This Is How I'm Made
I hosted a party last night, and now I'm writing while hungover. I'm sorry. You're welcome.
I can’t stop thinking about the faded part of the hardwood in my mom’s bedroom. She places her feet on the floor in the same spot every morning when she gets out of bed. What will it feel like to look at that mark when she’s no longer around to repeat the routine? Will someone sand the floorboards when they move into her house? Will the wood always be uneven in some small way?
There’s a spot in the lawn by the edge of the stone wall that’s been pounded into pure dirt by the dogs— they take this shortcut up and down the hill while chasing each other around the yard. What will it feel like when they’re no longer, and the grass grows back? Will it ever? Or will the surface of the earth always be scarred by them?
When the subway is busy, I stand on my tip toes and brace a palm against the ceiling to steady myself. I learned this from someone I used to love while watching them on our third date. That was back when I wanted to memorize every one of their minor physical movements by mimicking each one myself. But of course, memory fades. Now the act only exists in me as a habit. Smaller, smoother, but still a mark of their presence in my life. The way I use a small metal spoon to taste food while I cook. The way I clap when I laugh. The way I curl my hair. The way I order coffee. The way I kiss.
As I age, I fear that I’ll fade into the sum of others’ impact on me. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to parse through which parts of myself have always been mine, and which parts belonged to someone else first. It makes me nauseous, losing so much of myself in the mess.
Though it’s also important, I suppose, to maintain the balance. Someone hugged me last night while saying goodbye and rubbed between my shoulder blades, the same way that I do. And somewhere in the city, there’s a girl who trims her bangs before every party, because she watched me with my scissors once. There’s a chipped brick on a building in Los Angeles. A burn mark on the ceiling of a restaurant kitchen. Someone who strokes down the arm of the person they love with the back of their knuckles, because late one night three years ago, I couldn’t help myself.
The people who have moved through my life are slowly sculpting my block of stone. A few years ago, they freed my arms. I’m just now getting the hang of using my hands to etch into their lives, too. Softly. Taking stock of what I shave off. And making note of what I keep.
I’m so happy you’ve made it here. If you’d like, I would love for you to stay a while:
your hands, what a gift!!
so so pretty <3