reality sets in...
I step off the plane, and my senses are accosted. The pungent salt air, the wet breeze that teases my exposed cleavage with hints of balminess, that belie its true chill. I descend the steps, feel my tangled curls tightening with the humidity. I feel neither happy nor sad. I may detect a hint of Eucalyptus, but I can't be sure. It may be my memory playing tricks on me.
The first trip I took, alone, since I was married, I stepped off the plane at the Santa Barbara Airport. I remember the tightening in my chest of emotion, the nervous tickle, the phone calls home. It is beautiful, I had lied, just a little, my easterner aesthetic not ready to embrace the barren beauty of the Pacific coast. It is dark still, I won't see the ocean until tomorrow, in the morning, when I take a lonely walk along the edge of the sea.
I am home, it would seem, whatever home means. I am no longer married. And I'm in a space I created, only, not. That is. It is clean, but there are foods on the counters that are boy foods, cookies, chips. To my grateful surprise, sheets are washed and the bed is already half-made. There are cleansing products I would not buy on the shelves, there are new light fixtures, courtesy of the university, that make everything a bit harsher in the white glare. Shit, I think, I am alone.
Shit, double shit. Now what? Work. Yes, lot's of it. So why can't I stop thinking about how much I have lost since that first time I stepped off the plane, into the salt air of Santa Barbara, but how much have I gained? My voice doesn't wobble when I talk about it anymore, not as much. The tears aren't for me, but someone else tonight, reading the stories written by the women in Mérida's prison, the ones that published a book under the tutelage of Verónica González and her taller de escritura. My eyes devour the page and the pain that is not my own, but at the same time it is. The pain of every woman, every man, every child ever abandoned, or scorned, of hurt by someone they loved. I've looked at life from both sides, now... and I'll still always side with the loser.
In the airport, from Phoenix, my flight was delayed. There was a free wireless connection. There was a kind rejection. And a friend in a far off land to keep me company for a few minutes, to commiserate. So, he says, being alone is not so bad. I'll have to take his word for it. My garden is a shambles, but there are still a few tenacious flowers. My living room is not the way I want, but it can wait, until tomorrow. There is no rush. There is nothing waiting. Nothing but my own rhythm. I need to find it. I need to find myself, somewhere lost in this house that always feels so small, but suddenly feels so big. It is just me. And the artwork I bought that needs framing, and the presents that I will hide in the drawer will be safely guarded where no little hands will go prying. There are no little hands to hold, not for now. But there are movies to be shelved, books, papers.
Tomorrow I will buy milk, and eggs, carrots, tomatoes and cucumbers. I will check the mail, arrange my creams and lotions, oils and cleansers, spices and liquors. Tomorrow I will find myself in the midst of all this and wonder what I was thinking, so long ago. Could I have foreseen this? Am I in a better place? Or just a different one? Will I always be searching?
The summer is over, and California leaves do turn, not in such magnificently strident colors, but they do... dried eucalyptus swirls around by the front door. That smell will forever remind me of heartbreak, in so many ways. When will I stop associating the beginning of school with personal tragedy? When will it turn back into that sense of hope and infinite possibility that it used to inspire in me, as a child, with the smell of sweet putrefaction, tannin-rich rivers running orange with the rotten leaves, new erasers, pencils, notebooks. The promise of new eyes to look into, the possibility of touch.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I can change it, make it the way I want, be a better person. Tomorrow.
Tonight, I'll just cry a little. It is good to be home.
The first trip I took, alone, since I was married, I stepped off the plane at the Santa Barbara Airport. I remember the tightening in my chest of emotion, the nervous tickle, the phone calls home. It is beautiful, I had lied, just a little, my easterner aesthetic not ready to embrace the barren beauty of the Pacific coast. It is dark still, I won't see the ocean until tomorrow, in the morning, when I take a lonely walk along the edge of the sea.
I am home, it would seem, whatever home means. I am no longer married. And I'm in a space I created, only, not. That is. It is clean, but there are foods on the counters that are boy foods, cookies, chips. To my grateful surprise, sheets are washed and the bed is already half-made. There are cleansing products I would not buy on the shelves, there are new light fixtures, courtesy of the university, that make everything a bit harsher in the white glare. Shit, I think, I am alone.
Shit, double shit. Now what? Work. Yes, lot's of it. So why can't I stop thinking about how much I have lost since that first time I stepped off the plane, into the salt air of Santa Barbara, but how much have I gained? My voice doesn't wobble when I talk about it anymore, not as much. The tears aren't for me, but someone else tonight, reading the stories written by the women in Mérida's prison, the ones that published a book under the tutelage of Verónica González and her taller de escritura. My eyes devour the page and the pain that is not my own, but at the same time it is. The pain of every woman, every man, every child ever abandoned, or scorned, of hurt by someone they loved. I've looked at life from both sides, now... and I'll still always side with the loser.
In the airport, from Phoenix, my flight was delayed. There was a free wireless connection. There was a kind rejection. And a friend in a far off land to keep me company for a few minutes, to commiserate. So, he says, being alone is not so bad. I'll have to take his word for it. My garden is a shambles, but there are still a few tenacious flowers. My living room is not the way I want, but it can wait, until tomorrow. There is no rush. There is nothing waiting. Nothing but my own rhythm. I need to find it. I need to find myself, somewhere lost in this house that always feels so small, but suddenly feels so big. It is just me. And the artwork I bought that needs framing, and the presents that I will hide in the drawer will be safely guarded where no little hands will go prying. There are no little hands to hold, not for now. But there are movies to be shelved, books, papers.
Tomorrow I will buy milk, and eggs, carrots, tomatoes and cucumbers. I will check the mail, arrange my creams and lotions, oils and cleansers, spices and liquors. Tomorrow I will find myself in the midst of all this and wonder what I was thinking, so long ago. Could I have foreseen this? Am I in a better place? Or just a different one? Will I always be searching?
The summer is over, and California leaves do turn, not in such magnificently strident colors, but they do... dried eucalyptus swirls around by the front door. That smell will forever remind me of heartbreak, in so many ways. When will I stop associating the beginning of school with personal tragedy? When will it turn back into that sense of hope and infinite possibility that it used to inspire in me, as a child, with the smell of sweet putrefaction, tannin-rich rivers running orange with the rotten leaves, new erasers, pencils, notebooks. The promise of new eyes to look into, the possibility of touch.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I can change it, make it the way I want, be a better person. Tomorrow.
Tonight, I'll just cry a little. It is good to be home.
posted by ilana at 10:04 p.m.
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