I don’t remember that night. The sky could have been filled with stars, creating constellations that those before us spent countless hours pouring their souls into, discovering the patterns that formed in the dark canvas above our heads. Or the sky could have been bare, naked for us to take in its glory of emptiness, an invitation to fill it with something that wasn’t there.
I wanted my brain to remember what it was like to begin a new piece of writing from scratch. From the scratching of my pen across a blank piece of former organic matter. To remember how to pay attention to sensations before trying to type ideas.
I’m a birthday person, and I am so sorry about it. Yes, I know. I know. I declare November my birthday month. It started as a Birthday weekend, then became a Birthday week, and now it’s gotten out of hand. I ring in the start of Scorpio season each year. I am almost always conducting a subconscious birthday countdown in my head.
If you sing to periwinkles, it coaxes them out of their shell.
I don’t know if this is actually true. It may well be a myth passed down to Maine children, who explore tide pools that form temporarily in the divots and cracks of rocks. In fact, writing it down like this really makes it seem like a myth.
I envy people who can go to sleep by midnight. Who can get under their warm covers and feel their skin touch the smooth surface of their sheets and know that soon they will drift off to a night of dreams, leaving their questions or compulsive thoughts for the next day. I envy them because I simply cannot follow such a routine.
[Content warning: sexual assault]
How strange to be an adult this time around, to have the vocabulary to describe what took place in my body, to have enough self-esteem to tell myself: You deserved better than that. “I mean, is it really that prevalent? Does it really happen this often?”
“Yes,” the nurse said simply. “It happens all the time.”
Like the salmon, who start their home in freshwater and migrate to the ocean then return home to spawn and die, our internal celestial soul maps are not determined by passports and borders.
No matter how smart or self-sufficient you are, the day may come when someone else takes care of you. Someone will give you medicine, drive you to doctors’ appointments, take control of your finances, and change the batteries in your hearing aids.
Born in May 1967, pre- “Summer of Love,” I am the child of quintessential hippies. My mother taught me everything I know about being laid-back, peace-loving, and eccentric. My mom, who legally changed her name to Bunee (like a rabbit), named me Sunee (like a sunny day). People used to comment, “Your names are so cute!” when they heard our names.
No one wakes up one day and says, “I want to be a witch.” Except for me. I had been an atheist for a couple of years, delving away from my Christian path in secret. Magick, or the natural use of energy to produce change, is a big “no no” in the Christian community, but I always wondered why.
Like a Tibetan sand painting, I created hundreds of bite-sized works of art that lasted as long as a server walking through a room. Then, swept into the oblivion of a black trash bag. Organic, local, wild-caught, free-range, grass-fed, farm-to-table, table to trash.
November 2020. I’m forty-one and my daughter is thirteen months. When breastfeeding, I feel my breasts to see which has more milk. Grab my boobs like udders. Check my supplies. On the underside of my left breast, about six o’clock as the doctors and technicians would eventually refer to the location, I find a lump. I’d heard about the infamous lump women are supposed to check for in showers and self-exams.
My doctor wore the expression of someone with a problem to solve. And he was looking at me.
I froze, a cup of water midway to my mouth. Prior to seeing his furrowed brow and pinched lips, I had no more than mild curiosity about the outcome of the questionnaires I had completed, designed to determine whether or not I had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder …
It’s easier now than ever to play and get into video games, but as we become more comfortable with digitization, I wonder about the preservation of old and lost video games, in the same way I wonder about old films and stories.
“No one wears sarees in America,” my husband who was on an H1 visa in the United States said when I asked him what clothes I should bring. It was 1999, I was newly married when I said goodbye to everything that was familiar in India, and packed twenty-three years of memories into two compact suitcases, not knowing when I would return.
My daughter, Rebecca—from mannerisms and facial expressions, to likes and dislikes—is a mini me, except for the fact that she is much taller than I am. Every year at our Drama Club banquet, we had the tradition of giving out funny awards to everyone. From the time she was nine until she was my student, Rebecca’s award was “Most Likely to Become Her Mother.”
For the first time in six years, I invited my mom to sleep under the same roof with me. I was graduating from college the next day, and I wanted her to be there when I walked across the stage in my green cap and gown, triumphant against the odds.
Not having child care sucks. I had child care. I had a miraculous saint of a woman who knew baby sign language and spoke Spanish and could be trusted with my daughter. But, she revealed herself actually to be an evil, disappointing deserter that quit with no notice. Well, eleven hour’s notice. Text came through Sunday at 9 p.m. before work on Monday at 8 a.m.
Team tryouts this week. If you want to perform at Camp Hollywood, show up at the studio on Monday.
This announcement popped up in my social media feed about two days after I turned sixty-three. Camp Hollywood is a huge deal for Lindy Hoppers and other swing dancers.
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