Growing up, Juan was led to believe by general chatter that lightning, while certainly a risk, was not something a person had to be particularly concerned about. Sure, if you are in a pool and the lifeguard on duty isn’t a teenager, you usually have to get out of the pool when the weather starts turning electric, but otherwise, no one really made any fuss about it - you just carry on with your day.

One day in the 10th grade, Juan was walking home from school. It was a fairly lovely day, the sky being blue and whatnot, when rather suddenly a storm rolled in and lightning shortly followed the dimming of the sky. Juan pulled his jacket up over his head to keep the rain off his rare good hair day, as he kicked up his pace into a quick jog. Then came a huge flash of light followed immediately by the loudest noise he’d ever heard and then CONK on the head like a hardback book had been dropped from the sky. It wasn’t enough to knock him down but enough to be alarming. He stopped dead in his tracks - actually, strike that poor and inaccurate turn of phrase, he stopped *alive* in his tracks. He seemed to be fine, but what the hell was that? He turned around and spotted a badly fried bird on the sidewalk, and it hit him - again, what a poor turn of phrase, though at least accurate this time - the bird must have been struck by lightning. Juan squatted a little closer, it didn’t seem possible that the bird could still be alive, but Juan was a hope-filled optimist. As he got closer, a thought occurred to him, a phrase that’s been uttered so often it seems true, but is it? They say lightning never strikes twice, and Juan thought, if that’s true (and why wouldn’t it be?) then Juan was arguably in the exact safest spot.

Juan would soon discover that despite the popularity of the phrase, lightning, in fact, often strikes the same place multiple times. Really makes you wonder who these people are that come up with such nonsense phrases! Anyway, no need for suspense or surprise, if you’re smart you’ve surely realized that Juan was about to be struck by lightning. ZAP! Juan’s gangly, brown body laid over the corpse of the fried bird, though in better shape than his flat, feathered friend. Long story short, he survived, his hearing didn’t.

And that wasn’t all the changed after that day. Not that it’s possible, but Juan couldn’t help believing that the spirit of that bird had entered his orbit and seemed mangled with him, congealed somehow. Some nights he would dream he was flying and when the sky would turn the slightest shade darker, get vivid flashbacks of the dreadful day little birdie went WOOSH, ZAP, BONK.  He also noticed when birds would sing around him, though he couldn’t hear them, he seemed to be able to understand their meaning, which surely wasn’t the slightest bit probable, yet still...he was never more certain about anything than that the bluebird on his block was pissed at the cardinal (for some multi-generational family feud drama). He was also shocked to be somehow privy to the new-to-him, ungoogled fact that actually evening birds have superior verbal abilities and get more worms than early birds.

As a lightning strike survivor, Juan’s desire to know everything he could about lightning risk caught on fire - again, what an absolutely terrible turn of phrase. The fact that most struck Juan to his core - good god, what is wrong with me?? - was the fact that one-third of lightning-strike injuries occur indoors. Yes, you heard me, even in your very home you could be struck by lightning. The odds are higher if you are on your computer or other electrical equipment. Weather.gov also advises you avoid plumbing! When’s the first or last time you ever heard someone say during a thunderstorm - “Hey! Don’t use the toilet! It’s lightning out!” Never?! You should also stay away from window, doors, and porches. Do not lie on concrete floors or lean against concrete walls. Are you absolutely kidding me, weather.gov?? In fact, they are not. In fact, weather.gov has not once written a certified joke.

Juan became the most reclusive recluse that ever lived. He bought an old nuclear missile bunker in Nebraska. The only thing above ground was the door. One day as he was playing his 500,021st game of solitaire, he heard an undeniable flapping sound which was weird both because he was more than 100 feet below ground, and also because, if you’ll recall from mere paragraphs ago, he was now deaf. Nevertheless, he started looking around like a dog convinced the squirrel on tv is real - and to everyone’s surprise but himself, found an actual, alive bird. The bird, terrified to find a human, looked for an exit. Juan, simultaneously did the math on how in the world an alive bird came to be in an underground bunker. Was there a hole somewhere? And if so, how long til lightning found him?

As frustrating as I’m sure it is to read this sentence, I still have to tell you that there will be no hole. There will be no logical realization of how the bird got there. You’ll have to chalk it up to one of those unsolved mysteries like the ones Juan’s mom obsessed over back when cable was a thing that meant TV. Juan named the bird Betty, because why not? One day Betty started building a nest with all the discarded tissues Juan had ever snotted into. This was devastating for a few reasons, one because Juan only had 10 boxes of tissue in the bunker and he’d run out 2 years earlier, and had been reusing them until they disintegrated - I know it’s disgusting, but what do you want from me? Comfort or truth?? The second reason it was devastating (and also possibly confusing or problematic) was because it meant Betty was about to have babies.  To be honest, you really shouldn’t be surprised about this - the title of this story is “Juan has three birds and a ghost” and so far Juan has neither or maybe 1 bird or 1 ghost, depending on where I’m going with this story, which to be honest, your guess is as good as mine at this point.

So, Betty had 2 babies, Bluecifer and Browser - and so that’s the 3 birds for you. Phew, okay, only 1 ghost to go.

Juan, Betty, Bluecifer and Browser quickly became their own insta-family, They developed a routine. Sleep in late, since the early bird definitely doesn’t get the worm, coffee, then flight lessons, lunch, then solitaire, choir practice, stretching, hot coco with marshmallows, followed by worm hunting and ghost stories, then bed. One night, - okay, here we go, ghost stuff - as Browser was crowing off a real dumb ghost story, all the candles suddenly went out. In the pitch dark and deafening silence (really?), Juan felt a familiar presence. It was warm, but authoritative, smelled like vanilla and vodka, and soon lit up the smallest flame revealing its mildly translucent and overly lined red lips. “Mother???” Juan yelled - which then echoed through the bunker. Mother smiled, her left upper lip mole creasing into a half moon. A single tear fell from Juan’s left eye as he realized what her appearance in this form meant. She was gone from the world above, he had missed her final years, his fear secluding him from all he had once loved.

Juan rushed to her side and threw his arms around then through her. He stood and stared - she stared back. Betty quacked, duck-ily. Bluecifer and Browser hid behind her. Juan’s Mom said something but unlike the birds, he couldn’t understand. She stared at him intently - clearly it was something important. Juan said, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” Juan’s Mom shut her yap and held up her see-through hands and signed I LOVE YOU. Juan signed it back. Juan’s Mom shut her eyes as though resigning herself to be taken up to heaven. Juan and co. watched on. Minutes passed awkwardly. Juan’s Mom began to panic. Was she in an underground bunker not just to say a final goodbye to Juan, but because it was on the way to an even more southern destination?  Juan’s Mom’s eyes showed panic as she looked down. Minutes passed. Bluecifer yawned. Browser put himself to nest. Years passed. You had to know where I was going with this. The title is “Juan has three birds and a ghost.”

And so, that’s how it came to be that Juan had three birds and a ghost. If it impresses you much, I can also say it in Italian: Juan ha Tre uccelli e un fantasma.

I sit in my home and look around with pride 
and a little confusion.

How did I get here? 
When did it happen?

I remember being excited and disappointed 
and feeling like I was stuck, 
standing still,
while life collapsed 
and regrew 
and sped past me.

I ran, trying to keep up.

I remember often feeling like 
I wasn't measuring up to someone's expectations
(maybe they were my own)

and there was a clock,
this impatient metronome, 
that kept reminding me
I was off-rhythm and out of tune.

I remember trying to do everything right,
trying so hard, changing so much 
that I abandoned myself 
for what I perceived to be needed. 

I remember pain
and I remember love.

I remember dreaming and I remember realizing
the dream wasn't going to come true. 

I remember when I stopped 
being able to see a future.
Days of hoping I would die. 

I remember remembering things I liked,
like they were strangers 
- it still kind of feels like that sometimes.

I remember admitting defeat 
and how the hardest thing to say
was the thing that made the future 
blossom back into sight.

I remember longing 
and wondering if I would ever be loved.

I remember finding and feeling love;
then, fearing and losing love.

Today I do not long for what has been, 
for what I've had,
for what I've lost, 
for what I want.

I do not hear the metronome. 
I do not fear the dreams that may or may not come. 
I am here and here is safe.
Here is quiet. 

Here is the culmination of all the days I've lived.

I'm grateful for the questions yet unanswered,
for the things I do not have - 
it means there is somewhere to go.

I am grateful for where and who I've been
and how I've tried and what I've learned.
I am at peace at home.
I am full alone. 

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" is playing as I walk into the dimly lit, eccentrically decorated hotel bar on West Main Street in downtown Louisville. As it so happens, I'm wearing a red satin dress. I take this as a nod of approval from the universe that what I'm about to do is harmony with what is fated.  ​

Twenty-five years ago I was crying in my broken down car in the parking lot of a gas station in my small Missouri home town. I was about $10,000 in debt and barely (sometimes not) paying my bills, even though I was working 40 hours a week as a secretary for an Investment Firm where my boss lived in a small mansion, bringing in over half a million a year. I didn't know what to do. The gas station attendant offered to call a tow truck, and when I refused because I couldn't spare the cost, he had all but insisted because I was “taking up space from paying customers.” I told him (in my most confident--or to hear him tell it "bitchiest" voice) that I would get it fixed and off the property within 2 hours, and that seemed to satisfy him even though I had no idea what I was doing or how I would manage such a feat short of calling in a Criss Angel type magician to make my car simply "disappear."  

So, I'm crying, right? And I guess because of that, I'm putting out that whole "damsel-in-distress" vibe that really gets certain boners going. One such boner comes up to me and starts straight off with that condescending, old-fashioned misogynistic, "Oh, sweety" this and "Baby" that and I'm getting real claustrophobic just being in my skin in the vicinity of him. In my most assertive voice I tell him to, "Back off. Thanks, but I've got it handled. Just leave me be." Well, that sets him off and he starts going off on what a bitch I am for declining his offer to help me and because I was raised the way I was raised in the community I was raised in, I start to wonder if maybe I am being a bitch for following my instincts to decline his  offer to help. I'm on the verge of apologizing when this other guy, maybe early thirty's, brown wavy hair, the type to wear khaki's and a white polo shirt comes up and says, "Hey, Caroline! So sorry I'm late." And just stares at the first guy until he backs off. I look at him, my insides still shaking from the extra adrenaline, and say, "Thanks." He says, "You good here?" I say, "Yes" so fast that I immediately regret it and, still feeling guilty for potentially having been rushing a judgement on the previous guy, I say, "Actually, maybe not." He slides his khaki's across the passenger seat and reaches toward me, suddenly my hand, holding the coffee I bought inside to try to get the gas station guy off my ass, is being flung on him--like my arm is possessed. I apologize profusely. Khaki pants just looks shocked and amused, but not annoyed. "It's alright," he says. "I was just trying to use your phone. May I?" "Sure," I say handing it over to him.  

Now I start getting all self-conscious that the only reason I'm letting khaki pants help me as opposed to the other guy is because this guy looks more trustworthy (his clothes are cleaner--sans the coffee I just threw on him--and he reminds me of my brother) and he doesn't speak using overly familiar "sweetheart" nicknames. I start thinking about how we're all just acting in the ways we're taught to act and I'm debating if my instincts are real or just discriminatory. Basically, I'm doing the mental gymnastics of being a woman--don't be too nice, you'll lead them on, don't be too mean, you'll get murdered, don't be judgmental and generalize that all men either want to rape or murder you, and don't flatter yourself that you think a man would even want to rape or murder you (you're not. that. special!).  

I must have done a really long gymnastic routine, because by the time I come back to reality, a tow truck is pulling up next to us and khaki pants is giving them his credit card number. "No, wait!" I say jumping out of the car. In a hushed and anxious tone, I whisper to khaki pants that I can't afford to pay him back for this. He just smiles and says it's fine and not to worry about that right now. I thank him profusely and accept his offer to drive me home.  As I'm getting out of his car he tells me that he put his number in my phone under "White Knight" as a joke, but that his real name is Robert. "Call anytime," he says. I say I will. I say I owe him dinner. I tell him I'll call, and I mean it. 

But then, you know, life. And I'm trying to get enough money to get my car fixed. And then my cat dies. I get behind on my rent and my landlord evicts me. I stay with my 2nd cousin, Polly, for a few months even though she hates me being there--and I can't blame her--it's tight in her studio apartment with two dogs! I apologize daily for my existence. I try to keep it tidy, to help out. I promise I'll be out of her hair soon. In just two more months I'll have enough saved for a deposit on my own place.  

I'm at work. It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm bent down in the lobby cleaning up some kind of mess--I don't know why I can't remember what kind of mess it was or what happened to cause it.... maybe animal poop? The dirt of an office plant knocked over? Who knows. I'm bent down dusting it up when I feel someone kneel down beside me, I glance up and it's him. Khaki pants aka White Knight aka Robert. I smile in shock. He doesn't looks so happy. My smile fades just as he pops a smile on and jests, "Hey, you were gonna call me." "Yeah, about that... sorry." "That tow wasn't cheap you know! You owe me dinner, don't you?" His tone is a mix of joking and not-at-all-fucking joking. I'm not sure how to respond, so I just say, "I do," as I continue to sweep up the brown matter on the floor. He takes out his phone, still kneeling beside me and presses a button. The phone at the front desk rings and Samantha, my co-worker, grabs it for me, "Fidelity. This is Sam." "Hey, Sam. This is Robert. I'd like to make an appointment with..." he puts is hand over the phone, "You never did tell me your name." "Juniper," I say. He cackles softly, "Seriously?" He unclasps his hand from the phone, "I'd like to make a lunch meeting with Juniper for tomorrow at noon. At Raphael's. Her treat." I go to protest--say it's too expensive--say I'm busy, but he puts his hand up. The nerve! I'm thinking. I can't tell if I'm completely repulsed or semi-flattered, but I'm leaning toward repulsed. Sam, observing this, stutters, "Uh, we don't really make appointments for secretaries... I mean, we don't really make personal lunch meetings or you know... that's really up to her." He hangs up as if he's accomplished his goal and stands, "I'll see you tomorrow. Noon. Raphael's!" He walks off, shaking his head, giggling, "Juniper." 

My name's not Juniper. But he already knew this. He knew this because after I didn't call him, he went back to my house and went through the mail in my mailbox. He knew my name was Cait Lois Hopper. And because he also stole some of my mail, he knew where I worked, how much I made, my ATT account number, and that I, at one time (in a more financially stable place), donated to ACLU. I'd always wanted to change my name to Juniper when I was kid, I guess that's why it came out; also, because the unpredictable energy he was exuding was making me nervous in that same old claustrophobic way. The next day, when I failed to show up at Raphael's, I expected some kind of... something to happen. I watched the door like a hawk... is this the start of something awful? I would think. But nothing happened. I mean, there were more phone calls at work than usual and a lot of the time no one would be on the line--it would just be silent, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It had happened less frequently, but still quite a bit, before so it didn't seem that unusual and certainly didn't feel connected.  

What I didn't know then was that I was being surveilled 24/7. At home, at work, awake, asleep, online, and in person. What I didn't know then, was that my White Knight was stalking me and was determined to make me his, in the most possessive of terms. It was the start of something awful and that something awful lasted 25 years. 25 years of almost deadly encounters, and job losses after he started doing more than just calling and sitting silently on the line, but started harassing everyone I worked with and spreading lies about me, and waking up in the middle of the night because I felt his presence in the room only to not find him but then in the morning find a note he left behind. I moved dozens of times. I went to the police even more. I got a restraining order but could never PROVE he broke it. I tried to date, but when a boyfriend ended up waking up to his house on fire... I stopped trying. My life had been a living nightmare. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't be around family or friends, couldn't hold down a job, couldn't live like this anymore. 

Three months earlier, I had managed to somehow successfully seem to go under his radar. I changed my identity and had moved for the umpteenth time. I don't know how it worked but it did. I felt, briefly, free. But I knew... he was coming. And suddenly, not knowing when or where or how he would emerge was worse than when I knew he was there every day. My anxiety spiked so high I ended up hospitalized for a heart attack. That's the night I decided enough was enough. It was me or him and I wasn't willing to sacrifice any more of myself for him. It had been 25 years.  

I bought a gun. I stalked him. I found him. I drove to Louisville. I got a hotel room at the hotel where he was staying. I went to the bar and waited. Just after midnight we locked eyes across the room while the bartender yelled for last call.  

"Hi, Robert." I said, sliding into his booth. "I hear you've been looking for me." 

Robert, speechless, just stared as if I had walked into the room straight from his dreams.  

"So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to take me up to your room, yes? And I'm going to order you that dinner you deserve. So sorry to have been so long in getting back to you. You know how life is. Tragic. And then, we're going to be done with all this, yes? Yes. And you're going to move on." 

"Of... of course." Robert said, smiling uneasily. "You... you look just great. Red satin. Great." 

Robert and I exited the booth. I held my arms open, "After you, Robert." He stared back at me, unsure, but then proceeded. 

"I'm caught, uh, a little of guard here. I didn't know you were coming, so, so, so you'll have to excuse the mess. If you could just give me minute to tidy up..." Robert stuttered as we neared his door. 

"Oh, I don't mind a little mess, Bobby! I thought you knew that about me." I smiled coyly as he slowly put the card key in the door, but then paused short of turning the handle. 

"I really wish you would let me go in and tidy up, Cait. This is very embarrassing for me." 

"Why? Do you have company?" I ask. 

"No. Not, not exactly, but..." 

"Well, go on then!" I say, flashing my gun.  

Robert's eyes suddenly flare as if there's been an explosion. "Oh. Oh!" He turns around in place and then just stands and stares at me. "No." He says defiantly. "No." 

"Really? But I wanna..." I say slowly. "Lemme see." The key still in lock, I turn the handle and kick the door open. "After you." 

Robert walks backward into the room and sits in the chair. The wall behind him covered in surveillance photos of me from 5 months earlier.  

I lick my lips, in dehydrated, anxious, anticipation, my heart beating so fast I'm begging it to slow down. "So, you're not going to stop, are you? Ever? And that's not okay. I can't live like this anymore, Robert. And I think you know that, don't you? You've put me through hell and so now it's time for you to go." 

Robert starts to speak and I cannot let him leak one more word into my life, I shoot him in the head. Red everywhere. I'm disgusted. I scream. I'm in shock.  

"Well," I say to no one. 

"That's done," I say to no one. 

I look down at my blood stained everything and leave the gun on the floor. I walk to the door, down the hall, and to the lobby. People stare. I go to reception. The man behind the desk is on the phone but he stops speaking when he sees me. 

"Yes, hi. I'd like to report a murder. You should probably call the police. Also, I did it, but don't worry, please. I left the gun in the room and I have no intention of hurting anyone else. I'll just wait over here until they come, okay? So sorry for... all this. It must be terribly scary for you." 

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" plays again--must be a playlist on repeat. The blood of Robert mixing with the red satin of my dress. I sit on the cozy lounge chair, even though I know I shouldn't--the mess and all. Very rude of me. But I think... it may be the last time I get to sit in a truly comfortable chair. And who knows how long the police will take--and suddenly sirens. Not long at all I suppose. They never were that quick in getting to me, ah well... 

"Ah, well," I say to no one. "Done, now. Now I can sleep.” 

I was sitting on the sand, while the waves lapped up and over my feet like an enthusiastic dog’s tongue in the morning. I fixed my gaze upon the Santa Monica Pier a few feet away. Nile had just left to go get us some hot dogs, and I could see him in his bright red shirt, stalled on the pier to observe the man with the parrot act who was leaning into the franchised “pirate” look made famous by Johnny Depp. Nile and I were a day away from celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary and about 2 months away from celebrating the birth of our first child, Naomi. This trip was meant to be half anniversary vacation and half babymoon. Santa Monica was just a short 3 hour drive away and our friends offered to let us stay in their beach house (which they left vacant about 11 months of the year—what a waste!). So, really, it was a vacation motivated more by convenience than anything else.  

Nile and my relationship was stalled, like Nile on the pier with the parrot, we kept parroting the same arguments back and forth without ever moving forward to get our proverbial hot dogs. Naomi wasn’t conceived to fix that, but once she made herself known, she certainly quickly made it hard to break ourselves apart. How could we say no to a week on the beach? We had the vacation time saved up. We had a free place to stay. We had no excuse other than the fact that we didn’t want to be around each other 24/7 for a week and the fact the being on an implied romantic beach vacation would only make it all the more apparent that our relationship had lost its romantic spark long ago. And you can’t exactly say that to your friends when they kindly offer you their beach house for the week. So, here we are. Day one. Hour two. Six days to go. Countless tense hours and silent seconds ahead. I feared this may be the final nail in the coffin of our relationship and while the potential for less tension in my life and the hope of new love did give me some comfort, the overwhelming feeling was one of anxiety at how I would manage birth, a newborn, and a divorce all at the same time.  
 
The “d” word was fresh on my tongue—I’d said it just 2 days earlier in a sort of casual should-we-or-shouldn’t-we kind of way that I’d been mastering over the last 365 days. Nile’s response was to shut down, say nothing, and wait for me to change the subject. I didn’t get it. He didn’t seem happy. But he refused to talk about it with me. He wouldn’t talk about why he wasn’t happy, he wouldn’t talk about our relationship, he wouldn’t ask if I was happy, he wouldn’t try to come up with ways to improve our relationship, he wouldn’t give his opinion on if we would be better off apart…. nothing! We were stalled on the pier.  

“I didn’t know if you wanted one or two, so I got you two. If you don’t want it, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Nile said returning with the hot dogs.

“Two is perfect. Thanks,” I said.  

“No problem.” Nile sat down and stared off into the horizon. 

I looked over at him, fixating on the mole to the right of his left ear--had it grown? I touched it softly and he turned sharply, “Did I get some ketchup on my face?” 

“No. No…” I couldn’t stop thinking about the time after we first started dating and we came out to the Santa Monica Pier and ate ice cream on the beach. He had kissed me—his chocolate ice cream still flavoring his lips and my strawberry ice cream flavoring mine creating this delicious chocolate covered strawberry swirl. “Do you remember the first time we came here?” I asked.  

Nile furrowed his brows trying to summon the memory. Suddenly, “Ah!” he smiled, but then ever so slightly retreated back into his protective shell. “That was fun. We got ice cream from… what was that place called?” He looked around as if hoping to find something so long ago forgotten that he couldn’t quite tell if it was real or imagined.  

“Soda Jerks.” I said, pointing my finger in the store’s direction. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s over there.” 

Nile shook his head in quasi-annoyed disbelief, “The memory on you.” 

I smiled, “Pregnant too! Doubly impressive, no?” 

“Truly,” Nile rested his hand on my belly. “Your Mama remembers everything for better or worse, Naomi. You’ll do well to learn that now.” 

I stared at him. “For better or worse?” 

“Forget it.” Nile said. “Sorry.”

To the untrained ear, we were just a happy married couple having hot dogs and a nice conversation on the beach, but our ears were calibrated to the same station--and we both knew this interaction was a publicly disguised fight we'd fought a hundred times before. We both sensed the rising tension and danger of a quick escalation and so, not wanting to throw proverbial punches, we both just dropped it. 

The sun was starting to set. Perhaps it was hormones, or the collective anxiety of months of a rocky relationship with someone who used to be my best friend, but tears started falling out my eyeballs and wouldn’t stop. Nile noticed, though he tried to pretend he hadn’t. We had learned each other’s cues so well now that I could tell he felt annoyed that I was crying even though he would never admit it.  

“Sorry.” I said, at the same time resenting my impulse to apologize.  

“Should we head back?” Nile asked, standing.

“Go ahead.” 

“…without you?” 

“Yeah,” he helped me up, always needed to play the role of gentleman. “I’m gonna get some ice cream.” 

He stared at me, as if to say, “Without me?” But he wouldn’t say that and I knew he wouldn’t say that which is why I didn’t bother clarifying.  

“Okay,” he said. “Be safe.” 

Be Safe. That’s all that’s left to say when “I love you” is no longer relevant. Don’t get murdered or mulled—it would really be a hassle for me to deal with if you did. Don’t be a hassle. Be safe.

He walked off. I watched for a moment. I wondered what he would do with his free time in the empty beach house. Probably watch some tv show he’s seen 1,000 times already and drink some wine since he couldn’t drink around me without feeling guilty.  

I started walking through the hot sand towards the ice cream shop, Naomi doing flips in my tummy. This isn’t how I wanted to bring a child into the world. To be frank, I didn’t want to bring a child into the world at all, but low and behold, after a rare moment of mutual horniness and too many glasses of wine, Nile and I had sex for the first time in 3 months and made a human. Ope.  

They should really require a course before you get to be a certified adult. I don’t know what I’m doing! I would have flunked out by now and been held back in childhood—unable to make big decisions like getting married and having a baby; relegated to conquering the monkey bars and mastering cutting in circles with scissors. But no, we’re all out here just flying blind and making life-changing mistakes aren't we?

Mistake 1. Marrying Nile. 

No. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. I loved him. I love him? I mean, what is love? Is it even real? I couldn’t have foreseen our relationship turning into what it has become. It was so great in the beginning. Maybe we just didn’t have staying power, maybe we changed too much, maybe we didn’t work hard enough to make it work. Maybe love is an illusion we trick ourselves into believing so others can be envious that we’ve found the “one.” 

Whether I was ever actually in love with Nile or not, the current fact of the situation is that I don’t want to be around him. And so, I shouldn’t be. Simple!

I had arrived in front of Soda Jerks. I went inside and ordered two scoops, one chocolate, one strawberry. I would be my own chocolate covered strawberry swirl. I would create my own magic. I would move us forward off this pier, by force if need be. I decided to tell Nile when I got back to the beach house that I wanted a divorce. No questions this time, just a statement. “I want a divorce.”  

As the anxiety about the logistics of our situation started creeping in, I forced myself to start imagining a new life—me and Naomi. Just the two of us. Doing whatever we want. Dancing in the sunlight on a Sunday morning.  I hated dancing and couldn't for the life of me actually see myself enjoying a grace-less, uncoordinated dance with my newborn in whatever shitty apartment I could find to afford on my own but for whatever reason this was the daydream that comforted me.

“Ma’am?” An older voice with an out of place southern accent drawled. “Is this you?” The old lady was excitedly walking out from behind the counter with an old Polaroid picture. “I can’t believe it! It is, isn’t it?” 

She held out the photo for me to examine—two young lovers kissing over their ice cream cones, the sun setting vibrantly behind them. I clutched my cheek and got butterflies in the pit of my stomach--Naomi, are you seeing this? I felt briefly like I did the first time I kissed Nile--a strong, overwhelming, joyous feeling I hadn't felt in so long, here now so rudely interrupting the determination of my decision to leave—casting shadows of doubt on the notion.

“Yes, that's me. I’ve never seen this… how did you…?”  

“I’m Paula Crohn. I been workin’ here for 20 years and oh, five or so years ago my nephew was visitin’ and playing around with his Daddy’s Polaroid camera and took this photo. I thought it was just such a gorgeous little picture. But by the time it developed, y’all were halfway down the beach and lost in the crowd. Benny, that’s my nephew, he wanted to find you and give it to y’all before he had to go back home to Memphis, but… anyhow, I said you’d be back. Everybody comes back eventually. Our ice cream’s that good, right?” She winked, and then glanced down at my belly. “I see things worked out for y'all.” 

I stared down at the photo of Nile and I at the start of everything, and so certain of our love. It was a great photo, beautifully captured. I noticed our ice cream cones--wait a minute, I thought. In Nile’s hand was a strawberry ice cream cone and in mine was a chocolate ice cream cone. Guess my “perfect” memory had its holes after all and I couldn’t wait to tell Nile… 

Nile.  

“Can I keep this?” I asked Paula. 

“Of course, honey! That’s what I been sayin’! We been trying to get this photo to ya for years!” She clasped her hands around mine. “Y’all take care now. And don’t wait so long next time to come back in and see us for a scoop or two!” 

“Will do,” I said. “Thank you.”  

My slow walk back to the beach house was inexplicably accompanied by romantic old Jazz tunes blasting out one of the shops—the kind Nile and I danced to at our wedding—as if the universe was throwing me little signs to remind me of what Nile and I used to have together… of what we could possibly have again if we found a way to work at it together. I looked at the picture and the look on our faces reminded me of something I had forgotten… what it had felt like when things were good between us. Something so incredibly special. In this photo: proof of our love. And in this photo I found myself confronted with what I would really be giving up if I called it quits on our marriage--the good stuff. If we could find a way to get to the good stuff again... it would be worth it to stay and get through this rough period. If we could learn from it, grow from it, get closer from it, it would all be worth it... now it just came down to if I was willing to try... was he?

I opened the door. "Nile...?" 

I pulled out all my eyelash extensions last night.
/               /      //                  / /                  /
It was nearing midnight and my eyes felt justifiably tired.
    /  //                              // /         /
Stress eating me from the inside out.
        /                / / //
My head and eyelids would bob down in a "lights-out" warning, but I would only re-steady and keep working until around 2 am when I finally
/             //                       //                         ////                           /
                                                                                   surrendered.
    //                    /                       //                       /
I woke at 7am ready to get back at it.
                 /                     //
Chunks of eyelash strands with glue at the base  s t r e w n  around me on my bed. 
   /    /                //                                      ///                           /

​*

I don't know what day it is, but I stole time away for you. 

we try to make ourselves 
safe and untouchable
better than the "others"
but it is all an illusion

healthy diets
poor diets
all the same
die

tragic deaths 
timely deaths 
sudden or 
in pain

we try to feel superior
thinking it can save us
from something

but money can not 
save you
nothing can

there is so much pain
on earth
at times i find it hard
to pretend not to see it

sometimes you have to look away
or such is the feeling--because you
fear if you do not
you will explode in your sorrow

so while i still have the privilege 
of looking away sometimes
i will selfishly take it

life is hard and it hurts

days like today 
(where nothing terrible is happening
in my personal life--but everyone else's
pain is pulsing through my veins--
the shaking, scared chicken i saw trembling
in a video I accidentally stumbled upon on twitter,
the children in their mother's arms seeking asylum
at the border of a country who has decided not to
be their asylum, the president telling congresswomen
to go back "to their broken countries" and
so much more...)
days like today
i find it so hard to care about
SUCCESS!!!!!!
about succeeding
and getting money
getting that new car
buying a house
getting married
doing the "life tradition"
it all feels like such a mirage

and i start to wonder
does this happen to us all?
have people always been awake
to all this pain and terror?
or did it come into the widened consciousness
with the internet?

where do you go from here?
how do you make sense of your days?
what do you put on your to-do list to
make the most benefit of yourself on earth
to ease the most pain of others on earth
and take care of yourself the same?

i sit in my room and write
because i don't know the answers
every little thing i do to try and help
never feels enough
feels like shallow attempts so i can 
feel i tried--
what can i do that will really matter?

i sit in my room and look at my walls
they seem solid
they keep the bad weather out
they keep me cool or warm
and dry
they give me privacy and make
me feel safe
but their solidness is penetrable
just as mine is
and all of it, all of us 
temporary

safety is a lie
you're safe until you're not
you're here until you're gone

and all the things you do
to stay safe and nice and fine
wont matter

i know people who didn't drink much
and ate pretty healthy and were active that
died far younger than others i know still living
alcoholics, smokers, reckless with their lives
go figure

but not smoking, eating healthy, exercising
getting financially wealthy
it gives us more than a feeling of safety, doesn't it?
it gives us a feeling of superiority
that we have our "shit together" in a way
others don't
and now we can advise them on how to live better
because we know
we can charge them money to tell them how to live their lives
like us, do the skills we know, look the way we look, love the way we love

but behind these 'experts'
is still sadness
emptiness
fear
conflict
instability
and the knowledge that it doesn't matter
how much you make, how you look,
what you eat or don't eat,
how many likes or loves
you're not better
and no one "wins"
we're all just here

until we're not

I tend to my thoughts
like a garden
you have to
you must weed out the weeds
and plant new seeds of
the things you want to
grow in your life
if you want a tomato
you have to plant a seed
if you want a happy life
you need to dig your fingers
into the soil of your mind
and pick and pull the obstacles
that keep you occupied 
-- "in the weeds" --
and plant the seeds that will
​be most fruitful