Somebody
once asked could I spare some change for gas.
“I
need to get myself away from this place.”
I
said, “Yeah, what a concept – I could use a little fuel myself, and we could
all use a little change.”
Smash Mouth
It
has recently occurred to me that most of my friends seemed to recognize our
friendship long before I ever allowed myself to. I have this way of assuming
that all social cues are just figments of my overactive imagination until something
undeniably blatant happens to identify the nature of a relationship.
I
make an idiot of myself, I mean.
Because
of this, I’ve tended to live my life in a dangerous kind of detached neutral –
until some wonderful obvious surprises me:
August
2013. One Year Ago.
Ceiling. Ceiling
ceiling ceiling ceiling. Ceiling.
Not even my ceiling.
I can’t help it. I miss
my room. I miss having my slot, a space with orange walls covered in paintings;
shelves that are my own, full of my treasures which fit perfectly and will
never be boxed or stored or re-shuffled or re-hashed or re-discussed. One spot
on Earth to which I belong. A place that says: Welcome Home, My Dare. You, Specifically,
Were Missed. This Place Isn’t The Same Without You, and Things Fit Better When
You Are Here.
The living room ceiling
says: Oh. It’s You Again.
My luggage has been
puzzle-worked between the upstairs coat closet and the guest room. In defiance
of the suggestion that I am a guest,
and to my mother’s apparent dismay, I have taken up residence on the sofa in
the den.
The cushions are soft,
and I’m nestled cozily in the cool fabric of the coveted family Kitty Blanket,
but the blank ceiling is like water dripping on my nose:
You’re Back. You’re
Alone. You’re Back. You’re Alone.
Mom and Dad greeted me
from the airport this afternoon around 4:00, and after 2 months of pixilated video
calls, it was absolute cheer to see clearly their faces and smiles. After hugs
and nutshell-stories, a great hauling of suitcases and a few mugs of
home-brewed coffee – life is back to…something.
My heart has been
puzzle-worked between the fond, fog-swamped memories of study-group in Qingdao
and the unfamiliar, familiar present. I’m not the same. My family is not quite
the same. Yet we are here, existing nearby and together again.
You’re Back.
The excitement of my
return has settled into questions about dinner and cleaning the bathroom, and
what should I do to get ready for school next week? The oven beeps, the phone
rings, a knocking at the front door. My family is whisked away.
You’re Alone.
Ceiling. Ceiling
ceiling ceiling ceiling. Ceiling.
I’m sinking into
pillows and jet-lag and that gravitating post-adventure melancholy when my
youngest sister nudges my arm.
“There are…people….at
the door. For you.”
What?
I scooch to a sitting
position, suddenly self-aware. I haven’t showered. I haven’t slept. I haven’t
spoken coherent English until fairly recently. Who is at the door?
Sensing my confusion
even from the kitchen, Mom calls, “Your friends are here!”
What?
“Helloooo!”
A quirky, laughing voice
sings from the entryway and my heart leaps.
What? What? What?
I dive for the door. Bright
sunlight restricts my view for a few seconds, but I know.
My friends. My friends. My friends are here.
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