Faded intimacy.

I am the bobby pins you find in corners of your room that seemed empty and clean yesterday.

I am the color of the walls in your bathroom with uneven strokes and gaps of white. I am the lavender.

I am the dent on the right hand side of your mattress whose dip cannot be undone after four years.

I am the rickety glass table we got from Ikea and put together and had dinners at when I would actually cook.

I am the the deleted pictures of us from the picture frame still likely displayed in the living room.

I am the faint stain on the underside of the middle cushion of your couch that came from a from the perfect first date story.

I am seltzer and ice cream and half eaten chocolates and gin and Keurig coffee and five different kinds of cereal and Awake Tazo tea.

I am the way I folded your shirts and paired up your socks.

I am the reason your Netflix still recommends psychological dramas and stupid romantic comedies.

I am the ice cream maker, the mixer, the glass fish bottle openers from Mexico that still sit in your cabinets.

I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for this time two years ago.  And I am your monthly condo association fees your are now paying in full at the condo you still live in.

I am the puppy store by the Target.

I am Target and Ikea and Best Buy.

I am the drive into the suburbs.  

I am the doctor's office on Broad Street right before City Hall.

I am the made up songs and dances to words about you.

I am the next apartment you'll live in that actually has windows in the bedroom.

I am the scent of vanilla and Hanae Mori.

I am Prohibition and Lagunitas.

I am the half uneaten french fries you didn't finish on your plate.

I am the chair beside your mom  and the conversation she is having about her sadness and pain and misery.

I am the sheets on your bed and the bathmat and the towels you still use.

I am the mounain of snow for tubing at different resorts in NY and PA.

I am the hug from behind. The emptiness of your lap.

I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.

I am the bobby pins.







adapted from the thought catalog

Loss

The love.

Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become, to become the kind of love I want to be…….and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

Narrative

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”

 —Anne Lamott 

Underneath

“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.”

Huh.

Demand A Plan

I refuse to write about Sandy Hook.  I refuse to write about the blame, the sorrow, the need for compassion, the argument around the placement of religion.  I refuse to make this tragedy about me in the sense that I wax poetic in a way that soothes only my narcissistic wounds.  Because that's what all the posts I have read on personal blogs have been.  Writing from this perspective does not feel authentic or purposeful.  Then again, I can't instruct others how to conduct their personal blogs.

But here's what I'm doing on mine:

Head over to Demandaplan.org and start making your voice heard.  Be the advocate and change agent to those who are suffering firsthand from their loss and may not have the strength to do it themselves at this point in time.

Sign the petition.

Then, draft your letter to President Obama and Congress and tell them why you want more sensible and appropriate gun laws.  They take care of all the rest.  All you have to do is wax poetic.....only hopefully with some sense of outcome at the end of it.

Here is my letter:

Dear Sen. Robert Casey, Sen. Patrick Toomey, Rep. Robert Brady, and President Barack Obama:

I support Common Sense Legislation to End Gun Violence because we all deserve to feel as safe as we possibly can in this country. As a clinical social worker in the particularly violent city of Philadelphia, I interact daily with individuals who have been affected by gun violence. Everyday, I work to help people heal from posttraumatic stress disorder, anxiety, paranoia and overall fear. I have committed my life to working with those individuals in our communities who are downtrodden, under-educated, underprivileged and simply surviving. I am doing my part to ensure that these individuals learn the skills to ensure their right to live, rather than to survive. Help me by doing your part to decrease access to weapons. To create another barrier for those that are too entrenched in a culture of desperation and hopelessness as I work to do my job.