I am going to go to sleep in a few minutes thinking about all the ways I could’ve done it differently. I’ll think of the student I should have spent one more minute acknowledging; of the teacher who made me laugh from the pit of my stomach until I felt foolish and quieted down; of the sister who, in meaning the world, has become an intimidation.
Part of me wonders at the grief I feel myself battling. I want to hide. I want to disappear. I want the alone of my home with no one telling me how to do it differently. There are so many insecurities running their way through my bones, and I feel them restrain me a little more every day. Like a muscle that can’t stretch completely, so it forgets its capabilities.
I can’t wait for summer. 18 days to go. 18 days to go, and I can wear my vans all the time. I can read a book without some looming assignment. I can take a minute to drink my coffee. I can jump on the trampoline. I can be foolish.
I can’t wait for New York and my family and Dorea. But Dorea most of all, because all she wants is to just be with me. We have no plan except to be together and to read by the beach. We want to sit near the waves and talk about everything while maybe talking about nothing. I want to be with my family, too, but their questions–the ones they haven’t even asked yet–scare me. Questions feel like a trick these days, waiting to catch me unprepared. My dad asks questions to which I never know the answers. Or he makes statements that I feel I must agree with or remain silent about. “It’s a three-year contract; why don’t you come home at the end?” And I know I should feel grateful for being wanted, but when you’re in the middle of a family of aspirations and beautiful people, it’s easy to feel like the shortcoming according to which they judge themselves. I love my family. I can’t wait til the questions have finished and we all sit near the beach, eating penny candy.
Those are the moments where the muscles relax, and I never knew I could stretch so far.
a scribble of jo 