Creative Writing
The following is a small sampling of my creative writing – narrative, fiction, nonfiction. It’s a mix, but I hope you find
something you like.
You Can't Forget Memories
Have you ever said something you couldn’t take back? I have. I was seven years old and I said to my then step dad, “it’s my job to get rid of you.”
This year, I turned 30. I haven’t seen my stepdad, Mike, since college. He and my mother split up when I was still in high school. Since turning 30, I’ve had the inevitable existential crisis set in and, as such, have started to see a therapist. I think that’s like a rite of passage. The reason I began seeing a therapist was due to a series of panic attacks. It became clear quite quickly that my job was the genesis of my anxiety. So, after my first session, I gave my two weeks notice. The next time I saw my therapist, a week later, she asked me to rank my anxiety on a scale of one to ten. If I recall correctly, the first week I probably said it was a nine. By the second week, after quitting my job, I said it was a three.
So, my therapist took out a worksheet – a relatively simple, routine exercise that I’m sure she performs on much younger patients. This worksheet had a list of “Unhelpful Thinking Habits” and she asked me to read them and identify the ones I recognized in myself. I chose “Judgemental Thoughts.” She asked me to explain. So I told her that I always just think the worst of people, and I expect the least. This, of course, prompted the follow-up question: what experience in your life may have led you to develop that habit? I said something like, “if you expect the least from people, you’ll be less likely to be disappointed.” And she asked me if I had ever been disappointed. This made me remember my step dad, Mike.
Let me backtrack. When my step dad moved out, I was fifteen. My mom was at the end of her emotional rope, both with the relationship and a few recent traumas. My step dad owned a business with his children, who he later discovered were embezzling money from the company. On the heels of this revelation, his heart failed and he had to get a pacemaker put into his chest. All of this to say, it was a difficult year in our house. Despite needing to go their separate ways, he and my mother remained close friends for years. Until she remarried and her husband could not understand the need for this friendship to continue. That’s when we, my mother and I, lost touch with Mike.
When I think about what disappoints me about this relationship, so many pointed fingers and mixed emotions arise. I could say that I’m disappointed in my mother for not sticking it out, but that’s not it. I could say that I’m disappointed in Mike for not trying harder to keep me in his life, but that’s not it either. Ultimately, the only person I’m disappointed in is myself. Not because I could have kept them together – I know better than that. I’m disappointed in myself for not making an effort to see him, talk more, tell him I’ll always love him. It is a shameful guilt that I have carried with me (and willfully ignored) for years.
“Why don’t you send him a letter?” my therapist suggests. When I get back home, my mom calls to ask how the session went. I tell her I need Mike’s address so I can write him a letter. This audibly gives her pause. She’s not sure she knows it anymore. She asks why so I tell her about the guilt I have and the things I need to tell him. Somewhat to my surprise, she says she has been feeling the same way. She tells me she needs to talk to her husband because she has decided we need to visit Mike. She’s concerned what her husband will think, how he’ll react, and she’s unsure what to say. I reassure her that it’s the right thing to do.
A day or two later, she calls me and says it went better than expected. She’s already booking a place for us to stay. Plans are made with an urgency that’s more than a little unnerving. She rents an AirBnB an hour outside of San Antonio and we book our flights. She flies out a couple of days before me and sends me a picture of Mike, now in a wheelchair, smoking a cigarette. To appreciate this image the way I do, you would need to know that my mom and Mike met at the gym, and Mike used to drink protein smoothies with raw eggs every morning for breakfast.
When they arrive to pick me up from the airport, Mike is in the backseat. He tries to get out to give me a hug but it is physically quite difficult for him. So I lean into the backseat and hug him while he laughs and says, “it’s my job to get rid of you!” This has always been his refrain for me – we have dark senses of humor, I suppose. What follows is four days of nostalgia. Joy, laughter, tears, reasoning and ultimately waxing on a past and present no one could have foreseen. Before the trip, I asked my mom to gather some old photographs to give him. She tells me his apartment is sad and empty, so it’s my hope that this will help. But in her attempt to not dredge up old memories, she only brings a handful of somewhat nondescript photographs. Mike is deeply and sincerely grateful nonetheless. Every time he rolls his wheelchair onto the patio to smoke, which is often, he takes the photos with him and slowly flips through them over and over again. He is so alone in his chosen life now and it confounds me. We plead with him to move back but he vehemently refuses. Maybe going back is harder than just standing still. It’s not my choice to make, so I have to let it go.
On our last night of this, at times, melancholy vacation, we have dinner at a place called Hondo’s on Main. They have a large outdoor patio with live music and Mike is happy because he can smoke. And maybe it’s the stiff margaritas, but we’re all together again and for the moment, we’re happy. I decide to commemorate the occasion by buying him a t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo and eerily on-the-nose slogan: You can’t forget memories.
A couple of weeks after the trip ends, I drive up to my mom’s house to collect all the good photographs I know Mike wants. They are Christmas, birthdays, their wedding, beach trips. All of the time when the three of us were a family. I even included photos of his estranged children, because I know somehow they will make him smile. There are so many photos, well over a hundred. I carefully put them one by one into a new photo album, leaving the first page blank. This is where I will write the letter I never got to send.
It is true that in life, you will say things that you can never take back. Some things don’t get to be wrapped up in neat little packages. They defy the rules of storytelling. No happy endings or resolution. In the end, all we have are the things we do. The ways we show up for one another, no matter the time or distance gone by. No, you can’t forget memories. But you can create new ones. Ones that erase time and guilt. New ones that somehow make the old ones even better.
Past Lives
Sometimes your past just wants to come back to haunt you for no good reason. Like, you wake up and bam. There it is. A friend request from the neighborhood weed dealer you knew five? ten? years ago. And then that gets you thinking. Is he still dealing? Is he still in Red Hook? Does he still know Max? Max. Max, Max, Max. That’s a part of your past you can never erase. Max stays with you, inside you, conjured by an old familiar song or a certain brand of liquor. But maybe your past comes back to haunt you for very good reasons. I always wanted Max to want more out of life. Do more than bartend, drink, and galavant around. And now, ironically, it seems I find myself doing the same. Well, except for the bartending. I quit my job a few months ago because it was making me miserable. A career I decided upon expressly to turn writing into a steady income, health insurance, and a 401k. It turns out those things pale in comparison to one's own mental health. Since then, it’s been fits and starts of productivity. I told myself I’d use this time to write, find new outlets and means of self-expression that also generate a little cash. And I have, kind of. But it’s not enough. I can do more than I do. But I don’t. And why? Because I, not unlike Max, battle my own apathetic demons. Good enough really is good enough 99% of the time. I am ready to change that, though. I am ready to write something, make something, plant something, grow something, shape something every day. Maybe your past comes back to remind you to keep pushing forward. Because behind you, there’s nothing to see.
You & Me
& The End of The World
I always wondered if we’d get to experience The End together. I assumed we would not be lucky enough to live in such a time, that we would just barely miss it by old age. But now that it’s here, I am relieved. Not relieved to see The End, but relieved to have you to share it with. Relieved that I am not trying and failing to find love. Instead, I can just enjoy this time with you, since we never really know when our own ends will be. Today or 50 odd years away.
All of the rules are meaningless now and that is freeing. After all, what good is a rule in times of chaos and uncertainty? It’s not all chaos. Or, it is. But not all the bad kind. It’s the kind that frees us from our little routines and makes us ask ourselves who are we? What is my personality, if not my job? What makes me happy in The End? And if this isn’t The End, what then?
One small surprise, in the midst of a continuous stream of big and unpleasant surprises, is that there is beauty in The End. Despite the fear and uncertainty, the sun still sets and casts long shadows across the driveway. The flowers––it being spring––still bloom and attract bees and butterflies. A bird has built her nest in the corner of our front porch and brings worms to her hatchlings. Nature has, in reaction, continued to flourish and thrive while we come to grips with our own undoing. Maybe that’s not such a surprise after all.
I couldn’t have predicted how much time we would spend puzzling at The End. Hours and hours, melting away, over Mountains on Fire. Perhaps it’s the illusion of control. Of an architecture that, while difficult to understand, at least makes sense. A big picture coming together, instead of pulling apart.
But you and me, we are still coming together. So close together that we often say the exact same thing in unison. I try to resist it. Cultivate separate hobbies, read different books, try to think different thoughts. But it’s pointless now and besides, I like it. If it fools us each for half a second into thinking we’re not always completely alone, is that really so bad? We’re blurring the edges of our boundaries. Boundaries that no longer exist in the confines of home. Home continuously emerging – it has become the focal point of our lives.
My birthday is this week. A reminder that I am always the oldest I have ever been.
I’m nostalgic for Now. This grassy green yard. This setting sun. These long-eared dogs. The smell of kerosene and woodsmoke. Knowing there is absolutely nowhere to be or go. Tomorrow is my birthday and I have rewarded myself with a pair of rollerblades. Will I ever be this free and trapped all at once? Untethered by time and schedules but forced to stay in one place.
There is no right time, there is just time and what you choose to do with it. The only time is always Now and Now is taking care of each other. I wish I had a helicopter and this isn’t the first time. What it would be like to hover around above everyone else, close enough to see their lives but far enough away to remember our own.
We swam at an empty mansion to celebrate my birthday. I drank too much wine and fell asleep before 9 pm. I am often drinking too much wine these days, which could soon change. We decided we’re ready to start trying for a child. I rolled over to you last night, feeling romantic from the wine, and said “I’m ready.” No sooner had I said it than you were on top of me, so I guess you are ready, too. Ready to become three. Will we miss when we were two? Can you ever really, fully appreciate something before it’s gone? And, I suppose, if not now…when?
More changes every day. We wear homemade face masks to go out for groceries. Spring is still green, yellow, pink. I’ve been riding horses in my free time, which is plentiful. Only time will tell if that’s unwise. I question every decision we make now in the name of safety. We still aren’t at the end of The End, so this seems to be the only way. Another puzzle. The Astronaut, looking down at Earth from the moon. Everything looks perfect from far away.
I wonder if we can ever fully let go of the ones who first tamed our wild hearts. Like colonizers on native lands. Not always as violent, but still, not without consequence. Even after they’re gone, they’re remembered. Their hands shape the landscapes inside us. At first, with shovels and picks. Later, with time and distance. I find I have time to remember my own colonizers now. Some appear to me in dreams. Some I go seeking out online, looking for signs that they could somehow be thinking of me. I don’t seek out of loneliness, or even regret. I seek when I feel a shift in my landscape. And all at once, old mountains and canyons are revealed. These places are still sacred, even if the people who once lived there are dead.
I think now about life on the other side of The End. What will we find there? Will there be three of us? Will we ever know how lucky we were to have so much free and unmoving time like this? I think about my future child. How my life will become hers, or his, and my own life will fade into the background. How time will pass entirely too fast and it’s always a rush to The End. The End we never know when to greet or expect. Not like this End. This End is too calm and everyone knows The End doesn’t come in the summer.
We planted tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, strawberries, basil, mint, thyme, and cilantro. I think we also planted a baby in my stomach but I still don’t know. The End seems like it may take much longer than we thought. But then again, no one seems to know.
I’m still trying to figure out what suits me now. I’m working out almost everyday and it’s nice while it lasts. Of course, it can’t last forever. I’m at the point where I’m bored of television. That was also nice while it lasted. I recently learned that you were not on top of the things you led me to believe you were on top of – our bills, insurance, taxes. A tiny rabbit hops by outside our dining room window. I have never seen one so small and so seemingly carefree. Though of course he is not carefree. Rabbits can experience so much stress and fear that it causes their hearts to stop.
I accept my role as the responsible one. I wanted for so long to be taken care of but I see now my folly. I must do and be all of the things I was resistant to. I guess because I believed I was above those things. Someone else will do that for me, I told myself. Someone else is me. It’s funny to think that any of these artificial structures still tie us down, even in The End. You can have tax returns and unpaid debt in The End. There’s so much that can still be taken from you in The End.
There’s nothing left to do but lie in the sun and listen to the birds. I read somewhere that Shakespeare lived most of his life during The Plague. I don’t know if that’s true or not because I haven’t looked into it but can you imagine being so prolific while the world is dying? I guess it makes sense. To create new worlds and stories and sources of entertainment in a world seemingly devoid of joy. Perhaps I will try to create some alternate realities to entertain and distract myself. I realize now that this is not so much The End as it is The Plague. I always imagined it would be so gory, death and decay everywhere you look. But it’s not. At least, not on my street.
The murder of black people has set the streets on fire. Our city rages, like so many others, against the state sanctioned violence and systemic, endemic racism alive and well, despite the ongoing pandemic. The End is so much more complex than we could have ever known. All our systems are failing in bold, unavoidable ways. Our healthcare system. Our justice system. Hurricane season will remind us of the irreparable damage we’ve enacted on our planet. And so on.
Yesterday we marched downtown. Military tanks and hummers flanked the streets. Armed guards and policemen in riot gear blocked intersections and access to parks. My guts are in turmoil. I feel physically ill and The End still seems so far away.
As cliché as it sounds, in The End, you can’t help but think of Times Before. I go back to who I was my final months in New York. Wild. Untethered. Somehow so confident in my decisions, the way only a 24 year old could be. I found a way to mean so much to the people I met in such a small amount of time. I was magnetic, but I was actually a void. A lover gave me Tell Me How Long The Train’s Been Gone by James Baldwin. I loved Baldwin and he knew this. He inscribed the book with a heartfelt note wishing me well, assuring me our paths would cross again. They did, briefly, but I wasn’t the same person I had been before. A fire inside can’t burn forever. Eventually you cool off, regroup.
Baldwin comes up a lot these days. Everyone invoking his wisdom, his prescience. The love that brought him into my life was not a coincidence. Each night, I dream vividly about Times Before. People Before. Love Before. Even as I lay next to you, I know you can’t be dreaming of Now either. To dream of Now is not to sleep at all. To dream of Now is to be wide awake.
Why is it that on days when the sky is gray, I think about the past? I’ve been mulling over all of the people I once knew. Wondering where they are now. Some are dead. Some are sober. Some are still spinning their wheels. I never have these thoughts on bright, sunny days. Overcast skies take me right back in time to cold, cloudy Brooklyn. Days I used to spend thinking about my future and now I spend them thinking about the past.
Like so many others, I feel stuck in the present. Waiting for this moment to end but seeing no end in sight. The End is more like Waiting for Godot and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It just took me so long to understand. I think about all the ways humans are trying to process, trying to live without fear or despite fear. Some people are having the time of their lives, it would appear. Road tripping, camping, swimming, boating. While others are struggling to make ends meet, hopeless, tired. It’s always been this way but it seems so much more glaring now. The luxury of a safety net, the indifference of reality.
Some things seem to happen too quickly and yet some things seem to take forever. I think about what’s next for us. A child, of course. But not now. First, we have to pay our debts. Then, we have to decide if this house is the one in which our family will grow. I don’t know the answer. So we’ll wait a few more months. And maybe then we’ll both know. And maybe then we can move forward. What else is there to do anyway?
I am curious these days about the lives of strangers. Not complete strangers but people I used to know. The single ones intrigue me most. For so long, I have been one of two. I almost can’t imagine being just one. What would I do with the time? Would I write? Would I know myself better? Would I be lonely? Would I have more friends? Would I have regrets? Our lives are always just unfolding in small ways and when we look back, we still don’t understand how we ended up where we are today. I know I don’t at least. But to me it seems some people have the plan and others, like me, are hapless. Of course there is no plan. If only I could convince myself that I was one of the ones who knows – why not?
October. Finally. It’s been more than six months since the beginning of The End. I feel numb to it now. This ‘new normal’ people keep mentioning is really just numbness. Knowing it’s The End and carrying on anyway, since what else is there to do. Try to fix it? Maybe. But even that feels vain. All experiments must eventually come to an end.
The president has The Virus. The president is the virus. I, too, may have The Virus. I’ve been sick all weekend, unable to leave the house. You seem to be just fine, which is a relief. You bring me tea and juice and soup and I just lay on the couch like one of the dogs, occasionally adjusting for comfort.
The bigger issue lately seems to be my inability to look forward to anything. I can’t seem to come up with a reason to care about learning anything or planning for my future or even dreaming. Just the idea of it sounds absurd. What is the point? How do people get so wrapped up in their own small lives? I can’t seem to do it but I wish I could. In The End, all Meaning has been zapped from day-to-day. If I sound depressed, maybe I am. But who isn’t? I think I’ve just realized something most people are desperately pretending not to or are too ignorant to realize. So really I don’t feel disconnected from people. I think it’s a good sign.
I do not have The Virus. I guess I am relieved but I am also still in the throes of some intestinal disturbance, the cause of which I have no idea. I am taking my frustration out, unsurprisingly, on you. I know it’s hard. I know you wish you were the one who was sick. But unfortunately for us both, it’s me. And I get mean when I’m feeling bad. I’ll try to be nicer but what I really want is a month long vacation. An abdication of all my responsibilities and duties. That’s my favorite feeling. And it seems like illness always precedes that feeling. Like, mental illness, as it were, last August. My mental state was such that I convinced myself and the world around me that the only cure was quitting my job and doing whatever the hell I wanted. And I did. And it was great, for a while. Sometimes it was boring, sure, but it was always infinitely better than the forced panic of a 9 to 5.
I know I’m not a child anymore because I no longer think in terms of things that happened to me. There are things that happen to other people that are part of my life but they are not things that happened to me. My mom just called me to tell me that Mike tried to kill himself, for example. If this had happened when I was 15 or 16 years old, I would have said it was happening to me. This would allow me to feel bad for myself and elicit pity from friends and family. I no longer do this, and I consider that growth.
But the fact remains that Mike did try to kill himself. He took all of his blood pressure pills, over 100, and all of his Zoloft. The last time we spoke, he sounded so happy. He had gone to his cousin’s birthday party and had met distant family members. He said they’re all Italian and cooked a feast. It sounded nice. I added his city to my weather app so I would know what it felt like there. Long Island. He sounded genuinely happy. It’s truly a feat of the human psyche that it can turn on a dime and convince you life’s not worth living. I also know I’m not a child anymore because I no longer think I can solve for someone else’s unhappiness. I know I’m powerless against the chemicals in someone else’s brain. I’m not a brain chemical.
I feel sad for my mom, too. She’s just doing the best she can and it’s not enough. Happiness keeps slipping through her fingers and love, while some say is all you need, doesn’t seem to be the cure. I think love is a lot of what you need but you also need luck and resources. I told you that I wished we had a bigger house, something I’ve been wishing for a few months. But this time I meant it for unselfish reasons. If we had a bigger house – a house with a basement – Mike could live with us and we could take care of him. Resources. Our house is too small though. He can’t live here but I guess I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. He has to decide he wants to live first.
The Election is tomorrow. The weather has finally changed here and I’m moving my plants inside. You don’t think there will be civil unrest but I am not so sure. I hope that people are too worn down and tired to fight one another. But then again, how else is anything accomplished? A hurricane hit the Gulf coast this week and left us without power for nearly three days. Halloween came and went. In a few days, we’ll leave for Phoenix. And so, things go on.
The Election is over. Luckily, things have been quiet in the days since. I think this signals wounded pride more than peace but it’s fine either way. My mother and I went to Virginia for her sister’s funeral a week ago. I cried for a woman I barely knew. Less for her than for her daughters, whose grief and sorrow were immense. It made me think of a time when I will likely have to bury my own mother. My aunt was a victim of The Virus. She wasn’t healthy but it still feels like such a pointless way to go. I guess that’s insensitive, now that The Virus has taken so many lives. We were tested again yesterday, to be sure. Negative, still.
When I was in Virginia, watching my cousin with her youngest child, it re-awakened my desire to bring another You into the world. I now know the time is here. I wasn’t sure a few months ago. But like any idea, the more time it has to grow, the deeper the roots. And so it feels like we may be gaining some momentum. Toward what, I’m not sure. Your work keeps you busy and your golf does, too. I like it and I’m happy for you. It’s nice to be good at something. I am not sure what will keep me busy in the weeks and months to come. Decorating. Enjoying some semblance of the nostalgia and joy the holidays tend to bring. Writing when the mood strikes.
Mike is going to a long-term care facility from what I understand. He has suddenly and decidedly mentally checked out. I guess life, living, no longer holds much appeal but he’s resigned to go on doing it so long as he doesn’t have to be aware that it’s happening. Something you don’t realize as a child about “being a grown up” is that most of life is tragic. Tragedy upon quotidian tragedy taking place all around you. And it sounds overwhelming but you come to realize that it is the norm. And then it’s just like a low-grade fever. The moments of joy and happiness are short and often surrounded by anger, disappointment, and anxiety. But you take them where you can.
I might be pregnant. I took two tests today. One was inconclusive and one was positive. I’m going to test again tomorrow to be sure. You asked if I was ready to be a mom. Candidly, no. Is anyone ever truly ready? Every child is different. Every experience with parenting is different, too. I will tell you this: I am looking forward to meeting our child. I know that our child, with your genes, will be kind and patient and good. So who wouldn’t want to know someone like that? I am trying not to get my hopes up yet about the future. I know I should let myself get excited because excitement is also sparse these days but I don’t want to jump the gun.
I am pregnant. I have my first ultrasound this morning. The doctor suspects I’m between 7 and 10 weeks along. I will be able to hear the baby’s heartbeat, which is exciting (their words). I cried when I found out and I cried again this morning when they told me how far along I am. I immediately felt guilty for all of the wine and beer (and some vodka) I have consumed over the past two months. But then I remember that this is how most women get pregnant, not knowing until they do.
But now our unborn child’s future stretches out before us like an ocean, unknowable, full of mystery. For the first time, I wonder if my own parents could have predicted the way my life would unfold. Surely not, even though it’s not particularly surprising. I didn’t become a contortionist in a traveling circus or a day trader on Wall Street. There are infinite alternatives more surprising than my path. I guess, as a parent, you start to rule out some of the possibilities little by little as your child becomes who they are.
Remember when people used to say “just be yourself”? That always puzzled me when I was younger. I didn’t know who my self was, and so it felt like an invitation to be a blank page. Perhaps the invention of one’s self is all it means to truly be yourself. Picking up different pieces, seeing if they fit, discarding the ones that don’t and clinging to the ones that do. Like dating. Dating for me has always been a process of personality trial and error. What can I take from my boyfriend’s personality and fit into my own? What idiosyncrasies does he possess that I find worthwhile and interesting? What pieces of his personality will I appropriate? And what parts will make their way in without my knowledge?
The vaccine is forthcoming. I have to convince my fellow employees to get it as soon as they can, as soon as the company offers it to them. And in so doing, I have convinced myself of its magic. Like an antidote to the year we’ve endured. I know it isn’t and I know the end of The End is not quite in sight. I’m thankful for that. I’m not ready to go back to how things used to be. I mean, I miss seeing people and doing social things but not enough to trade it in for the 9 to 5 for the rest of my life. I’m not ready to be grinded down to a nub or desperately climb a corporate ladder I have no interest in. But I always do this. I dread things that haven’t yet happened. That may never happen.
I have my second doctor’s appointment this week. I don’t really know what they’ll tell me but it’s nice to get a progress report on the human growing inside me. I don’t feel it yet. But I have been eating with the reckless abandon of an inmate on death row. Fruits and chocolate are all I seem to crave. I’ve been working in some other categories here and there. I luckily haven’t felt all that sick the way some women do around this stage. But I haven’t ruled out the possibility that my body will turn on me at some point. I somewhat expect it. No one is great at anything their first time. Even with some beginner’s luck.
Also it’s Christmas time. I don’t think I mentioned that, but it is. I wanted to give you a lot this Christmas. Mostly because you deserve it and partially because I get something out of it, too. I know we can’t afford the thing I want most this year but maybe you’ve decided to get it for me anyway. You probably have since being financially responsible isn’t either of our strong suits. The thing I want is a camera.
Seems stupid now to think about things I want. All we do is argue about arguing and not talking and not having enough money. When will these things ever go away? Instead of making things right, you just feel bad for yourself. You are not ready for a child. And it frightens me. You are still, in so many ways, a child yourself. Which would be fine if I wasn’t 31 and pregnant. But I am. As terrible as it sounds, sometimes I wish I had married an older man. Someone more stable and aware of the way things work. I watched you struggle to drop off mail at the post office the other day and it made me angry. How could you not know how to do such a simple thing? What else do you not know how to do?
And then I think, I know I traded stability and maturity for pure kindness and devotion. And I know there isn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do for me so long as you live. I love these qualities about you. But they don’t pay the bills and bills are all we seem to have. I have suggested leaving our capitalist society but you say that’s not the answer. I don’t understand why that isn’t the answer. I would like to forget about all of the things we’re constantly chasing and the stress we feel in trying to accumulate more and more. I would like that and I think it could be that simple. Sell our things. Move to another country. Live within our means. What would we argue about then? Maybe more interesting things, like philosophy or literature.
What started this was my asking to pay for our unborn child’s first genetic testing. It was 99 dollars. It set off a crescendo of stress and blame and yelling that has left me feeling depleted and very much in need of a lottery ticket. I don’t buy lottery tickets, but maybe I will today. I am always trying to solve the problem. I know the answer to this problem means overcoming something within myself that causes me to quit when things get difficult. Not this time. I won’t quit this time because I don’t see another way. Therefore, myself, my output, that is the only way. We can only control our reactions to things that happen, or so people say.
We are having a son. I am somewhat relieved by this because I imagine a daughter of mine would become a difficult teenager. But that’s neither here nor there. And we might still have a daughter someday, anyway.
The former president’s supporters have stormed the Capitol. They desecrated the halls and offices of senators and congress people for what, I still don’t know. My mother’s husband seems to believe there’s a communist conspiracy to take over the country. He thinks they are trying to take his guns. As if the world cares about him at all, I think. Conspiracy is rampant now. It’s mainstream. It is terrible, but when confronted with people who hold these beliefs, I simply think maybe you’ll be dead soon. Not from any external intervention, just natural causes. I think the only way this insanity can be cured is to die. But I’m sure I’m wrong. Because ideas never die. They are all old and recycled and I guess some that you hoped were dead have now been resurrected.
But guns. Why people hold them so dear and feel as if they are an intrinsic right of humanity… it’s impossible for me to understand. What does anyone need a gun for? Protection, they say. From what? Other people with guns. The snake eats its own tail.
I keep my head down, self involved in my own life. What else can one do? The only thing I can control is my output of love. And I have vowed to show you more love because that is what you deserve. Our son growing inside me will need so much love. And I will give it to him freely and without limits. I am prepared to do this because I have always done it. Love is the infinite well we are all capable of drawing from at any time. When you stop, the well dries up. And you are left with hate, distrust, rancor, conspiracy. I will never stop loving you and our child and our families and friends with everything I have because that is all I can control. My love for you will carry us through the End, whatever happens after that, and things we cannot predict or understand. You must know this.
My dreams are filled with the absurd and the mundane. I dream of parties, social events, going places and meeting new people. Things that feel like a dream now because they are more like a memory. I thought I would keep myself to a daily schedule but that was foolish. A daily routine has never been my strong suit. I can’t commit. I prefer to surprise myself by what I can come up with to fill a day. Eating and working out are the only consistent parts of my days. And scrolling. Lots of scrolling. Even as I scroll, I know future me will regret it because it was such a waste of time. But when you’re eager to fill the time, nothing can stop you. I wish I could join a club or a league or something. Even my workout classes are primarily alone. We’re driving to the beach this weekend just to change our view. It won’t even be warm weather.
Making plans for a year that is unknown feels presumptuous. I can’t help but laugh at myself as I plan for a trip or getaway each month. It feels absurd. Last week, we were sure we might have contracted the virus and we both got tested. We were negative, again, but the few hours of uncertainty made me anxious beyond belief. I still have that feeling that I wish I could have been sick already, before I was pregnant. Last year. I just wanted to get it over with but I never did. And now I feel like my body is shared, and so I have to protect it because it’s not just mine. The stupid thing is that I don’t even know if it would be worse to get sick now. But we always fear the unknown. And everything in The End is unknown. One unknown after another.
And who would plan a baby shower in The End? The symmetry of life beginning as an old way of life dies. I long for longer, warmer days. I long to spend my time alone at home, in the sunlight, charging up like a battery for my new life. Maybe learning to meditate, but maybe just listening to the birds. They continue to chirp, to lay eggs, to fly around in circles. The supposed superiority of the human race really seems doubtful these days. I think, if we’re so much better than animals, why then are they completely unaffected by The End? They don’t rely on imaginary systems to prop up the continuation of their existence. They just exist and seem to know much more than we do about the ways of the world. We are foolish to think we are in any way better or above the animals. So foolish.
Yesterday I learned about Igbo Landing. I had never heard of it even though it happened in my state, on the island where we’ll spend the weekend at my in-law’s beach house. A tribe of West Africans who were captured and sold into slavery chose to drown rather than become human property. The cruelty of slavery is so easy to gloss over from the pages of a history textbook. This revolt, as it is known, was likely one of hundreds. Innocent people thrown into a violent existence fought tirelessly for their freedom, even if it meant dying. And when you see what humans are capable of, on both ends of the spectrum, it makes present day events less surprising. In fact, almost predictable. For how much we like to think we have changed, we are still a vile, misanthropic species. And our cruelty is not so creative.
We screamed at each other this morning and I told you I hated you. I don’t hate you, I could never hate you. I just wanted to hurt you and I did. I do not like this impulse in myself but I tried to warn you it was coming on. The more we yelled, the more upset I got and in the end, I said the only thing I knew would make you stop. I’m sorry. I am still mad but I am sorry. We are talking so much these days about moving to a new house, fixing our current house, and I have taken on too much stress as a result. I know you are stressed, too. Our whole world is stressed. Everyone is stressed. It is the Year of Stress. Still, I don’t want our unborn child to feel stressed. My yelling and crying are audible inside me. He is halfway through his time in my belly and I don’t want to take it for granted. Once he is out, he is out for good. Moving farther and farther away each day, month, and year. I want this time to be peaceful, despite all the stress.
Wherever you are right now – in your car, at your studio, or somewhere else – I know you are still in this morning. Still feeling the hangover and regret of our anger. Psychically, I think I can send you a message. I have done it before with small things, like what to eat for dinner. I think our child has given me this ability, our genes joined together. But when we fight, I lose it. Tomorrow we fly to Colorado. You will ski and I will walk around taking pictures. I hope we can reclaim our excitement between now and then. To share moments of joy in the face of an ongoing pandemic can feel selfish but what else do we have? We take what we can get.
I feel my son moving inside me now for the first time. I see my body changing in subtle and not so subtle ways. I am planning my baby shower, which is not something I’ve ever said before. There is something special about saying something so mundane but new at the same time. It is a first and life only gives you so many firsts. When we got married, I didn’t appreciate the things that were happening for the first time. I didn’t want to seem too excited. I wanted to seem like I had life experience and that I was unfazed. I no longer do this as much. When I talk to my friends, I try to come across as perpetually casual. But inside, I am appreciating the newness. Between me and myself, where it matters.
These days, it feels less and less like The End. A whole year has passed and what have we learned? Patience. Resilience. That the things that matter most aren’t things, of course. I’ve been sitting in the dining room for a whole year, looking out the same window at the same view of my neighbors house and where the squirrels bury their acorns. A year ago, I was thinking about how grateful I was for the time at home, not knowing how long it would last. I’m still just as grateful somehow. I am grateful and at the same time optimistic that there is more in store for both of us. For all three of us. You have kept me safe all year. I know it has been hard for you, you tell me you’re depressed. But you’re doing such a good job – I hope that gives you some joy. You will be happy again. These things come in seasons.
As the days grow longer and my body stretches to accommodate our son, I am full of so many thoughts. I know in my bones that I can and must write a book. A book that I will make into a movie. I had a dream that I told a friend much worse books are made into movies all the time. And that is true. The story wants to be told and I want to let it come through me. I am full of resolve, perhaps for the first time in my life. The fact that it is nearly spring again and that the birds chirp and the flowers bloom helps. By the time nature retreats, we will have our son to teach about the indoors. To hear the notes of the piano as played by you with his tiny fingers. To know the warmth of two dogs curled around him on the couch. To stare into our eyes and know love.
In the end, it was only the beginning.