28 Apr

That’s happy. That’s me at the carnival, fifty feet in the air and dropping, flipping, spinning. I remember it, feeling it in my stomach, knowing that at the end of the night I’d be home in bed, wet hair, t-shirt, and it would be over. Sometimes it comes rushing in with a song barely lasting four minutes, a cold treat on a summery day, the hour or two following a conversation with a person who might think I’m Not So Bad. Most times, though, I sit alone to realize the possibility of such contentedness if I’d spoken, pretended for a moment I was not afraid, was clear and confident enough to have everyone look to me. If I don’t seem sullen or mean, they must think I’m stupid, and that’s even worse. But I try not to think about it, try not to think about it, think instead about my perfect weekend. About ordering out and renting a movie to watch at home on Friday night. About a late breakfast with Daniel on Saturday morning, and driving down long roads toward the mountain, past my old house, past all the things I could remember. About wanting to go fishing but deciding against it because aside from standing near the ocean with a pole, we can’t remember how. Agreeing to visit the botanical garden instead, happening across a Bluegrass festival at which thirty minutes later, the Saloon Pilots would play just as wonderfully they did the first time we saw them at Big City Diner in 2009, the night I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Daniel. About an impromptu dinner with friends, delicious food, feeling, at least, liked by people I really want to be liked by. About visiting with God again, dropping, flipping, spinning toward something better.


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