Standing. Alone in the in borrowed pair of pajamas given as airline swag on my way here. On my way back. Not home. Not anything really. Just another place I know people.
The only thing that stands as difference is just how well I happen to know them. Hardly at all. I think they call that family, and it works. That’s why I’m here.
Standing. Drinking fake ground up powdery something or rather than magically becomes coffee that only now tastes better in comparison. And I’m thinking. Starring. Thinking, “I hope when I die they say I was a whirlwind of enigmatic charisma.” Enigmatic despite the number of times in my life I had charged a room and been announced in excitement. Better than a Queen. Better than any sort of thing like that because no one cheers my name because they have to.
I think about years before, coming back to Utah. Coming “home” to Utah; walking into my office in New York each year; making small appearances in the no man’s land that emulates the involunteerable theme song that all my ex’s live in Texas. It’s not true. Sometimes.
Then I notice. I mean notice in a way that takes a long hard moment – a journey to the back of my memory and back to notice again. A girl. She’s standing in the window of the house just opposite of me. And me, in the window of the house just opposite of her.
I’m older. She’s obviously not even in school. She’s just young. And I wonder, “Which of us is hardly yet alive?” Do experiences even warrant us as being “living.” Not all are so volunteered. Could it be said ironically that to experience the death of a loved one is just one of those things that makes you the type of person that truly lives your life? I suppose. In some cases.
Enigmatic, you see.
The things that make you go hmm.