I retreated to the glass house up in the mountains whenever I got the chance. There was a three-day weekend coming up—I hadn’t had a vacation in so long. So I set out on a road trip on my own. I blasted “Waves” by Marjorie Fair. It was going to be a good ride.
“Good morning,” he said.
It was eight in the morning and I was having my mocha valencia under one of the sunbrellas in front of the hotel.
I smiled back and sipped my coffee, looking up from my book only long enough for him to acknowledge my look.
I thought he was kind of cute.
“If you think this is difficult, I’m telling you this isn’t even half of it.”
He stood there motionless, looking at me with his puppy dog eyes.
“I don’t need this right now.”
And just like every conversation we’ve had exactly like this. It ends with me still in his arms like nothing had happened.
In the morning, the first thing I do is have my morning coffee by the garden out back. I take out my torn, tattered notebook and write. First about nothing in particular and then, it starts to sound like a letter. I lost my father when I was nine. This is how I remember him.
She hadn’t gone home in a while—make that 5 years. Ever since she started working in the city, weekend trips became fewer until there were none at all. Some days she would remember to call her mom but other times, she was just too busy to even pick up the phone.
She was not ready.
This is my favorite swing. At the back of my favorite aunt’s house, where the dogs run around and where the sprinklers go off at exactly 6 in the evening.
I used to play in this garden by myself. I’d visit my aunt, who lived alone, every Saturday just so I could go on the swings.
I live out of my suitcase. One day here, the next I’m boarding a plane to next. Some days I think, this is the last. I give up.
But when I hear the shutter, I am transported back to my five-year-old self, in front of the mirror in my mother’s four-inch heels and red lipstick.
He always slept beside me. He said I smelled like strawberries. “Can I stay here?” he’d say, standing at my door. I could never resist his charms. He’d tickle me to wake me up and we’d race to the kitchen. We’d have Lucky Charms and milk. I wish I didn’t have to give him back.
