Words about my dad.

I open the mail, which does not need a return address because I would recognize my dads sprawling letters or my moms perfectly executed curls of ink anywhere.
I find, as expected, at least two articles cut out from The Globe.
In pen, above the title, my name in all caps followed by a barely legible note.
My dad sends me every single article that is about writing, about good people trying to help the homeless, or has a picture of a dog. But, he especially sends me every single article that he thinks is well-written or is formatted in an interesting way. And the note always says something like "this reminds me of that story you wrote," or "this made me think of you," or "you can write something like this and send it in."
Some parents are quiet about their pride.
Not mine.
My dad documents every single moment of his visit with his granddaughters. We've always made fun of him for being unable to look at them without looking through the lens, but I've also always known that these pictures will be sent to my grandparents who only get to see their great-granddaughters every few years. And now that I have moved to California, they are for me too. So I don't feel like I am missing out on my nieces lives.
My dad does this for me, despite the fact that I moved to the West coast without a plan or a job.
He sends me well-written articles despite the fact that I decided to get my MFA in creative writing without taking a single writing class.
He informs me of social justice events despite the fact that I would rather make too little money working at a non-profit than make a stable income as a teacher.
He asks about the man I am in love with, despite the fact that he has not met him yet.
He gives me endless hours of advice verging on lectures. But that is because he is worried.
Because he is my dad.
And I am his daughter, so sometimes I roll my eyes. And sometimes I get frustrated with his point of view and try to scold him into seeing mine.
We don't always see eye-to-eye when it comes to gender roles and identity. And sometimes I feel like he doesn't get me because I get red in the face explaining my views on marriage and children.
But the day after I refuse to stop correcting little things like his use of the word "waitress," I get a letter in the mail. Three articles in all. One about love, one about friendship, one sweet piece about the author finding beauty in the survival of a tree. Three little snapshots that I identify with. It's like three little pieces of the puzzle that make up my personality.
And I know that it's my dads way of telling me that he sees me every day in the good parts of his world. And when he doesn't have the words to tell me that, he sends it to me with the words of others.

To whom it may concern...

I recently turned 30.
A  girl can't hit a mark like that without getting a little introspective.
Not a girl like me.
I began taking note of myself.
And before I knew it, I had made a list
Because I haven't changed much

1.  I still toss words around all day before I set them down
2. I still think comfort means my dads old clothes
3. I still get caught up in tiny details to procrastinate what I fear about the big picture
4. I still think that love is big and wonderful and magic. But it can't be your whole world
5. I still want to perfect everything immediately and feel like a failure when I can't
6. I still love to end on an even number

But there's a a lot that's new

1. I call myself a writer out loud 
2. I'm on a new coast, in a wonderland far from home
3. I am in love
4. I have lost my security blanket "Everything will be better once I move to California"
5. Every day I care less and less about what others think about me
6. I value balance in all things

I have been thinking a lot about clothes lately. 

How does a former emo girl age gracefully?

How does she honor her inner hellions desire to remain a non-conformist while trying to pick out something flattering?

How does she deal with 30?

Same way she rallies to go out when her inner grandma wants to stay in.

With red lipstick. 

Needs and Wants

I'm feeling a bit lost and directionless
a bit dis en fran chised 
A little out of control
which no one likes
  And I like even less.

They tell me they love me
But sometimes my skin stretches and hardens like a barrier
The words knock themselves against it until they're black and blue
And I see them
But I can't feel them from my tower

This isn't what I sat down to write
This is words flowing
without any permission given
Soaked in self pity and a little girls boredom
Because Ok
My life isn't perfect
neither is yours
And I have what I need
I hope you do too
It's just that what I want feels out of reach
But Ok
I just don't feel as great as I thought I would
I need to shift the focus but I can't find the lens
I need to fix it instead of dwelling in metaphors
I want a quick fix
But theres a reason those don't really exist
Even Wonder Woman needed two separate lives to keep her shit together

Maybe the grossest thing I've ever written.

Disney taught me about love when I was a little girl
Fairy tales with fairy tale endings
I knew what I wanted
I was hopeless
I sighed and dreamed
I believed in romance

But as I slipped out of my teens,
I decided that the rules had changed
I told my best friend that I believed
But not in me
I didn't call it cynicism

I grew into who I wanted to be
Not without scrapes and bruises along the way
But I decided to love me on my own
And I did
And I didn't need anyone else

And then I moved
And I changed again
And I keep thinking about who I was before
and before that

In todays world of screens and auto-correct
Nothing beats that feeling when your crush is crushing back
I'm not the little girl expecting sunsets and roses
But I do belive in me
And in us.

A Story from the Road

They were out of Arlington before anyone knew that they were gone. They had passed out early the night before, exhausted from a day of touring the monuments. No one stirred as they packed their bags and grabbed Snacks, they were used to being unnoticed. Their aunt hadn't driven in years, not since an almost fatal collision scared her into taking the bus permanently. It could be years before she noticed that her car was missing from the garage down the street.

   He took the first driving shift because he was older by 5 minuets. She was happy to sleep through the border into the next state. The post card with the picture of the San Antonio river walk was on the dashboard, it had been sent a year ago. "Love Dad," had been almost entirely smudged away by her thumb. She liked to trace the curves to see if any of them mirrored the lines of her own writing.

"What if he's not there anymore?" She asked again.

"It's as good a place to start as any," he said. "Put your seatbelt on, you know we can't get pulled over."

The sun was only just beginning to light the sky. Their aunts alarm broke into the relative darkness and she reached out to postpone her day for another five minuets. 

words

I can’t find my journal

Can’t find my vehicle for getting words to ink

So this will have to suffice

But see how even on screen I skip to the next line

Expecting the page to end

To meet the edge

What does that say?

That tapping and typing will do in a pinch

But I breathe words to life on blue and parchment

rather than blinking black on indifferent white light

There is a lot that I want today

I want to learn to be stronger

I want to do the hard things that will make me better

I want to stop hesitating

I want to burn bright in actions not just words

I wish I could write my future the way I write the lives of my characters

I want to live poetry so I don’t have to write it.

This is not a poem.

Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a whirlwind.

But the wind is stirred by everyone else but me

You are joining your lives with others

You are creating new lives

I am moving slowly while you all orbit around me

I could step into the circle, but I hesitate every time I see an opening

No, not yet.

Next time.

Maybe.

The only wrong choice is to not choose.

I can put the words in ink on my skin

I can say them in the mirror to myself

I can write them to you.

But it’s easier to find excuses to put them off

And go search for a lost object instead.

For Country

This is piece I wrote today in class after hearing about a friend who just passed away.
I didn't know him very well, but he was an amazing writer and had a contagiously bright personality.


BY the time I got the news, it was too late, and it's not like I could have done anything anyway, but once you were alive and present and once you were laughing and making us laugh and once you loved your mommas jumbalaya and warm summer nights in the South...but now you can't love anything or anyone because someone ended you with a knife I imagine the neon glow of a blinking sign on a cold hard concrete they made you fade away like the night breeze cools the rice that you used to chase with an already cool beer and I know that I couldn't have stopped them but  all you have now is the earth above and the earth below and all I have now is the pen and the words to write it