YOLO

The idea that such an enormous life event can’t be embraced and ultimately celebrated is extremely narrow-minded and, well, self-righteously judgmental. The blissful beginnings are full of ritual: of parties and showered gifts, of well-wishes and familial support. Why not let the ending, if there should be an ending, be allowed the same respect: a ritual of its own, however tinged with sadness it may be?

I could page through my journals in an effort to uncover my missteps. I could pray for a different outcome. I could throw myself at my partner’s feet, only to discover his unwillingness to walk forward with me by his side. I could do all of these things, and I have done all of those things. And yet, here I am.

I’ve howled in my empty home and I’ve mourned the children we will never have. But I can’t keep at it forever, and I really hope you’d not want that for anyone. It’s far too sad.

I’d like to live. I’d like to thrive. And if that offends your beliefs, your ideas of our covenant, although you have no inkling of the complexities of our relationship, if it screams YOLO to you…may I remind you that as juvenile and hedonistic as the YOLO attitude is, the Y ultimately stands for You. Which, in this case, stands for me. 

It’s the hopeful bride’s journey. It’s the happily-exhausted-proud-parents-of-a-newborn’s journey. It’s the divorced dad’s journey. It’s my journey. 

And I’m gonna celebrate and honor every step of my way.

Sister's House

Step outside and the world is silent, save for the soft buzz from the cicadas.

Eighty-eight percent humidity and seventy-eight degrees. Every single one of those numbers can be felt; they hold real weight. Most who live here stay wrapped in air conditioned comfort, but not you. 

You play Trapeze Girl, an upside down pendulum on the swing set. You’ve still got it. A back flip and your shoes touch grass; you walk to the street. 

You would have pissed your pants to live here as a child. 

The old streets are wide and clear. Homes are bathed in the golden glow that is only possible in Alabama at 7:30 post meridiem. Inside, lights turn on one by one. Outside, street lamps flicker and hum via timer. Too early to be necessary, but orange and pleasant and familiar.

You imagine Child You exploring in the woods, blackberry bushes scratching your shins. Peering around crumbling brick and peeling paint, your head full of romantic notions of earlier occupants. The lingering smell of the poison-spewing vehicle that caused kids to gleefully scream “Bug Man” and run indoors. The games of hide-and-go-seek would have been epic.

You briefly consider asking the other grownups to suspend reality for one moment and to please play with you.

But the sun sets all too fast, and so you don’t. You close your camera and walk back to the house. You hope you hold this feeling, you hope, you hope, you hope.

Continuing the Great Gingerbread Tradition