not what i planned, an ode to my own:
today is september 30, 2020. this day last year, i was splitting a plate of ribs with my friend on her birthday, trying sakè from someone else’s ceramic cup. by the time october crept into the dark skyline, we were drunk off PBRs, giggly and waiting for the subway to take us home.
this morning i’d all but forgotten about the subway, the sakè, the thoughtlessness. i woke up at 6:11am, in a room i had half a hand in decorating when i was 10 years old, when i really liked Vera Bradley’s Java Blue. it was still dark out when i grabbed my apron and my mask, and glanced at my freshly bleached hair. it was still dark out when i got in my car to drive to work.
this… this life is not what i planned on at all. i did not plan on knowing that Mrs. Renee likes her iced coffee with caramel and classic and extra heavy cream. i did not plan on growing a collection of Atlantic Slipper Snail shells. i did not plan on reading a book of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s interviews, mourning her passing, while i wait in the prescription line behind a car with a Tr*mp sticker staring me in the face. i did not plan on the bartender knowing i like the Peach Wheat beer after just one evening. i did not plan on watching America fall apart over and over on my computer screen. i did not plan on so many people and places i love getting comfortable existing in my rearview, in my phone’s speakers. i did not plan on returning to the beach i grew up on, i did not plan on… the South.
i didn’t want any of this; i’ve continually kept weaving between the lines of disbelief and acceptance of my current reality. but tonight i saw a gathering of surfers honoring one of their own at golden hour with sunflowers, with beer, and what we once called thoughtfulness. i looked up and out at the ocean, placid and ever changing, always there. i walked back to write this, so i might try to honor my own too.
i’ll consider this an ode of sorts, a gratitude list during a dumpster fire year. an ode to what’s mine:
to the kind woman who spent six hours making my hair look magical again, to community that can tether you, whether you ask for it or not.
to the seashells that surface, broken and fragmented. to the tide’s steadiness and shifts, to the endless possibilities that exist on a single shoreline.
to the beagles that walk by as i write part of this on an iPhone note, sandy and free; leashless and loyal to their people.
to the one-song bike ride it takes to arrive at the boardwalk i’ve always known. to my care in picking that song thoughtfully.
to those [current] songs, and my friends and/or heroes that make them: acolyte - slaughter beach, dog. over my head - fleetwood mac. guest in your life - sinai vessel. old friends - pinegrove. rive - louis prince. this feeling - alabama shakes. moments / tides - goth babe. here comes the sun (cover) - nina simone.
to the one birthday i can’t help but remember in the midst of my perpetual forgetfulness. to the people that’ve made me, even if i didn’t realize the extent until after we’ve moved and changed, until after we’ve become strangers.
to the library card that no matter where i live, seems to crack the world wide open. to fighting against the notion that youth is wasted on the young.
to the dead sunflowers still whirling about the shore on october fifth. to the way i cannot choose between a smile or a frown, so i choose both.
