time flies
I wonder if they’ll be generous enough to wind all of my crushes into one ball, and make me seem less foolish than I’ve been. Though, if they do, how can they convey how brave I have to be to be kissed, to stand my ground and not laugh or deflect or question why? It’s been a victory every time I didn’t ask if mine are the lips they want, or just the lips that are handy. There is always that moment of panic, praying that I didn’t misunderstand, that I’m not leaning into their way. Maybe that wouldn’t make any sense if they don’t write how foolish my heart has been, how many wrong paths it has led me down.
Can it be put into paragraphs how little tolerance I have for mean and petty talk, how it grates me raw so quickly? I am completely unable to separate my own thin skin from the insulted party’s. Aren’t we all just trying our best? Don’t answer that. I have to believe that everyone is as well-intentioned as I am. It’s the only way I can forgive the things I can’t un-know. Maybe they should write instead of how eagerly I embrace the cacophony of children’s chaos. I love the sound of their shrieking giggles, banging against the walls, falling onto the furniture. How can a stranger know to write how much I love the smell of my children’s hair?
This place never feels more like home than when I follow one of my mother’s recipes and the house begins to smell like childhood, not theirs, not yours, just mine. I learned both patience and compassion from my mother, neither came to me naturally. Though I have always had one uncle’s eyes, and I got my stubborn from an aunt. I am through and through a Van Lydegraf. Can they describe my sum without first knowing my parts?
No one knows my daydreams but me, and so much of my life is spent in dreaming them. Maybe that is why there is nothing for a biographer to write. I have not accomplished anything of note. I’m still dancing along the banks of my life, maybe it is time for me to finally dive in.
