Kissed
It was cold.
I was outside in my polka dot pajama pants and Waffle-House-trucker flannel. It was nine in the morning, a little overcast, and the aspen trees were clapping their skeletal hands. I've been gracing my neighbors with haute couture for all of quarantine - at least the trees appreciate it.
The snow was floating down with all the time in the world; the pine trees, evergreen, were frosted; I was listening to a cheesy Kasie West rom-com. It was all so romantical. On that sweet, sweet note, I pulled up my pajama pants, puffed a breath of icy air, and proceeded to scrape clumps of dog shit from the gravel.
Today was the second to last day I'll ever pick up dog shit here; this time next week, the house I'm writing from won't be my home anymore. It'll belong to the daughter of the family from Jordan with a pretty name across the street. I've been saying goodbye to all my animal-shaped friends in the bathroom drywall, and the ghosts of my seven-year-old self. I think she's ready for me to go.
It won't be my home, this new, pink-tiled place. I'll only be there for a year, and then I'll be gone, far, far away, on a plane to some college, somewhere. I hope. Lately, my YouTube watch history has consisted of many a COLLEGE DECISIONS REACTION (OMG I GOT *IN* TO MY DREAM SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!) video. They're a little frightening.
Tulane keeps rejecting kids that end up at Harvard, which is weird. I'm glad that's not where I want to go.
This month, I'm closing a front door that's been mine for twelve years. The handle's broken. I'm ushering out a year that belonged to no one. I have no magical delusions about 2021, because Helena Bonham Carter isn't my fairy godmother, which is genuinely very upsetting. But I'm trying to stay optimistic. All I hope for is a little more childhood. A little more cheer.
Freshman year, I made beautiful friends. Sophomore year, I was very sad, but also very happy. Junior year hasn't been much of a year.
Clyde, the Cyst in my Wrist, is gone now, and sometimes I miss him. He was my friend. I've lived vicariously in the 120-ish books I've read, and stained my teeth with Yorkshire tea. I made the genius purchase of a geriatric daily pill organizer, and I still forget my meds. Sleep's a little elusive, loneliness is a gnawing bear, and the Colorado sunsets are wonderfully orange. I've decided that's my favorite color now. I threw my words into a digital vortex, and got upset when people found them. Those were supposed to be mine. Abby ate fish sticks and custard. Jupiter kissed Saturn. The last thing my great grandma ever said to me was "sixteen and never been kissed!"
She died.
People died, and then some more, and the bolded TIME titles brought me to tears. My pelvic bones keep thwacking into the kitchen counter. The aspen trees sprinkle poisons into teacups. For nine months, my life has been monochrome shades of ones and zeroes. Dust bunnies in my socks, "luz cameras, acción, clase!" in my ears, and I remind myself: I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I loop luck like "Champagne Problems." Funerals taste sour. So does the glue on the envelopes I send people who've left my life, stage right (except that last one was a lie, because I use tape now. Much more sanitary). They got my letter. They aren't coming back.
My bones are feeling a little achy, and my heart, a little itchy. Melancholic.
New Year's Day will come and go. Someone'll break the rules. I'll be here.
We'll be okay.
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