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| "Everybody has to grow up sometime," you say.
"Who are you?" I ask.
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Moving to the Bay wasn't as smooth a transition as I would have liked. Sprout from roots clinging to toxic soil, the first six months of my relocation have been, at best, unfulfilling. But I am luckier than most, I tell myself defiantly. I am so lucky, I repeat this like a mantra. I am so blessed, I say over and over until the resentment composts and new fruits may grow.
And damn if it isn't true now.
Today I potted my aloe plant and made sorbet from peaches picked off the neighbor's trees. Yesterday I celebrated summer solstice with brewed libations and gourmet cupcakes.
Tomorrow?
Well, we'll see, won't we.
...
"Do you like the new me?" you ask.
"I'll believe it when I see it," I reply.
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Dear Uterus,
While I appreciate your constructive criticism toward the direction the executive board is taking with this body's future, I feel I did not fully emphasize the importance of system cohesion during our conference call this morning.
I understand and deeply admire your goals; however, please respect that we are all part of a biological team and in effect, we need to acknowledge each department's contributions and purpose. Unfortunately, as much as we recognize the merit of your case, insemination does not adhere to this body's current business objectives. Admittedly, these objectives may be updated in the future and should that be the case, we would then eagerly welcome your input and ideas.
I think I speak for everyone when I say we truly appreciate your lively participation in our discussions. Please don't let this discourage you from presenting suggestions or opinions in upcoming meetings. Also, Legs is running the half-marathon in two weeks and we would all appreciate your attendance and support.
Best Regards,
Brain
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Like the unborn child of my biological clock's dreams, the presence of my body's unrelenting evolutionary purpose grows larger by the day. While I dream of Peace Corps and international adventures, my antithetical uterus sizes up the men in my life for procreation. Too tall, she says with an upturned nose. Too lazy, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. Steady job, she approves. Good family, she's optimistic now. Healthy medical history, she's sold! Hey hey hey now, I cut in, I am the captain of this ship, I have to remind her, and all activity requests must be first submitted for my approval. This consistently and unequivocally upsets her and in what can only be construed as the most passive-aggressive methods of retaliation, she makes me bloated and bleed for days. Touche, my usurping uterus. Touche.
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"I'm going to check Scorpios," I say, flipping through your book.
"Of course!" you say and get up in a huff.
I am perched on a bar stool, my hands around a mug of coffee you've just brewed. "I'm so happy," you tell me and I believe you. I can see it in your skin. You radiate and I swim in the warmth for a little bit. "It feels like when we first started dating," you continue, "and he can tell too. He says to me, you love me so much right now. And I do." I smile that's so sweet.
We had spent the day in the city and when we get home and your husband's hard at work on his laptop. You beam and rush to greet him. I turn my head to the side as you say your hellos and smile to myself as the love basks one side of my face.
I listen to you talk about the man that you love and I try to recall what that feels like. Reminiscing teeters on the edge of masochism, but the warmth of the memory worth the final descent.
That's a good combination, someone said to you one night after you told him about us. You smiled and replied, it is.
Memories, disjointed and pungent, bubble up to the surface at will. Try to remember.
You had a hard day today, didn't you? you asked me when you got home. I nodded. Oh baby, you said as you held me.
Remember the feeling of security, of understanding, of compassion. Remember the comfort he provided and how much I gave to him. Remember. Remember.
I couldn't tell you, you said between tears. You wouldn't leave me, you love me too much; you choke up getting the last words out.
The beginning of the end. Remember even that.
You didn't even wish me a happy birthday, I said. I didn't think you wanted to hear from me, you replied.
Even in the light of the subsequent retaliation, the anger, the sadness, I try to remember.
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| "What makes a person a runner? Someone who runs. You run. You're a runner."
I'm still learning how to define myself.
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Remember years ago when you asked me what I wanted out of life and I told you I wanted only to love and be loved? A month later you handed me the most beautiful departing letter, though at the time we both didn't know it was goodbye.
Today I saw a postman during my run. I was rounding out mile four and making deals with myself. The man and his truck were markers in my allowable breaks. I stopped running just as he stopped driving, and slowly walked by him as he got out with letters for other people.
I wanted to follow him home, to look in his cupboards and watch him unwind from a long day. Was this what he had in mind when he dreamt of his future at age 7? I wanted to wrap my fingers around his skull and press my forehead against his. What did you want out of life? Did you get it?
Tell me. I'm sorry. Tell me. Just tell me.
I still have your letter; I keep it tucked away. As per your advice, I unfold it now and again and read it when I think I'm about to float away. It grounds me and I realize, I still do want the same things. I didn't try to change, but I have and though we're different people, what I told you years ago still holds true. I still want that life.
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