You were dainty but delicious. You poked holes in my pockets but I'm happy to trade hard work for experiences these days.
Dear Mango Margarita,
I still think you're more exciting to say than dripping on my tongue. But you're frozen enough to make me pretend I'm five again.
The gray-haired woman next to me, who thought I was ballsy for using the men's room during intermission, said it best: So. Much. Heart.
A Masters Degree makes me no more equip to support my sadness.
Dear Spring Skirts,
You're good for twirling and weekend picnics.
Weekdays are brought to me by the letters Y-O-U.
Dear Cinnamon Tea,
Don't worry. As the days warm, I will still boil your water, wait impatiently for you to cool, and hide you away behind the laugh lines in my throat.
Dear Prom Date,
We're the greatest love story ever told.
Dear Renaissance Faire,
The stones said it best.
Dear Mini-Ice Cream Cones,
You're a tiny indiscretion. Everything tastes better in cones.
Dear Deb Talan,
I trust no one when I’m afraid, either. But we are Lucky Girls.
You're close. You mean the end of such much and the beginning of so much more.
Dear 6 Months,
You're not much in the scope of forever...but you've been everything since the first day the glass broke and the dreidel spun, and the bakery door swung open.
Dear Rainy Blooms,
Proof that things are still lovely, even when they're a little damp. The flowers (still) grow.
I wake up around seven times a night. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I can't say I remember a time I slept peacefully for the quantities of time suggested by the National Sleep Foundation or my father. It's part of my sleep pattern, by now. Never quite a REM because there's always something I remember--a hook out of slumber. A reason to wake.
As a child, I'd listen to music to fall asleep. Eventually, the familiar hum of chords I knew and words I'd grown to expect would create a safe-nest. A lullaby for the listless. Each time I would wake, a chorus would swell and I would slowly find my way back to slumber. Sometimes I would pick up a book and read until my lids, purple and heavy, would shut. I survived the dark, the monsters, the day before. But some nights I did not sleep.
I used to sleep with my arms and legs in straight-jacket mode: so tightly encased in my blanket that nothing could ever get in. Not nightmares, not bad thoughts, not bad people. It wasn't always an effective way to keep out the boogey-man. Neither was the dreamcatcher that jumbled my thoughts like Charlotte's Web into nothing so "radiant" or "wonderful."
Now, I'm much more the Netflix & Chill variety. A plot that floats like a dream in the back of my overly-addled mind. Voices that murmur like old friends.
I read an article in The New York Times a few months ago that reviewed papers published in a science journal about the power of sleep. This article, in particular, wrote that people sleep to forget.
But I dream to remember.
Bukowski said, "Too often, the only escape is sleep." That may be true. But I have always been happier in the here-and-now. As a child, my mother, when faced with any big decision would say "Let me sleep on it." And, by morning, like clockwork, she would have an answer to all of life's biggest questions. I have her enthusiasm, her smile, her thighs, but I never seemed to get the sleep gene and, while we are both afraid of so many things, I wonder why I'm so afraid to close my eyes.
And to make decisions.
I wonder if, subconsciously, I'm letting my night terrors affect my day-person. I know it works in reverse: I would wake up, unable to keep my lungs or heart from sinking, when my day-heart was breaking. Or are they one in the same? Is that why I'm so afraid of them?
April's love letters being so tremendously delayed speaks volumes. Still far from the showers and the flowers, I am a mass of extremes---sorry/grateful, regretful/happy, (more on this soon). As I type belated love notes, a Ring-Pop on my ring-finger, I am reminded to think whimsy. Of all the reasons-I-have-to-be-happy-in-spite-of. Of all the happy-is-what-happy-does. Of all the hyphenated happiness.
Dear Spring Break,
A breath of fresh air and extra doses of laughter. I had forgotten what it felt like when the weight was off my shoulders.
You were a doozy: after days of making videos, I don't think I've ever laughed so frustratedly or grimaced so joyously.
You were a good idea.
I was overzealous and bought the whole thing. Thank you for not laughing at me as I spent all day asking you to cook faster. Thank you for letting me keep my Passover-Points.
Dear Park Slope,
You're a whole other world. Thank you for pie and adventures.
You remind me of all the reasons I want to be a dreamer, even when times are hard.
I don't really like adulting with you. But I can. And that's pretty cool.
I am the luckiest. You remind me how to smile, when the world feels too heavy.
Dear New York,
I love comfy pants and giant sweaters with you.
(you're the) One.
Dear Poem in Your Pocket Day,
"I said to the sun/tell me about the Big Bang./ The sun said "it hurts to become."/I carry that hurt on the tip of my tongue."
Dear Chocolate Lab,
Will you be my puppy?
Dear Lit Mag,
I'm proud of you.
I was an open palm; a heartbeat; pride personified. The bigger your twirls, your smiles, your voices--you are why I do this. You are all it's for.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.