Last morning in Pennsylvania. I left a solar bottle on the pool deck for future visitors. Yesterday evening, it dawned on me that I hadn’t given Erika’s mom Ruth her blue solar bottle made especially for her. She will leave with the bottle and a healthy supply of hugs. Though I don’t relish the 1300 miles between here and home, I will remember meeting her for the first time and use that to temper my fatigue. This trip already feels akin to a moment frozen in amber. We came here for one main objective; while Erika and I didn’t participate due to caprice beyond our control, the truth is that I found moments exceeding the planned commemoration. As I’m fond of saying, about all you can do is make a plan and then reluctantly or enthusiastically accept the new adjustments as they arise. If people are involved, you can be certain they’ll come. People are both our salvation and our consternation. Love, X
We had a narrow window to go by Erika’s childhood home. The new owners couldn’t be there, so they left stuff on the porch for us to pick up. Her mom was still asleep, which was just as well. She might have needed to be strapped to the roof after we loaded the car. It was a strange moment of nostalgia for me too, even though I’d never been there. I experienced the house through dozens of stories and hundreds of pictures. I can only imagine the conflicting thoughts going through Erika’s head as we drew closer to where she grew up… to the place that brought a lot of pain a year ago. It’s a beautiful older neighborhood. The nearby train station was completely different than I had imagined and seen in photos. Even the house seemed like an echo. It once again proved to me how powerfully imagination and resonance of emotion can infuse a place. Driving away from her childhood home evoked a similar sensation to what I once felt when I left my grandma and grandpa’s house at the end of summer.
Anamnesis is similar to nostalgia and it’s a word most people don’t know.
Upon our return to the Airbnb house, Erika spent time trying to reduce and arrange what we had placed in the car; the leftovers from the house and memories from her bedroom closet. I took a moment to hang a coffee cup from a tree along the back perimeter. It’s one of significance but honestly I can’t remember where I obtained the cup. One day, I’ll look at the picture of the cup I hung on this Wednesday morning 1300 miles away from where I call home. It too will provide an anchor and resonance for emotion that is difficult to pronounce.
I got up around 3:00 a.m. EST. I crept as quietly downstairs as I could, despite the creaking floorboards. Sound is relative and most of us know how cacophonous any quiet attempt to exit can be, especially in a dark house. I made a bitter cup of coffee and drank it standing out in the red moonlight in the backyard, the pool shimmering and casting shadows. Planning ahead last night, I left everything I needed to get dressed easily. I headed out to the beautiful suburban streets filled with interesting houses and countless lives. The mostly quiet streets fascinated me with the asymmetrical and beautifully maintained older houses. Invariably, I think of sonder and the millions of homes, each of them filled with an encapsulated universe of family. This neighborhood is quietly captivating. A small terrier ran to me in the dark. No bark, just a wagging tail asking for a little bit of affection. I kneeled and provided it and he went back to whichever house he calls home. The walk was gorgeous and the fifty-five degree breeze was just enough to be chilly. Though it is very early, the streets echoed with unseen birds chirping and singing for an audience of one. When I reached the main road, I watched the bakery trucks at the Italian market and the people manning them as they scurried to complete their early morning business. It was impossible to avoid looking at the beautiful strawberry moon and think imtrospective thoughts. The evening before was filled with laughs and conversation with Erika’s mom. At eighty-one, she’s had a long interesting life; love, family, and experiences that could fill a book. Like all fascinating accounts, her life has been interspersed with drama and turmoil as well. But you wouldn’t necessarily know it by looking at her beautiful eyes or hearing her laugh. I knew I would have to stop walking the dark streets at some point. But it’s one of the things I love. Leaving a house with people still enjoying the deep sleep that escapes me most nights. Ever since my transformation, I’ve learned that there must be a reason that I’ve been gifted with this extra time, moments tucked away and stolen for a different life. If we’re lucky, we search for meaning. When I’m out walking in a foreign place, time slips away. My thoughts diminish and I just experience the things and pavement around me. It’s as close to Zen as I can probably ask for. My feet won’t return to this place. My mind, however, will always recall this quiet morning and the night before when I met a new person who feels like I’ve known her forever. I chose a picture at random from the ones I snapped on the walk. Pictures don’t contain memories; they merely anchor them to a moment in time. Love, X
Erika was finishing in the other bathroom. I decided to shower too. Ever since the baby shark incident, she won’t let me shower with her. Often, I shower in the dark but left the light on this time – not that it helped to have it on this time. No soap. Okay, I will use body wash. None. Shampoo basically empty, But used what little I could get out, just enough to get my head and face soapy. No problem. I grabbed the dark bottle on top to finish. Squirted too much on me. Rubbed it all over me. Something seemed off. I rinsed my eyes as best I could. I was shocked to see I was covered in blue or black… something. Not only that, but I could see it apparently staining the tub and the shower curtain. One part of me wanted to holler for a Erika to come see the incredulous mess. The other part of me, my lizard brain, desperately tried to get whatever it was off of me and off of the shower and tub. This is a Airbnb after all. I’m not sure blackening the shower tub is covered under the deposit. My showers are routinely very fast. Not this time. I felt like I emptied Lake Michigan attempting to get the dark stain off of me and everything else. While I was still rinsing, Erika stepped in and I decided to tell her what I had done now that it looked like all the damage had been erased. Someone had left a bottle of Redken blue color enhancer on the top shelf of the shower. And a miraculous series of coincidences resulted in me using it as body wash. X
Standing in the wet grass, not too far from a foreign interstate. Looking at the low red moon. Feeling the unobstructed breeze hit me. Behind me, a hotel full of nomads on their way to somewhere else. I’m a temporary nomad myself. It’s strange how I find something wonderful in each new acre. Going back to the parking lot, I helped an older couple load their bags into their mammoth truck. People I will never see again. And a place that will soon be a memory, and on my way to hopefully make new ones. Love, X
My grandma was a worrier. I have a lot of stories about teasing her and the seemingly outlandish ways she would creatively invent to worry about new things. She was born in the early 1900s and lived through apocalyptic tornadoes, the depression, wars, and things that probably would have debilitated me. It’s fascinating to be older and to understand her a little bit more. At a certain point, you think you’ve seen it all. That’s when the universe looks down on you and says, “Hold my beer.” X
I sat in a pew, surrounded by a throng of people, listening to someone talk about their loved one. I was there in part to repay a debt incurred sixteen years ago.
“Who among us thought that a week ago we would be here? Or a month? Or a year?” Everyone listening to him would feel the urgency of an indistinct carpe diem tug at their heart. As the day would go on, though, most would let distractions and the to-do’s push the essential reminder out of their head. That’s just life.
Later, someone said to me, “Tomorrow.”
And I still can’t find the words to explain to people why the procrastination of tomorrow rings like a stick of dynamite in my ears.
I don’t want a promissory note, one serving as a promise of a hug, a laugh, or of a moment that might not ever come due.
Tomorrow.
If we’re lucky.
And if we’re not, what’s put off until tomorrow is gone forever.
There’s something about this that defines me.
Maybe it’s experience or age, perhaps it’s loss. The window to enjoy life and people shuts incrementally.
Tomorrow is here and it’s all you have. It’s camouflaged as today. If you wake up groggy, take a moment to taste the coffee. If you have someone, touch them lightly as a way to remind them.
I handed my guardian angel a cup of bitter black coffee. He wanted it hot. I could see the steam rising from it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “I kind of like having you around.”
He nodded. “Yes. I will only be banished for a ten years. It’s worth it. The afterlife is amazing, but every hundred years, I have to enjoy a cup.”
I laughed. “Yes, I can imagine.”
He pointed to the bench on my porch, indicating that I should sit with him.
As he cradled the cup of coffee between his fingers and sniffed at the pungent aroma, he took a small sip and sighed.
It was hard for me to imagine waiting so many years between cups of coffee. I could almost feel his toes curl with the pleasure of taking sips from the cup.
“Thank you for this. A substitute will be assigned to you while I’m gone. They probably won’t be as diligent as me. So stop climbing trees.”
“Does that mean I’ll definitely still be here in ten years?” I grinned. My guardian angel enjoyed it when I probed for clues about my life or the afterlife.
“Since I won’t get dinged for two violations, yeah, you’ll still be here. But not much longer than that.” He looked over the rim of the cup at me as he said it.
My grin grew.
“Hold on there. That doesn’t mean you’re invincible. I’ll be back before it’s time for you. Maybe we’ll have another cup of coffee?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I told him. “I’ll be careful. And no one would believe me anyway.”
“I know. That’s the only reason I broke the rules and started talking to you. Well, and the fact that you have fantastic coffee.”
We both laughed.
“It’s time for me to go,” he said. He placed the coffee cup on the bench between us. His right hand reached out and touched my arm. When his fingers made contact, I felt a small jolt of electricity. He started to shimmer, small waves of almost imperceptible motion at first. In a few seconds, he was gone.
I took a few seconds to think about the next ten years. I picked up his cup and went back inside to start my day. The most valuable lesson my guardian angel taught me was that time was both imaginary and the only thing. And that knowing the secrets of the universe evidently might not compare to the beauty and majesty of a great cup of coffee. Take note, Folgers.
I’ll share a picture of him. It’s so vague that it could be a picture of anything. It’s enough for me to know.
Erika gave me the old tea lamp. I revived it, putting a glass column inside it and wrapping multicolored fairy lights around the core. I went to bed before the sunset last night and was unable to witness its premiere. Not to mention that I forgot to turn it on so that the photosensitive light would trigger automatically so that I might see it when I woke up ridiculously early. Color, color, and more color. X
I’m no fan of photography, but I do love pictures. Over the years, I became so tired of people’s reluctance to have their pictures taken. I was once a fan of guerilla photography or in-the-moment shots. Digital transformed the world. I could take endless pictures without concern for staging, lighting, speed, or detail. Except the one consequence that emerged was people’s reluctance to have their pictures taken. I let it dampen my enthusiasm and slowly stopped enjoying the attempt. People do have the right to express displeasure at having their photos taken. But. I don’t understand it. They want to curate, approve, or control their image. The weird thing about it is the element of control. These same people walk around all day, and people see them in all manner of contortions and situations. They are in view, observed, and noted hundreds of times a day without the slightest possibility of them being able to reduce, filter, or affect it. Most of us are in countless passive surveillance videos and camera shots. We’ve become mostly blind to it. At the heart of it all? If someone is taking a picture of you, it’s overwhelmingly because they know you, like you, love you, and want to capture a small slice of you, captured in time and place. Everyone has a camera in their pocket now. I shake my head at the fact that so many want to take pictures of other people and yet recoil if the urge is reciprocal in others. It’s becoming unhealthy – that urge to curate. As for me, I might not love some of the pictures taken of me, but all of them ARE me in whatever moment is captured. I relish it when anyone wants a picture of me. Not because of vanity… (because I’m not George Clooney). Rather, because it demonstrates interest. I’ve lost almost all my aversion to worrying about how pictures of me look. I miss the days when I could snap a photo of any moment filled with the people around me. Because no matter how you think you look, you are still you twenty-four hours a day. The fact that a picture is being taken is a testament to your presence in life. It is bewildering to me in an age of constant surveillance that people strive so hard to control their own curation. Let it be, let it flow, and feel appreciated. Photography isn’t accusation. It’s a frozen moment in time of how you really look. It isn’t intended to provoke an identity crisis. Relax. We all see you as you all day. Love, X
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 