Slow dancing to Willie Nelson singing “Can I Sleep In Your Arms” in the kitchen, on a foggy Sunday afternoon. We are clutching each other in our pajamas, and swaying in a tight but imperfect circle, barefoot on the cold, black and white checkered tiles. The song’s last beat matches up with our last step, and I don’t think it gets any better than this.
The day is cool and overcast, but we are slathering warm jalapeno cornbread with chipotle butter, frothing almond milk for the tops of our espressos, and I’m wearing fire engine red lipstick.
At 7 years-old, I’m watching dad watch Bruce Springsteen’s video for “I’m on Fire” with complete reverence. Because he asks me to, I’m teaching him dance moves so he can be more like the Boss and gain more confidence. This is the same dad who looked at pictures of serial killers, said he had the power to make the thunder in the sky go boom, relied on his mom for his home perms, and let me set him up on a date in the middle of the cereal aisle at Kings Supermarket.
That time I secretly recorded my phone interview with the head of the radio program at my potential radio school. That part where he asked me if I had a
fire in my belly to tell radio stories. He said that if I didn’t have the fire, I shouldn’t pay lots of money, leave my home in San Francisco for 15 weeks, just to live and breathe radio in Portland, Maine. He told me to only commit to radio if I had a real fire somewhere in there... I did... I do.
Rosy inner thighs burning up on a winter day after snow shoeing up the side of a mountain with too many layers on.
Sitting in a sweat lodge as a teenager and releasing my towel just below
my breasts for a few seconds in hopes that he caught a peak in the dim
light.
Hot cheeks in pillow forts with hung and layered blankets and mountains
of pillows for kissing lessons and assorted follow up dares.
Writing intentions for the new year on scraps of paper, while sitting on a thick piece of driftwood by the ocean at night. Lighting the paper on fire, watching it sear and crumble, and then coming across scattered single stem roses and an abandoned busted up boat freshly washed up on the shore. Hoping that this all meant that in the new year we were destined for surprise and wild adventure.
So much gossip at work last night, I began imagining all of our tongues singed at the tips.
After our field trip documenting nymphs and salamanders at Highland Pond, we nurtured our other side by pretending we were the pink ladies from Grease. We marched passed the boiler room into the girls bathroom and took turns looking thru the hole in the wall that lead to the boys bathroom, hoping we’d see Liam, Robby, or Soren.
Burning with dream residue every morning this week: Dreams of teeth falling out and wanting to string them into a necklace. Dreams of stealing expensive Italian earrings by accident from Barneys. Once realizing I left with them in my bag, I made up for it by asking the parking attendant at the parking garage if I could pay for multiple people’s parking spots for the week. Dreams of interviewing a hoarder with great taste for towels, about her son’s obsession with the apocalypse. Dreams of driving deep into a a big city somewhere in the south to get my favorite pea coat back from a greedy hotel owner who looked like Cleopatra. Dreams of driving thru the desert with some coworkers, and watching flying dinosaurs with dagger eyes scoop down to the freeway to swallow cars and people whole; I watched feeling unafraid and giddy.
Saunas in high school were in the old house with mineral rich well water that was viscous and smelled like sulfur, which always made her insecure and defensive. I always thought it was cool that her family had a well and baked their own bread. In the sauna we’d throw water on the hot rocks, breathe deep, and get lost in the steamy, sweaty cedar, and secret swapping. In the end, we’d release ourselves into dualing snow angels.
On a hot summer night in New England, for my parents 60th birthday party, we all hobbled down the dirt road with our cups of booze and fancy clothes, and made it to the harbor to watch an impressive fireworks show over the Cove. A bunch of friends, family, and strangers, woozy from dancing and pizza, just staring out at the fire in the sky and yelping with delight. We weren't talking about aging elders or what my sister will do when she gets back from her year in Australia. We weren't discussing when we were going to have babies, and if we were going to move back closer to family. We weren't talking about anything; we were just in it together, rapt in wonder.
She had just turned three years old. She chose blueberry picking to celebrate. It was a beautiful August day, slightly cloudy, with just enough cover from the glaring summer sun. She chattered and giggled while winding through the rows of engorged bushes. Her tiny fingers flitting from blueberry to blueberry. Half of the harvest found it's way into her bucket while the other half found their way into her tummy. He purple stained teeth gleamed every time she grinned at me.
