tacobell and tears

today i cried more than usual,

i saw wakanda forever because i was granted the opportunity through work.

grief is a prominent theme, understandably,

may chadwick boseman’s memory be for a blessing.

after, i was chatting with a coworker/colleague,

who shared her own relation to grief and loss,

and was meandering down my own memories with that later in the day.

i grabbed some tacobell before hopping on the train,

sheltering the paper bag in my coat as i shuttled home.

the rain wasn’t too heavy, thank goodness, i am handling everything with more care.

fewer words, more intention.

less action, more consideration.

the first girl i Loved,

with a fiery passion,

with a devotion i am a little ashamed of now - but can grant myself grace because it will only weigh me down if i hold onto that - loves tacobell.

i assume it is still something she loves,

we haven’t talked in quite a bit.

we stopped for a year or so,

a result of my doing,

until she called me when she was in crisis.

we stayed in contact for a little while,

and then we stopped again.

once, back in college, i had just gotten myself a new bike,

i wanted to see her, and i wanted a reason to see her,

so i got her tacobell, all of her favorite items off the menu,

and enough for her little siblings too.

when i got there,

i called her,

and she sent her sister out to retrieve,

though i was disappointed,

i respected her ability to maintain her boundaries,

and biked home in the rain.

-i still have a scar from a fall i took-

a forever physical memento etched onto my elbow.

she described once, my energy, as a silverback gorilla - and she the banana,

a dream that she’d had.

i don’t disagree.

my sister and i have talked about how we each coped with the lovelessness we called a home,

about how i sought out anything akin to love wherever i could,

gratefully feasting on scraps from people who didn’t Appreciate Me in all my authenticity.

once i began finding folks who did make me feel Seen,

in ways that i’ve longed for,

through the storms and sunshine,

folks who steadfastly support me in the ways i ask and the ways i didn’t know i could ask,

i now understand my patterns of the pendulum swinging.

my desire to reciprocate how i was capable,

my greediness, to gorge myself on this fresh water.

one of those random facts that get stuck in your brain,

for me, is that if you have gone a long time without eating,

you have to pace yourself because you could eat more than your body can handle,

and fall ill // potentially die.

today i watched the final episode of new girl,

for the first time ever.

i didn’t realize it was the end - till they envisioned all of their kids playing true american,

a classic ‘last episode’ kind of scene.

i struggle with goodbyes;

with endings,

with the feeling of finality - being associated with abandonment - being associated with rejection - being associated with never again.

i admittedly have stopped reading books that i really love before the last pages,

and have prolonged watching series finales of many a show,

because i didn’t want the story to be over.

i used to read fan fiction,

to fill the gaps, to satiate the spaces that were created by the creation of the world.

i once dallied in writing a fan fiction,

about Eragon before Paolini (who i heard is standoffish) finished off the series.

but at the time i didn’t have the confidence to continue,

or the focus needed to see it through.

i did a lot of extra-curriculars when i was in school,

anything to keep myself busy and out of the house.

i didn’t piece together at the time that was why,

when i was home i would eat, sleep and repeat.

sometimes shower, sometimes study.

my mother never remembered,

or perhaps simply didn’t care, that i didn’t like when she stabbed my hotdogs.

(i was convinced it ‘let the juices out’ haha)

i would decline the dog that she impaled on the fork,

she called me touchy, and said i was making a big deal over nothing.

sometimes i would acquiesce and accept the maimed cylinder,

but others i would stand my ground - and she’d be offended that i was particular.

when going out for hot pot with my sister’s partner’s father,

he remembers all of our favorite dishes and makes sure to order them.

we don’t speak the same language,

but he conveys all that’s needed in the ways that we can understand.

i am 24 years old,

still learning what love can look and feel like,

still learning that there being only 5 love-languages is a broad generalization of the infinite spectrum of ways people can convey care and compassion for one another,

still learning how to contain the love that i have and hold for people so that it does not drown them, and can sustain them instead.

i want to be an oasis, not a flood.

i long to be a respite, not a responsibility.