Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

Truth in Fiction

I’ve always wondered how she copes.

I see her every week day at work, tired and emotionally strained. It is almost as if she feels everything. She’s only thirty years old but going on eighty.  

I knew a girl like her once in high school. Always fighting some sort of battle. Her inward struggles always managed an outward manifestation. She was angry, tired, sad, sometimes happy, joyful, and even occasionally relaxed. Whichever emotion possessed her at the time she never did a good job of hiding it. I found it annoying and exhausting, her ping-pong of emotions, but also in a strange way I admired it. It was unfamiliar to someone as unemotional as myself, or maybe I should say calloused.  

The high school girl had a coping mechanism. I noticed one day in the locker room before gym class. Thin precise cuts in rows of three down her legs, stopping shortly before the hem of her shorts. They were all in various stages of healing, some fresh and some already scarred. I stared a little too long and she noticed my lingering. She shot me a “mind your own business” sort of glare and so I did. I was too scared and thought I was too cool to care about someone like her.

Today I wish I would have said something, at least tried to make a difference.

I admit that I’ve often recalled this girl to mind when interacting with my coworker. It’s empowering knowing that there are no should’ve, would’ve , could haves yet. I’ve done my best to build a semi-functional relationship in our 9-5 lives. I’ve asked loads of questions trying to uncover her coping. I know she isn’t a cutter like the girl I knew before. Once she told me she liked to get drunk and hook up with random guys but I could tell it was a lie.

Then one day I started talking about this. The silly blog that I use to write about random little stories. I could tell right away that it resonated with her on a new level that I hadn’t experienced before.  Soon we were talking about her manuscript, the book she has started writing just for fun. I immediately offered to read it. She hesitated but eventually agreed.

I “proofread” it for her cover to cover last night. It was brilliant and enthralling. I couldn’t put it down. It wasn’t the content that knocked me off my feet but the characters. She wrote herself into fiction, and for the first time I had a real glimpse into what she FEELS. She copes by lacing all her insecurities and shortcomings and feelings into a beautiful plot line. The story is far from finished and I can hardly wait for the finale. Sure, it is just fiction, but from my vantage point there isn’t much that I have seen that is truer than fiction. 

Tears

I read once that all my tears are collected and recorded, counted and kept safe. If that’s the case my jar is probably close to empty, a thin salty layer evaporating into nothing. I haven’t added to it in what seems like forever and to me that feels normal but to others not so much. I tell people that it’s not the way I function; that my sorrows are expressed differently and that’s true for the most part. It’s also true that on the occasions when my chin begins to quiver and the lump rises in my throat, I fight to hold it in. I’m afraid to let a few loose, knowing that if I do it would take a small army to pull me back together and I hate that feeling of not being in control, weakness. And, to be quite honest, I’ve never felt like my tears were important enough. The majority of the ones I’ve cried have been over held back anger and my bruised ego, certainly not something to be cherished.

However, the ones that fell swiftly from my eyes last night were different. Instead of being accompanied by short breaths and sniffles their only companion was silence. They made hot streams along my cheeks and eventually pooled on the red Egyptian cotton of my pillowcase as I tried to find my sleep. Normally I would have mulled it over, dissecting all the reasons causing me to feel this way but I didn’t need to.  I knew these were tears of deep sorrow and repentance; born out of a tired heart.  I didn’t fight it and the minutes accumulated quickly, however, I knew that they were serving as a lullaby of sorts. I don’t know which came first the ceasing of my tears or my dreamless slumber but as I awoke this morning a single tear escaped each eye and then they were gone with as little fanfare as when they arrived.

Those tears, the hot silent variety, are the ones worth cherishing. 

Just a Game

Disclaimer: This was an exercise inspired by my brilliant writer, sister/friend. Shameless plug.

As long as I can remember this game has been an outlet of sorts, an escape from reality. Sure it’s just a game, a round ball and a hoop, offense defense and the in-between. However, it was once prized YMCA, Spirit League and Select Team jerseys that marked my progression through tryouts and tourneys. It was ounces of sweat dripping off my forehead onto yellowed hardwood, and overpriced Jordan sneakers that made me run faster and jump higher. It was the tapping of my anxious right leg during the Star Spangled Banner and the towel over my head as I wept over fouling out of a big game. It was belligerent battles with coaches and referees; a heart swollen with pride over stats and newspaper articles. It was the #32 necklace that I proudly wore to match the numbers on the front of my letter jacket. It was all-star teams, recruiting and state recognition.

In college it was exclusive parties and all day workouts. It was weights, conditioning, practice, team dinner and camaraderie with my sweatpants sorority. It was solitary cold soaks to momentarily cure the increasing agony of my shoulders, back, legs, etc. It was my source of joy, my identity all wrapped up in a round ball and a hoop. Then, it was forced retirement, doc’s orders. It was grief, anger, bitterness, resentment and eventually acceptance. 

Now it is my Wednesday workout. It is exercise for the out of shape and slightly overweight. Its exaggerated cheers for 3 pointers made and “she’s still got it!” for no look passes and fancy dribbling. It’s more laughter than yelling, more miscues than precision, and its tom foolery really. For the first time in my life, it is just a game.

The First

It seems like we all have a fascination with firsts. We carry fond memories of the first time we rode our bikes or flew on an airplane. There are all sorts of emotions tied up in firsts, most of them include excitement and adrenaline but some of them include heavier emotions like pain, suffering and disappointment. Up to a certain point in my life many of my firsts were all enveloped in guilt and shame and lies. I don’t remember my first lie, but I know that I became imposingly good at it. It felt quite natural to string together a delightful sounding phrase to confuse or distract whomever I was duping.

I did just that the night I had my first kiss. I told the boy I wanted to kiss that he had to help me finish a scavenger hunt, that I had to find the cutest boy at camp and kiss him for ten seconds. He obliged even though we were in front of campers and counselors and he was 5 years my senior. I was quite surprised that my lips felt tingly and even more surprised when I felt his tongue touch mine. I found that to be weird and a little disgusting but I played along like I knew this whole charade backwards and forwards. When a counselor approached to break up our little love fest (after all it was a Christian camp) I spouted off another lie blaming a giggling group of nearby girls for daring me to commit such a scandalous act.

The truth is I didn’t know those girls and I didn’t even know the name of the boy I had just kissed. I didn’t have a scavenger hunt to accomplish nor did anyone dare me but I did know that my older sister had a crush on him and that she had just seen the whole thing. So when someone asks about my first kiss I say it was a boy at camp mainly because the only thing I remember now is that he wore a neon green backwards baseball cap and had bad breath. It was as unromantic as my second kiss which occurred in the middle of the dance floor on homecoming night my freshman year of high school. I assured my date that he was the fourth or fifth boy I’d kissed and I made sure all my friends saw our sloppy session during “Amazed.”

I continued this trend of deceit with many firsts that followed my first (or second) kiss. The first time I slept with someone and the first time I drank too much I pretended like I was a seasoned veteran and I recounted the stories like they were normal occurrences. All those firsts were a train wreck, a desperate attempt at social integration and acceptance but there is one first I’ll never forget. A first that makes all other firsts pale in comparison. I’ll never forget the first time I felt loved. There was no shame or deception, no lies and no plea for acceptance, just love. There was adrenaline and joy, excitement and anticipation and for the first time I didn’t have to be anybody but me.