There's this dog that I have and she'd rather have nothing to do with me. I wonder if she senses that I can't keep her safe, that I killed her sister, that if the power went out, I'd lose her and let her get thrown down the trash chute.

I wonder if she thinks I love Nadia more, and I wonder if she feels my ambivalence to the world, if she knows I've nearly given up hope, if the difference between her and Nadia was growing up with a mom who had ideas.

And I've been cleaning up my Gramma's apartment. I feel proud that my mother doesn't have to do it, I feel better about not being able to say goodbye. My mom says she can't do it, and I know how she feels. I remember the weight of her shoes by the door, the cloud of her writing on the 2003 calendar gracing the kitchen in 2011, the screaming photos on the wall, the cup near the sink.

Losing a mother is the most gut-wrenching pain that I can imagine, or rather, that I have been through.

I ache thinking about how my own mother's apartment will be post-mortem.

The mania I'll feel if anyone touches anything. The hysteria I'll embrace at every momento of her. A pink teacup that Karma broke. The electric blanket that she couldn't live without. The adorable Raggedy Ann on the shelf.

And I wonder if I'll ever love another as I love her.
_______________________

So this is really love?
Is that what you mean?
I want to knock on your door and make you kiss me.
I want to never talk to you again.
I love you. I hate you.

And you've ruined the sound of the guitar.
Every chord smiles like you, smells of your fingers.
Locks me in the basement,
with you.
Where I first heard,
and where we made love,
on your secondhand couch.
Did another girl hear you there?
Am I just another?

I can't remember the last time awe was mine.
And I still taste it in my teeth, despite.

Okay, so I get it that you don't want just one.
But, I'm in the running, and don't tell me I'm not.
So treat me as such.
Talk to me.
I'm not leaving.
I just wish you'd stop keeping me sacred,
so it wasn't all black and white.

Let's pretend we're strangers.
At least I can keep you close for your stupid back up plan.
God, I'm desperate.
Why do I ever talk to you?

Unfortunate Glimpses

A dead dog in the trash.
A broken mannequin on the streets.
Dreams packed up hastily
     in black trash bags.
A loved body in the trash.

A declined credit card.
Beautiful garments in the mall.
Dreams charged up hastily
     on lost credit cards.
Perfect credit and debt on cards.

How could you let this happen?

The sad part now is that I've gotten used to the throbbing pain of loss. It doesn't cause me to wretch in the corner, or to sob in my car. It's numb, it's heartbreaking, but it's always there. Granted, there are the times I encounter my old self. Sadie grabs Nadia's twin bunny from my NY pile. I cry, I watch wedding shows, I cry. But it's more distant now. It's as if no more bad can happen to me, because I already expect it. It already happened, and he fucked it up. Why does he try to pretend when all is already lost?

And I messed it up with Nadia, and I feel it everyday. Her fur is on the carpet, her photos are on my iPad.

I want to stay here to keep them. As the clock ticks, we  become further and further apart. I'm throwing away my NY markers and shunning my CO contacts.

LOSS.

___________________

And this is my norm.
I went to New York and saved the style section, Sunday Style, like it meant something, like I'd be something.
I went to New York and acted like a nothing. Drinking at Ryan Maguire's and sleeping in my traffic-clad room. I went to New York and Nadia trusted me, and I let her down, and Nadia is dead.
My poor baby. Nadia is dead!
And I think about all the ways she went, and how I could have prevented it and how I'm so sorry, and how my little sister says, "HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?"
How, could, I let, THIS, happen?
I'm so sorry Nadia.

Nadia

My baby. 

My tiny Raggedy Ann. 

My baby. 

My cuddle buddy. 

My love. 

My Nadia. 

My cold-hater. 

My lap-sitter.

My licky girl. 

My tiny one. 

My Nadia. 

My best friend. 

My mini-me. 

My gymnastics girl. 

My Pretty-in-Pink.

My love. 

My Nadia. 

My Shadow. 

My baby. 

My baby. 

My baby. 

MY BABY. 

My uptop. 

My arm brace.

My yesterday. 

My love's baby. 

My honeybee.

My booboo.

My child.

My miracle. 

My tumbler. 

My sleepyhead. 

My little ball. 

My easy one. 

My love. 

My kindness. 

My gentle one. 

Pretty in pink. 

My baby. 

My runt. 

My scared one. 

My cuddly one. 

My hidey girl.

My parrot doggy.

My brave one. 

My friendly girl.

My lick-y babe.

My under the covers girl.

My baby with lipstick. 

My avocado girl. 

My reindeer girl. 

Chelsi's niece girl.

My little NY girl.

My blanky girl.

My hiding treats in your shoes girl. 

My teacup girl. 

My GIRL. MY LITTLE GIRL.

My little girl. 

My bark under the covers girl. 

My loves girl.

My quiet girl. 

My bossy girl.
My tiny-pawed girl. 

My baby.

My baby. 

My baby girl. 

My baby, tiny baby.

Nadia was my baby. 

The Story is Mine

I look back as if the story isn't mine. Detach myself, and look back, in horror, at the story of a poor little girl with a tragic story. Only in times of solitude and immense desperation do I realize that the little girl in the story is me.

I know it may be bizarre, but you know that song I liked?
What if we went to France and wrote our names on the Eiffel Tower?
Even if it isn't now, it still existed, and it existed strongly back then. What if we did it for us? Even if it was only for the US back then? Those kids deserve a shot....

_____________________________________________________

I comfort my dog, and my words are for Nadia.
I'm your momma, I'll always be there. I won't let you get hurt.

I want to hire a detective.
Investigate the scene.
Make the one who hurt her cry.
Throw him down the garbage chute.

We Love You Very Much 

“So there was this woman and she was on an airplane, and she was flying to meet her fiancé seaming high above the largest ocean on planet earth. She was seated next to this man she had tried to start conversations, but the only thing she had really heard him say was to order his Bloody Mary. She was sitting there and she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world country that she couldn't even pronounce the name of, and she was feeling very bored and despondent. And then suddenly there was this huge mechanical failure and one of the engines gave out, and they started just falling thirty-thousand feet, and the pilots on the microphone and he's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh my god...I'm sorry," and apologizing. And she looks at the man and says, "Where are we going?" And he looks at her and he says, "We're going to a party. It's a birthday party. It's your birthday party. Happy birthday darling. We love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.” - Bright Eyes

The storm hit on Monday, and I lost Nadia at 1:00 am. I looked for her, posting up signs on the front and back door of every stairway, all thirty-eight floors. On the 39th hour, I was taping a poster to the outside of the building, where the doormen had set up a makeshift headquarters.

“Oh no, you lost a dog?” says the Mexican man by the brick.

“Yes, have you seen her? She’s three pounds and is colored like a little deer – fawn and tan – she has a pink collar, and her name is Nadia, have you heard anything?”

Every voice is a lead, I keep waiting for someone to say, “Oh yes, she’s in apartment 602, the people couldn't find her owner but she’s safe. Let’s go get her.”

Instead, I hear Spanish (or is it Portuguese?) spoken to the man beside my new interviewee.

“What?” I say. “What did you say to him?”

“It’s nothing, no, it’s nothing.”

But I could tell it wasn't nothing. “WHAT did you say? Tell me, please?” I look at the man in the eyes.

“It’s probably nofing, but our fiend, the guy who clean the tash, he said one you rich kids trow a dog in de trash Monday nite. He found it. But he sed it was bigga. Like dis big.” His hands were wide. “Prally not yer dog.”

“What do you mean, he found a dog in the trash? Who is he? Can I please talk to him?” My heart was sinking, my voice was quivering, but I needed answers.

“He come at for tirty tamorrow. That his shift. Vladamier.”

I came at three thirty the next day, thighs aching from posting signs on every floor of our sky rise, just to make sure I could talk to him.

They spoke Russian, and it took a while to find him. I had my iPod, and I started showing him pictures of her.

The first photo.

“Yes, that her. I’m sorry. That her.”

No, no, no, no, no. 

Happy Birthday!

“Are you sure?” I cried and I showed him more and more until he walked away from me. “Not her right? Are you sure?”

“The collar,” he finally said. “I’m sorry girl. It the collar same.”

Then, I ran.

I ran as fast as I could away from there because I knew she was in the trash and they already took the trash away and I’d never find her and I hurt so bad my outsides hurt. And after I ran, I threw up on the sidewalk, over and over, crying and crying, because I couldn't believe she was with all that trash, and I was stuck in this lousy situation, and most of all because Nadia was dead. And people kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept saying no, because I wasn't and I kept throwing up and crying. And then I kept walking uptown as far as I could go, because there was no cell phone service downtown, and I needed to tell my mom. So once I got there, I threw up again and I just cried and cried, lying on the concrete, because Nadia was not only loved by me, but also by my parents, and they were trying so hard to grieve Nadia while at the same time trying to forgive me.

And at that point, I felt I had had enough sadness in New York City, and after I put the doggy shaped flowers by the trash (the best I could do for a memorial), and left her favorite baby, and cried cried cried, I was ready to get the fuck out of New York City. So I asked these random “Harold and Kumar” fellas to drive me to New Jersey so I could try to find a rent-a-car. I paid over a grand for a car that should have cost me $300. But do you know what? I drove almost the whole way through. I stopped in Iowa, for one night, and it only cost 70 dollars. But the rest of the thirty hours? I went straight through, crying the whole time.

I guess sorrow makes a road trip a whole lot faster, because it didn't feel like thirty hours to me. Maybe it’s guilt that keeps you crying too, because I've never felt so sorry my whole life for not keeping Nadia safe. There’s very few memories in this world that you will remember forever. I’ll forever remember my Nadia, and I hope she forgives me for letting her get lost in the storm. I hope she is with my Auntie Lisa, because I think she’d be the best one to have her. I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry Nadia.

My First Hurricane

“Heed to local precautions and warnings,” he said, and he meant it.

I should have listened to that statement with all of my heart.

I didn't think I’d need to evacuate. I asked locals, and they spit out mediocre stories of Irene, which sounded like less of a commotion than a Colorado snow storm. Half the people were staying. I had nowhere to evacuate to. I looked forward to the excitement of a storm.

Key Foods closed early Saturday, so we tried Jubilee. The bread and imperishables were gone, and besides, the line was around the aisles and out the door. We would come back tomorrow.

On Sunday, we accumulated a few supplies from a less-than-crowded Key Foods (evacuation A zone was long gone at this point). Cookie crisps, macaroni & cheese, salsa, chips, soda. Later, we watched football and ordered delivery wings. We talked to the people we cared about far away and reassured them that everything would be alright.

On Monday, we waited for the storm. We smoked cigarettes outside, listened to the news, walked to the water and told our friends the weatherman was full of crap. At sunset, the hurricane started playing games. The news of water kissed my lips, seducing me to the streets. I lived at 200 Water Street, at the intersection between Fulton and Water, near Pier 17. We went outside. The rain was light. The water was about an inch high across the street from my building. No one was outside. Looking back, I saw the calm before the storm. I remember the ecstatic happiness, we have the city to ourselves.

We decided to walk the two blocks west to grab some beers. It took us about 10 minutes to return to my apartment. At this point, the water was to my ankles, so we ran. We knew danger was near.

We ran inside. The doormen were frantic. There were several people in the lobby (and one dog) who wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible. They told us no until the water broke into the lobby. “We all have to get upstairs!” a girl with dyed ebony hair shouted. They told us to wait. We started exploring options.

Within two minutes the water was well past our shins, and the building staff started realizing that the water was coming no matter what. “Okay,” the aggravated Russian said. “Follow me, and stay close.”

We followed him, needless to say, around the back entrance, where none of us had ever been. Down the concrete stairs, and it didn't look like the luxury rentals that we paid an arm and a leg for.

When we filed through the maintenance hallway, we soon realized that we would be “swimming” to our entrance. Trash bags floated in the basement like ruptured balloons in a swamp. The current was so strong that I felt like a goldfish being flushed down the toilet. And still, it got deeper as we got closer and closer to the only way back to our homes. The guy with the dog was pulling his submerged golden retriever through the wreckage that smelt of New York sewer waters. My heart beat out of my chest as three of the men couldn't open the door because of the current. I felt like I was surviving the Titanic, except the ship was New York City, and I didn't have a Jack to save me. I wasn't a Rose.

And suddenly, the city had us to itself.

Reaching solid dry concrete was like reaching air after you've dived too deep in a pool. The relieving escape when waves have been rocking you back and forth too deep. We walked up the eleven stories and when I ran into my apartment, I scooped up my dog. “Nadia, I won’t leave you again, I promise,” I told her. The eye of the storm screamed at our high rise windows.

As I was looking out above the street lights, the power went out. Our building swayed back and forth as Water Street turned into a literal Water Street. I called my Dad and told him it looked like Venice. The cars, like little boats, submerged. The buildings little islands in a beautiful city. I wanted to take a picture, but New York City was too dark for that. It was the first time I’d been in the real dark in the City.

The people that didn't evacuate wanted to converse. There was no panic, but rather a sense of celebration. Twenty-somethings smoked in the hall. Music blared from the lofts. The sixth floor, in the lounge, was a congregation. Our 11^th floor group all descended to try to get news. I brought Nadia in her New York purse.

The lounge was lit up with candles. We all looked the same, privileged kids with high expectations, rich over-sized adults with so many dreams, yet no cares in the world. Playing pool like there were still lights. Drinking beers like there were still resources. Dancing like we were in Venice.

I told Frank that I had to leave. It was too loud for Nadia. She was a cherished addition to the party, but she could get lost, or hurt, and she was confused. I told him he could still play pool, to go to Brad’s. He said he’d walk me upstairs. I got into my New York apartment and set Nadia down. Frank lit up a cigarette. I reached into my purse for mine, and I realized that I left them two doors down in Brad’s apartment. I told him that I would be right back.

I smoked a cigarette in Brad’s apartment. I wish I would have never done that. Near the end of my smoke, Frank entered. I put my cigarette out and we went back to my place.

I wanted to go to bed, and so I called Nadia. I called Nadia. “Nadia, come here boo boo. Nads, come here love na night time.”

She didn't come.

I called again, this time with more urgency. “Nadia! Come here baby! Where are you? Come on baby!”

She didn't come.

The flashlight touched all the places she would go. Under the bed, under the covers, on the couch, in her house…She wasn't there.

“Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia…Nadia!”

I wanted more than anything to be able to turn on the lights. I lost the one thing that mattered to me that I brought to New York City and I started to feel the panic set in.

We ran into the hall, calling her, scouring the floors for the thing that mattered most. Knocking on every door, frantic. “Did you see a little Chihuahua with a pink collar? She was just here.”

“You go down, I go up,” I said to Frank. “And make sure you write down what every apartment says, or if they even answered.”

1216 – Didn't see her, gave me an additional flashlight

1215 – No answer

1214 – No answer

1217 – No answer

1212 – No answer

1211 – No answer

1210 – No answer

1209 – No answer

1208 – No answer

1207 – No answer

1201 – No answer

1206 – No answer

1202 – Didn't see

1204 – Didn't see

1205 – No answer

1203 – No answer

The notebooks are full. Did we miss a door?

There’s a thirteenth floor, then a fifteenth, then a sixteenth, then a seventeenth, but there’s an eighteenth. What about the nineteenth? Oh, and there’s still the twenties…21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29…

Is she below us? What about the 2^nd floor, or the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth? She’s not on the 10^th? Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?

There’s the 30s. She must be on the 30s.

30. 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38?

Why can’t I find her?

Maybe someone found her and decided to evacuate.

Once the phones work, they will call the number on her collar.

I listened at every door.

Do you hear that bark? Are they barking for her? Do you think she’s in here?

When is the power coming back on?

I left my apartment door open. Nadia knows her way home. Do you think she went back?

And I’m crying on the floor on the halls. No one, but maybe Sandy, hears me, and she laughs. I don’t want to believe Nadia is a victim of the storm.

“Where are you Nadia? Where are you? Please come home!”

Loving a Stranger

There is still conversation between you and me.
Even if it's in my head, it's what you would say.
But somehow, I still can't "get it."

"Why don't you love me anymore?"
"I do, I'm just so busy and I'm not ready."
"Love me."
"I do."
"Kiss me."
You do.

But somehow you can''t be mine forever. Not ever even anymore.

"When will you be ready?"
"I don't know, Courtni. It's not that easy."
Never.

I'm mad at you for letting me believe forever even existed.
I'm mad at you for being everything to me and now nothing means anything.
I'm mad at you for not letting it all be easy, like it was supposed to be.
I'm mad at you because you should be here, or I should be there, and we should be together.
I'm mad at me because it was my fault too.
I'm mad at me for never caring about myself.
I'm mad at my mom for helping me feel that way.
I'm mad at human emotion, because I should be over you by now.
I'm mad at my computer for holding your Valentine, and I'm mad at me for watching it a million times. I'm mad at the magazine, because no matter what I accomplish, you still are a part of it, and you shouldn't be.
I'm mad that I didn't have a smoothie waiting for you after you passed the BAR exam. I'm mad that some random people helped you celebrate.
I'm mad that you live in your grandmas's duplex without me.
I'm mad that I sobbed at your grandppa's funeral and I couldn't take my eyes off of you at my own grandma's funeral.
I'm mad that I have this picture in my head, of us, and a baby, our baby, and that he probably won't exist.
I'm mad that you cried when I was moving to New York and how it didn't mean anything at all.
I'm mad that we both exist, yet I'm not with you and you don't see how universes and sunsets and harmony exists for us. Only for us. For us.

Hello?

Sometimes the night disappears in the blink of an eye. Or rather hours go by while you are staring at something; minutes are only measured by a hypothetical clock. What is a second? A minute? A lifetime?

And have you ever had eyes so sleepy and awake at the same time? I just wonder if everyone thinks about as much as I do. There is loss. There is sadness. There are what ifs. There is nothingness. There is maybe. There is no. There is why. Why? Why? Why?

Have you ever had a body so sweaty cold and so shivering hot all at the same time? I hate the way my new bed smells and I hate the thought of going back to my old bed. There is no home. I have no one to call, really, although everyone keeps saying it because we are supposed to and besides, we are the only ones any of us have.

And Paris gleams across the globe, trumping New York with its glamour, its historic grandeur, with Chelsi. Who am I without them? Who am I without my Chelsi, without my recovered mother, without my not so recovered father? Who the fuck am I?

Really cute that I moved to New York. Dreams, huh? Nothing exists. I want to dress up as invisible for Halloween.

I dream. Sleepy dreams, not awake ones. I dream that I’m in my real bed, and I only have a few more days to be there, so I better wake up. I dream about my idiotic waitressing job, and trying to smile at the ignorant people that I fake smiles for. I dream about my mother, and everything that makes me scared, and she is a skeleton and sometimes I am too.

Once, I was dreaming, and the phone rang. I answered it, and he answered. “Hello?”

It was just the same, creamy and raspy, and mine and everything, and maybe, all at the same time.

I woke up immediately. It’s funny how you can’t forget sounds, smells, feelings. The tears were just as fast. I hate having his voice around me these days.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

Is anyone out there? Why isn’t this all the way I wanted it to be? What am I even supposed to do?

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

A newspaper, and my face

I woke up at 5:36 AM. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went outside to smoke. I wanted to write, but the cold air reminded me that it was fall, and I forced myself to go back inside.

Six days ago, I fractured my face. It was a Wednesday, like many others, and I had a few too many cocktails. The 600 square feet that I was currently sharing with my roommate and two other “drifters” was dark, and when I tripped on the four inch tall pull out sofa, my cheek caught me on the metal edge of the poorly padded couch arm.

A softball sized bump appeared and Carrie-like blood sent me to the emergency room at three in the morning. Seven and a half hours later, I returned home. I haven’t been the same since.
Six days ago, I stopped drinking. When my dad asked me why, I told him I was sick of it. Even in Manhattan, the city that never sleeps, I was tired, and I couldn't take my partying lifestyle anymore. So I stopped. I just stopped. 

Physically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be. I am not craving alcohol like I do when I put down cigarettes for a day or two. I don't have the shakes and I’m not experiencing any hot or cold flashes. Psychologically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either. I don't want to go out and drink. I chose to stop, and I'm glad I did. Mainly, I’m just bored. I find myself with many hours that used to be filled with toting around a wine glass, that now are so still. I grasp at anything that I can to keep my nights occupied.

Emotionally, it hasn't been as easy. My mind is becoming sharper and sharper while I have more time to think, and my thoughts often rest mourning things I have lost, things that could have been. I am ironing, and I remember when my mother taught me how to press my father’s dress shirts. I tear up because I want that time back. I hear familiar laughter in the hall, and want to be in college again. A whiff of cologne smells like yesteryear's  love, and I wonder what he’s doing now. I yearn for a day that's not today.

Memories pop up unexpectedly of the worst periods of my life – harsh words thrown down the stairs in the middle of the night, a loved one sobbing on their knees in agony, watching her car drive away as a familiar voice begs her not to go. I cry because there is a book inside me that I know needs writing. I cry because I don't know if I'm strong enough to write it.

And sleeping – sleeping is the worst. As darkness falls, I am alone with myself. My insides won’t shut up and I remember how the alcohol used to hush the worry. When I do sleep, I have horrible dreams. And dreams that are the opposite of horrible, the dreams about the best times of my life. They seem so real, and these anti-nightmares are worst than their nemesis. With a nightmare, the terror stops as soon as you wake up. You can take a deep breath, realizing that it was all in your head; you are okay. With a dream that is the opposite of a nightmare, a dream that was too good yet no longer true, you wake up and realize that time in your life is gone. The loss and longing is the reality versus the illusion.

I know things will get better with time, and that the only person who can change any of it is me and me alone. I know this, but for now, I'm just getting used to feeling again.

A Late Arrival at DIA

She died on a Tuesday. While I was on a plane, flying home to say goodbye. While my mother waited for me in the airport parking lot.

When I got to the red Durango at passenger pickup, we embraced. Then, my mother said, “We’re too late Courtni.”

“What? What? What? When? No!” but I knew. She was gone. We were too late.

Our tangled, tear-stricken bodies descended to the pavement. The car door remained open, my suitcase unattended. And we cried together on the curb.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I wailed, and suddenly, I felt I made my mother miss the final moments.

“No,” my mom rejected my apology. “It was what she wanted, she didn't want us there,” she said, and I guess we’ll never know. “I told her to wait until Tuesday; I just didn't give her a time.”

When I boarded, she was alive. When I landed, she wasn't. How come I didn’t see her soul ascend to heaven from 10,000 feet above? I missed her by a little over an hour.

From the airport, we went to the hospice. I became a frightened child in the sterile halls, my hand tightly gripping that of my mother’s, as we went to see the dead body of her own mother.

Each door we passed I cringed, scared and knowing we were getting closer and closer to the name tag “Virginia Mantello.” Closer and closer to realizing she was gone.

Her mouth was open, gaping, her cheeks sunken it. Still, as a picture, we moved slowly around her as if time stopped. All the wrinkles were gone, a face swollen with death. Her hair was combed, parted, wrong, sweet like a silver child angel.

My mother put her head to my Grandma’s shoulder, tears and whispers landing on her mother’s neck. For a moment, I’m taken aback – I can’t help but think about my own probable future – the moment I’ll be hugging my own dead mother’s body, minutes after her soul leaves this world.

It’s one of those moments you grow up a whole lot of bit in just a little bit, realizing one day, your mother will die, realizing today, your mother lost her mother.

We live, we love, we lose, we leave. That is the reality. It’s the price we pay for being human.

Kindred Souls

A poem for Gramma

Taffeta and silk,
Slippers softer than pink.
Baby daisies on Mother’s Day,
Summer’s warm, beautiful light.
Soon, everything will be all right.

Porcelain unicorns,
The nutcracker ballet.
A convertible with its top down,
Can’t you feel the soft breeze?
Soon, it’s whatever you please.

A Victoria Lynn dolly,
Blue Bird orange juice in cans.
Silent Night playing on a violin,
The most touching music plays.
Soon, it’s all wonderful days.

Henry and a swing set,
Your preemie in Cabbage Patch.
Holding the babies of your babies.
Papa reaches his hand out to dance.
Soon, you’ll get the chance.

Bed Knobs and Broomsticks,
Paper dolls with paper clothes.
Charm bracelets linking me to you,
Oh, the love we’ll forever share.
Soon, we’ll be together there.

     In my heart for always,
     Every day and everywhere.

Fury Occupies Wall Street

And there comes the time that the reality you've been telling everyone, even yourself, becomes real. And it’s all so screwed up that people tell you it makes you appreciate life, because it doesn't. And suddenly, you’re ironing, and someone’s late to your house, and it all breaks.

And you run away, but you don’t know where you’re running; you just like the pain on the soles of your feet while you stomp wildly in no direction. And you ignore the crosswalk signs, half because your tears blind you and half because even if the sign says walk or don’t walk, no matter how much you try to follow the rules, life is still going to run you over with a bus.

And there’s no where private enough to scream your lungs out. To scream and scream and scream until nothing else can escape your hoarse throat. New York crowds even anger. There isn't enough space to throw a fit and it’s just too loud for God to hear when you wail, “It’s not fair!”

I want to squeeze something until it explodes, dig my nails into flesh until it bleeds, throw my dishes through my 11th story window and watch the glass shatter on the pavement.

And I’m wearing her shoes, because 1700 miles separate us, and there’s no other way to show that I care. And I’m wearing her shoes, because they remind me it hurts. It’s like pushing on a bruise over and over to remember the pain. I’m wearing her shoes because now, she’s still alive.

And the people in the street keep walking, and someone’s late for work. A vendor sells stolen perfume and lovers eat ice cream on a bench. The clock is ticking and everything is the same – the world is mocking me, pushing us closer and closer to the time.

Two Tear Drops

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me, and the waves hum silently on the shore. Here I am, here I go, I am gone, they say. They tease me with their temporality.

“I was just wondering if my grandma has ever seen the ocean,” I said, and the tears were warm, salty, sudden, like the water.

And I don’t know if she has seen the ocean, if she has breathed New York air, or seen San Francisco’s Haight-Asbury. I don’t know if she has seen the naked bums in Austin, or the Flatirons in Boulder. Does she remember the grandiose of Vegas, and is Chicago still on her mind? Has she experienced the peace in Guatemala or the pain within her own home? Does she know what it’s like to kiss in the rain, and was there something she regrets, early on, that she can never take back? When she remembers life, does she remember salt and pepper scrambled eggs and the Nutcracker Ballet at the Buell Theater? Is she mad at him, or at her, or at us, or at anyone, and does sorry ever cut it, even when you’re dying? I do not know, and for that, I am sorrow-stricken.

She has to be scared of dying.

Where do we go? What is ever after? And she will never go home, they say. I wonder if she ever said goodbye to her pillow, her shoes, and her Cabbage Patch doll telephone. Did she bid farewell to the dishes, dirty in the sink? Or the sewing machines, lining the walls where my mom used to sleep? What about the hard boiled eggs still uneaten and the diet coke cans in the fridge? Who will consume them; will they die along with her? When will we have the heart to throw her crocheted Chap Stick holders in the trash? And are these things still in your mind while you are dying?

And no, a higher voice says from above. You do not think about things, but about the moments. So, I think about an Italian bus driver taking out a young girl that had dreams of becoming a stewardess. And I think about matching Easter dresses, and the momma who made them. The dolls, the costumes – they dance and curtsy, thanking their creator. I think about unicorns, and how real they felt every year with her, and I think about my own mother, crying so hard, because she’s losing the only thing that’s always been constant.

Gramma is dying of lung cancer.

Listen: Steve Wariner, Two Tear Drops

Unfinished New York, Unfinished Me

Scaffolding is a daily part of every New Yorker’s life. For most people, the scaffolding isn’t bothersome, but rather a shelter from the rain, a dry place to enjoy a cigarette. For a person with a mild case of OCD however, the planks and bars scattered among the city are quite troublesome. I search for completion, for consistency, for refinement. I constantly find myself asking, “Will they ever finish New York?”

I understand that New York City’s scaffolding is necessary for the structure they call the Big Apple to repair, improve, to grow. I know I should look at the beauty surrounding the metallic eyesores, that I should patiently await the project’s completion, and then appreciate the final product. But, like my own life, I often focus on the bad parts, living today only for a dream tomorrow. Everything will be better when I finally get the dream job, the dream boy, the dream life. Now doesn't matter and now isn’t all right because I don’t have those things, but when I do, I’ll be living the dream, I reason unreasonably.

What if, like New York, I always have scaffolding? Always have unfinished pieces of myself that prevent me from feeling complete? The thought makes me want to bulldoze down my entire life in a frenzy, makes me wish to be in a place that doesn't require repairs. Unfortunately, that is impossible; I know that the city that is my soul is old, beaten down, and broken.

When I take a step back, am I even trying to fix the parts of me that have lost vibrancy, sturdiness, and appeal? Sometimes, I think I just try to put them in the back of my mind, pretend they match the good parts of me, ignoring my heart’s leaky faucet. Maybe I just don’t know how to repair myself, or maybe I lack the scaffolding to even start.

Today, I was walking down my street, and for the first time, noticed a gorgeous building that I had never seen before, and realized that the glistening white and gold had been covered with scaffolding just a day earlier. I hadn’t known it before, but something beautiful was underneath the area that I previously had thought was hideous. Maybe there’s blocks of hidden pretty inside of me too, I thought. Maybe I just have to assemble the scaffolding and instead of trying to finish myself, maybe I should just try to start. 

The New New Yorker

"One belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." – Thomas Wolfe

The thought is novel, believing that one will feel at home so quickly in a new city. That one will be embraced by their surroundings at once, that all the pieces will fit just like that, and that one will belong. To gather the courage to move across the country, I suppose one must think happy thoughts. The risk is just too great to consider the alternative.

I often wonder if I moved to New York to run away from my problems. My expectations of the city were so high, so I painted my dreams to match. I thought I’d be able to reinvent myself, that somehow my past couldn’t follow me to the East Coast. After all, there wasn’t enough room in my suitcases for my emotional baggage. I very well couldn’t wear yesterday’s scars in the city of tomorrow’s new Prada, Louis, and Gucci.

It has been much longer than five minutes, yet it certainly hasn’t been five years since I decided to become a New Yorker. I’ve learned how to hail a cab (without trying to flag down an off-duty car), my go-to heels have lost about three inches, and I’ve paid eighteen dollars for a pastrami sandwich at Katz Deli. To the average observer, I’ve graduated from tourist to local. Yet, I can’t help but wonder – if I truly belong here, why doesn’t New York feel like home?

I guess it’s hard to belong anywhere when you don’t even feel comfortable in your own skin. I guess when you run away from all the perceived bad in your life, and all you’re left with is yourself, and the bad is still there, you realize that it’s been inside all along, that there is no running away anymore.

All that’s left to do is to cry it out. New York City has stripped me of the masks I’ve used for so long to cover it up, and I’m exposed. Like the trash piled on every street corner, my demons wait to be thrown away, and frankly, it stinks. If only there was an express train to serenity.