the children of flight attendants, who leave at their whimsies

the way my mother puts cubes of watermelon in those plastic buckets that chinese restaurants give you when you order soup for take out

waking up once at 1am, another time at 3:32am, and finally again at 6:59am. each time waking up in a panic, thinking of you.

hoping someone else is as excited as i am to live on a sailboat for a few nights. no rhyme or reason, no hope even that it will cure me. just being on the water is enough.

how much i love bananas. my mother calls them the lazy girl’s fruit. and damn is she right. i love just peeling it open and the mushy sweetness and the perfect number of spots, and the way the black grows on the yellow peel and it’s an achievement to taste it juuuust right.

reading writing that reminds me of the way i used to write, and being consumed by nostalgia for the girl who ate peanut butter off of one chopstick, who believed in soul mates, who fell asleep to the smell of tiger balm, who always painted her toenails silver.

feeling your absence like an x-ray. this is exposure, this is vulnerability, this is absolutely medical.

it’s my birthday month. this month, my birthday lands on a Friday. that should be more special than zodiacs or astrology significance, combined.
 i ate my first caramel apple this year.
i had stopped answering your calls. i remember, vividly, the sheets around me that were as rumpled and as distraught as my tear-soaked cheeks. i remember floundering helplessly, on a Monday evening while the sun was almost setting, parked in an empty lot, hands shaking while they dialed your number. a few minutes later, you found me, and you stood in your perfectly pressed white dress shirt and your meticulously knotted tie.
the wind found its way toward this empty lot, and it was chasing itself against my back as i pressed my face into you. i remember that all i could think about was that i would get your work clothes all snotty. i was desperate to cry into you and terrified to do it at the same time. come to think of it, i think most of my time with you, i felt similar conflicts in my heart.
we listened to country music and rode the ferris wheel. you took my hand and won a purple dinosaur the size of my face. we ate various carnival renditions of meat. as we were leaving, i gazed at you and your smile, and then, i bit into my very first caramel apple. you saved yours for later.
that was us.

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