Confession

Confession.
This is my first time living alone. I feel like I do when I am running. Awkward. Like I don’t quite know what to do with my arms and even though I am alone, it is still a performance. I feel like the rooms are too big and I am very rude for spreading my stuff around it. How entitled of me.
I feel like my house is made of glass.
I don’t really feel anxious until night. I am not afraid of the dark. But, the way my dresser sits menacingly in the corner does intimidate me.
There is no air conditioning. This is a good thing and a bad thing.
The night air is refreshing. There are breezes. But those same breezes through the open windows of my apartment carry with them the loud whispers of those drunkenly stumbling down the alley.
I have an alley. I have alley cats. I have people that appear and disappear down the alley like ghosts. I feel a bit like Harper in Angels in America. Eugene is like a collective hallucination; “People come and go so quickly here.”
I kind of feel like a ghost in this collective hallucination haunting my apartment. I feel like a ghost until I step outside.
When I go outside of this apartment, I am alive and real person. For the first time in my life, I am treated like a person. Women don't clutch their purses or gravitate passively off the sidewalk we easily could have shared. I am greeted by smiling faces and “Hi” and “How are you doing today?” by people off the street and the barista at the Starbucks.
I imagine that they are happy to see me. With my daily Tall iced drinks and abuse of their internet. I imagine that they are happy that I am happy to see them.
I am happy to see them.
I am happy to see the park under the bridge across the street.
I am happy to see the sunset off the butte.
I am just happy.

My dad tells me not to let anyone steal my joy. Tonight, anxiety over what the future holds will not steal my joy. 
My house is not made of glass.
It is made of wood. It is sturdy and it swells and shrinks as it likes.
Sometimes it creaks, just enough to remind me that it is still here protecting me.
I do not like my house.
I love my home. 

-les

Closure

Road trips bring about closure when you are least expecting it. Spending three days on the road begs for realizations, epiphanies and the like. A week ago, I ended the adventure of helping my friend move from Los Angeles back to Charlotte, North Carolina. We took Interstate 40 the majority of the way home. We drove. We drove a lot. We drove well past the point where continuing to drive made any sense. We watch the sun rise in the Mojave. Linds points out that it looks like God is shining a spotlight. I agree.

We drive. We take pictures. We make silly videos.

We drive some more.

We get sick of driving.

            The first leg of our trip was about 19 hours during which I experienced a range of emotions spanning from alacrity to despair. Watching Linds say good-bye to the life that she had established on the West Coast brought about the harsh reminder that in just two weeks, I would be dong the same on the East Coast.

            Somewhere in the middle of the Mojave, I thought of our family friend, a gentleman in his 90's named Aubrey (or as my mother calls him “Aubrey-pooh” or “Pooh” for short). The best way to describe Aubrey would be in the stories that he lived and constantly has told. We met him in a predominately white church during what my dad affectionately likes to refer to as “the Most Segregated Time in America,” or 11 am Sunday morning. We sat unassumingly in the back. While others quietly wished us back to where we came from, after the service, Aubrey came rushing to shake our hands and tell us how happy he was to have us joining the congregation that week. This was not Southern hospitality; he meant it.

            A survivor of Pearl Harbor, he told us of hearing bullets whiz past his head during the attack and somehow emerging unscathed. He told us stories of adventure and family. He told us stories of loss.  He offered up his personal adventures so graciously that even as he told you explicit turn by turn directions for a town you may never ever visit, you were aware that you were blessed to be receiving such information from him. As we drove through New Mexico and Arizona, I thought of Aubrey and his travels with his wife across the U.S. I thought of the map in his home with all the places he had visited diligently documented with colored tacks. I wondered how many times he and his camper had driven along the same road I was capturing with my camera. How many roadside attractions had he stopped at? How many pictures of the sunrise had he taken?

            When someone dies, it forces you to realize all the questions you didn’t ask. It forces to realize the limits of the time we share with people. 

            I found out that Sunday we had lost Aubrey. And while I regret that I was not able to make it to his funeral, I realize that funerals are for the living. I don’t think that he would be hurt that I wasn’t there. My sense of closure comes from his stories. My closure comes from knowing that I once had the honor of spending a week of my summer caring for him after surgery. My closure comes from a friendship that crossed race and generations. My closure comes from the knowledge that Aubrey lived a good life. My closure comes from the thought that we probably got to see the same sunrise on the same desert.

            One of the most infuriating things about saying good-bye is that we don't quite live our lives on a timeline. When you say good-bye, you don't know exactly what you are saying good-bye to. Loss forces you to say good-bye. 

            Loss forces you to realize all the minute details, the turn-by-turn directions you have forgotten. I bet Aubrey could have told me the best way to get Eugene.

les