When she tells me she’s proud of me, I want to pull a blanket over myself and stay there, away from her attention, away from the pride I can feel rising up in myself that tells me, Mission accomplished.
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There are weaknesses in our blood we don’t know how to hide.
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On March 4, 2015, I wrote my first blog post on this website.
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Some people like to put tacks on a map of the places they’ve seen, whether through the window of an airport or up close and personal in the heart of a town that doesn’t belong to them. But what I like to do is hunt down the tackiest souvenir shop, browse through the shot glasses and T-shirts, and walk away with a single postcard that will never make its way into a mailbox.
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Promise me that you won’t let someone love you when every night you go to bed feeling like your heart is broken.
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I don’t know if I had ever prayed before. I had said prayers; I said the prayers my mom told me to say at dinner time and before I fell asleep at night. I closed my eyes in church and held hands with the people sitting next to me when the pastor told us to bow our heads—but I almost always peeked.
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It was Jack on our breath and his eyes locked on me while I danced. We were out together with his friends for the first time, but as soon as we arrived the two of us lost ourselves in the crowd of 100 people squeezed into a suburban backyard.
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It was probably close to 11 p.m. when the song came on. I had broken up with my boyfriend only a few days earlier, spent an hour crying, took a fifteen-minute break, started crying again.
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My mom and I are similar in almost every way. The amount of parmesan cheese on our spaghetti, the sweaters we stop to point at in store windows, the scenes in movies we fast forward through and the scenes in movies we watch again and again and again. My dad complains that she always has a teammate when we gang up on him, my sister gets drowned out by our constant chatter.
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