort in an OCD kind of way. But I’m willing to make room for some new lucky numbers.

Maybe I should play the lottery. But really, I feel like I already won.

how long is a memory?

I know the pain. I still remember it, on my skin, in my bones. Like my flesh was peeling off and my insides were collapsing. You might not think so, but I do. And I ache for you, now that you feel this pain. I wish I could do something -- anything -- to take it away. I would. But I can't. Only you can. When you're ready. Clearly not yet. Nothing I do can make it better. And nothing I do can make it worse.

I understand that nothing makes sense to you. Your whole world is tainted and blurred. You see things through a cracked, distorted lens. Everything revolves around you and your pain. And again, I really, truly understand. At the same time, I can't be responsible.

Hard as it is to grasp right now, it's not all about you and your pain. It's not OK to use guilt and tears as weapons. It's not OK to be a victim to get your way. It's not OK to discount my feelings as less important. Just because you're hurting doesn't mean I can't hurt, too.

I'm a good friend. That's one thing I am absolutely sure of. You say so too, but still, you walk away, and I still don't understand why. Because I dared to not see my life through your eyes? But I'll wait. I don't know how long -- I'm a good friend, not a saint. In the mean time I have nothing to be sorry or forgiven for. No matter how you twist things to make sense in your head, to justify your words and actions, I haven't wronged you.

You say even though you can "forgive" me, you'll remember. That's OK. I'll remember, too.

mother figure, go figure

I don’t know why it happened. Or how or when. And I don’t really care. It just is, and it feels right. I’ve never felt maternal -- for anything with only two legs, anyway. I wouldn’t be good at it. You can’t go back on that decision; it can’t be undone. And I certainly didn’t want to screw up someone else’s life beyond repair. But I find it now in my thoughts, and it feels good. It comes out my pores and soothes my skin. I love how it washes over me. I love how I don’t always realize it in the moment because it seems natural. And I love later, when I do realize.

I know they are not mine. I’m not trying to make them mine, to pretend they’re mine. So how did this come to be? How did I come to feel so maternal, so protective of them? I want to nurture and teach and give of myself. But I’m afraid of trying to give too much, afraid they won’t want what I have to offer. How can I love without intruding? How can I fulfill that role without being a “replacement?” How do I walk that line? And do I have the right to even try?

I know some think not. They have doubts, suspicions. Maybe they even fear the role I'm hoping to carve out, fear I'm trying to replace them, too. But I can’t waste my energy on them. I know my intentions are true and real. I can’t worry -– I try not to, at least -- about what they think. Fear and hurt and anger can blur your perceptions, and I try to see it from that vantage point. But clearly they don’t try to see it from mine.

I do love those two. Like my own? I don’t know. I don’t have my own. But I do know that I look at them with pride. I want to see them grow and learn and love. I want to play some kind of role, to be able to bring some kind of joy or happiness to them. Maybe this is the way I was meant to play out my “maternal” self. Is that selfish, deep down, because I know it will make me feel good to do that?

I don’t know how they feel. They probably don’t even know, really. I hope we can talk about it some day. I hope I can tell them how I feel, how I loved feeling our relationships grow, even when I wasn’t really aware of it. I hope they can understand, and know I tried to walk that line the best way I could. And I hope they can tell me they felt it too, on some level, at least, and make a place for me in their inner circle.

That may never happen, but that’s another thing I can’t worry about. I can only give my energy to making sure today is taken care of, and to the people who feel the same way and believe that anything I can give isn’t meant to replace, only to enhance. I know that’s what’s most important. And I know he believes in my intentions. And I know he loves me.

So maybe that’s why. Go figure.

no more waking up alone

At the first sign of it, in that first breath of semiconsciousness, I think of you. I inhale and smell you on my pillow, even if you haven’t been in my bed for a week. I exhale and roll over into arms that aren’t there, content that I can remember what they feel like, counting the days until I’m wrapped up in them again. Then I smile. I wonder about the next time I’ll wake up with the actual scent of you, in your actual arms; the next time we'll make love to mark the sunrise and not the sunset. Then I sigh and get out of bed.

I never really wake up alone anymore. But it’s always better when you’re there.

I just surrender to this evolution

It would be so easy to make the title of this entry "ch-ch-ch-changes," but god almighty, how cliché and boring would that be? And then I would be quoting Bowie when I had the chance to quote Melissa.

Do people ever change? Can we, really? Is it possible to change? Not change who we are, but change our behaviors, our thoughts, reactions, opinions? Or are we just showing different parts of ourselves at different times of our lives. Do we rotate our "personalities" to conform to our situations, or to defy them, even?

I think true change, if it's at all possible, can only come when we're not actively trying to make a change. More like evolving based on our life experiences instead of consciously changing.

And is this all just a matter of semantics?

When you're trying to make a change, you are completely aware of the different courses of action you're taking, and I think I am of the mind that you can change something just by observing it, so maybe the power lies in others. Of course, that just might be a way to avoid the responsibility of making a change for yourself and pin your inability to change on someone else.

New Year's resolutions. Why not decide to make a change on August 17? Just an excuse not to make a change. Or if you make a change temporarily on January 1, and you fuck up in February, you can claim the pressure of a New Year's resolution was just too much. You'll do it next year, really, you will.

And why do we get uncomfortable when other people change? We may not realize it, but it happens, more than we'd like to admit. When other people change, intentionally or not, we have to accept that change, at least acknowledge it. If we don't, we have to be prepared to let them go. And why not? This new changed person doesn't fit the same profile anymore. She may not even meet the same needs. Sometimes we have people in our lives to fit very specific needs, voids, and if those people change and no longer meet those needs, why do we still need them? There are those people who will try to keep you from changing to meet your own needs so that you keep on meeting their needs. Those are the people you need to run away from -- fast.

Not to say you have to establish a whole new circle of friends if you go through some major change, but the ones in your current circle will show you who they are and why they're there. If they bolt, you're better off. If they try to keep you from changing, you should bolt, and you'll be better off. If you they accept you as you change and grow, then you made the right decision bringing them into your circle in the first place.

decisions, decisions

"You are everything I never knew I always wanted."

Yeah, another movie quote. So sue me. That's my thing.

What do you call decisions you wish you could have made but didn't because circumstances dictated they would have been the wrong decisions at the time, yet if you could make them now, in your current circumstances, you just might? It's not regret. That would mean that I wish I'd made a different decision, and I don't. It wasn't even a choice, really. It was simply not an option to be entertained. I just did what was right for my life at the time. Had I not, I most certainly would not have the life I have now, which is pretty good, and which, ironically, could possibly have afforded me the luxury of making that fateful decision. I'm being vague and confusing, right?

It doesn't matter. The point isn't what that decision was, but what you'd call this "what if?" feeling. Maybe it is just as simple as "what if?" Maybe I'm overthinking it. But that's just me. I like to think, "What would it be like now if things had been different then, if I'd been in a position to make different choices?" Obviously it would be different, but how? And what would my life be like if I were in a position to make that decision today?

It's not even a matter of "If I knew then what I know now," because it's not what I know necessarily. It's where I am, who I am. No matter what I knew back then, that decision, that "choice," as it were, would have been a bad one. Or at least not a good one. This is the first time in my life I feel as if I would be qualified to make that decision, and it's simply not an option, for many reasons. It's like saying "You can't get there from here." A Catch-22, even. Or like the cruel irony of youth being wasted on the young. Only this isn't exactly cruel. It makes me a little sad, maybe a touch melancholy. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, I think makes me appreciate the circumstances I've wandered into by not making that decision.

It's all good. The decisions (and lack thereof) that have led me to where I am now -- I'd consider them the right ones. For me. At the time. In my circumstances. If I had them to make now, in this life, in these circumstances, I might choose differently. And just knowing that, strangely, is enough. Maybe that's because it has to be enough; I'll never know. But it is, and that's OK. And it still makes me smile.

a year ... and counting

Not a day goes by. Not one. The thoughts aren't all sad. I mean, don't get me wrong. Lots of them are. I miss you so much it hurts, sometimes physically. And the tears come pretty easily. No surprise there. But I can usually chuckle my way through them. All my memories of you are happy, even the horror stories of the "early years." And just look at that face! So handsome and happy and sweet. That sweet face saved my life in more ways than one. I wish I could have saved yours. That last year it was as if you willed yourself to stay with me until I got my shit together. Holding out to take care of me while your poor little body was giving out on you. Somehow you knew I needed you, and you knew when I was ready, when I was finally strong enough, to let you go. I think you'd been ready to go for a while. I hope I wasn't too selfish for too long.

But I sleep easy knowing I made it better for you, knowing you trusted me, even with your last breath. I hope I gave back enough. I hope the Porterhouse and the popcorn filled your belly and lasted as a final treasured memory. I hope you know that I held your body and let go of your soul with all the love in my heart, and that you heard everything I told you as you left. And I hope I can become the person I was in your eyes all those years.

...speak and remove all doubt

Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.

Jane Craig: No. It's awful.

That bit of dialogue is from one of my favorite movies ever, "Broadcast News." Holly Hunter plays Jane Craig, a high-strung TV news producer. At first you think her response is egotistical, that she's well aware she's the smartest person in the room and not afraid to let everyone know. But if you think about it, it shows vulnerability. It betrays the pressure on her, self-inflicted, maybe, but still, the pressure to be the smartest, the best, at everything, all the time. I can't stand people who flaunt their intelligence just for the sake of flaunting it, but her character doesn't do that. She isn't pompous, doesn't really have that inflated sense of self when you think of intellectuals. Because in my experience, the "intellectuals" are never the smartest people in the room.

When you're smart, you don't have to go around telling people you're smart. They already know. And talking about how smart you are, really, just shows that you're actually an idiot.

23rd and 6th

That's where it happened, on the southwest corner, just after dark.
Will he? Won't he? Should I? All these thoughts. It seemed like forever but couldn't have been more than 2 or 3 seconds, really, just played out slow-motion in my head. Then he moved in. Slight hesitation, but not awkward. Like the same thoughts were going through his head.

I felt a relief and a comfort and an excitement — a giddiness, almost — that I hadn't felt since I can’t remember when. (And that, amazingly, I still feel a year later.) I could tell there was intention. But not freakish intention (even combined with the mini Oreos). There was a truth. A seriousness underneath that said, "I've got no time to fuck around."

I felt myself smiling in the PATH station, until that ground-shaking rumble and hot subterranean wind brought me back. I turned and squinted to keep the swirling soot from blinding me. Then I was on the train, smiling again, past 14th Street, 9th Street, Christopher. My head was swimming, just a little, the thoughts in my head slightly foggy. I thought it was the wine — just a tipsy straphanger trying to get home after another first date.

I remembered how he looked when he walked in the door; again, the intention in his face, in his step. I remembered the iPod, the gray in his beard. I remembered walking to the train station, lost in surprisingly comfortable conversation down 21st Street, and realizing that he’d gone a block out of his way — an avenue, in fact! — to walk me to my stop.

These things stayed with me, stuck in my head and danced around, all the way to Pavonia and into Grove. Glimpses of promise; flashes of possibility. I felt my cheeks getting tired and realized it was from smiling. I wondered if anyone took notice of the light-headed woman weaving through the tunnel, smiling for no reason. No need to be a target. I stopped smiling.

And I wondered what was different. Why was I thinking of anything more than getting home, changing into sweats, and walking the dog? When did this thin line between angry cynicism and idiotic idealism become wide enough to tread on without falling over? Did it happen in the last 2 hours? What was different about this time?

And then I realized, it didn’t matter what was different, or why. What mattered was that it was different. It was him. And I was smiling again.