Raising my hands, I press the heels of my palms into my forehead. My neck hurts. Slowly, I bring my hands down my face, the pads of my fingertips sliding over my closed eyes. I've apparently begun to cry.
I'd been at a standstill on the 101, having slammed on my own breaks minutes before. It's a Saturday, and the exit was backed up. The driver behind me hadn't sensed that, hadn't been comfortable driving his rental SUV, hadn't understood that he wouldn't clear me by veering to the left.
I'm fine. I mean physically, I think, I'm fine. But something unfurled, some sort of hurt insisted on its release, and so I drove around bewildered with my fender flopping and scraping and sounding as though my car would crumble beneath me.
I drove past my old studio, the one behind the craftsman in Hollywood. I recalled the night I cradled his head in my lap on those front steps. It was a warm smoky night, and we had been drinking and singing and going over his past relationships. I had wondered, aloud, how it was possible that any woman could have willingly hurt him.
There are ghost towns within this town.
Each time I move a little further away, I forget them, and I continue on with the act of living; I pay my bills and I try to be kind and to grow and to make room for my art and to let go of old notions of who I was supposed to be. To be forgiving of the distance between that girl and who I now am. I stick to my neighborhood. I don't venture to old homes that are draped in unfulfilled wishes, like a string of twinkly lights.
And yet, today, that was the only thing that would do. I drove to my old home and wept for the girl who once dreamt inside, for the woman who must continue to dream, amend, and dream some more.
