Autobiography · Relationships

Neighbor

The only time I ever hear my roommate is when she’s laughing. That loud, full-bodied laugh that makes my lips turn of their sides no matter how I’m feeling that day. When I’m outside smoking a cigarette the woman across the street comes over to talk to me. I lock myself out of my house and go sit on the porch with my upstairs neighbor and talk until Sevnaz comes back to let me in. I never miss living downtown. Never miss people with blinders on who don’t notice they share the world with people around them. That we all have rich, vibrant lives full of heartbreak and lost loves and beauty and resilience. I do not miss being surrounded by people who are always seeming to forget or ignore that.

Finally in a neighborhood that feels like home. Finally home.

Autobiography · Writing

Fill

Lately it’s all hot chocolate and long walks. Therapy appointments at 8:30 AM and enthusiastic customers right before close. I smoke cigarettes outside of Andrew’s apartment and hope that someone will come out or go in. Phone left at home and so I start debating throwing rocks at the window.

An exercise in writing a blog post every day turns into a exercise in looking for things to say. And I often find myself scraping what feels like the bottom of the bucket. Sludge. This is sludge.

This weekend I will go to the baby shower of my best friend. Then head south to meet my nephew for the first time. Surrounded by new signs of life even as winter approaches. The days are dark earlier, but I haven’t seemed to notice. We keep our heads down and keep on going.

Photo courtesy of Crew.

Autobiography · Relationships

Them

The world fell down around us.
Crying on couches. Heads in hands.

But when we drove home
we rolled down the windows,
sang until our throats ached.

And I knew I at least am still safe
with them.

Photo courtesy of Aaron Burden.