At a certain age, when you are removed enough in time or removed enough in distance, you permit yourself to expand your definition of Family. It takes stepping back; re-envisioning. Allowing yourself to pick and choose the elements that comprise this new post-modern, 3D image with the word “Family” imprinted on its tiny gold plaque in the way you sift through vegetables at the local co-op in this city you did not grow up in. Lauren and I shopped for the first Thanksgiving we would host together.
My hands were pushed deep in my pockets, thoroughly involved but relentlessly sleepy, and Lauren pushed the drifting cart while skimming a nail-bitten finger down her lengthy list of ingredients, referencing recipes torn from the soft glow of high-end home-maker magazines. She asked my opinions on possible dishes we could serve our guests (in addition, I supposed, to the keg I had so thoughtfully arranged). We were more than just a settled, living-together couple—suddenly we were Family. We were spending "the holidays" together.
We turned the corner pushing our overflowing cart in the midst of the produce section. A middle aged man delicately stocking oranges excitedly exclaimed in our direction.
"You two sure look like sisters!"
I awkwardly ducked behind a pile of edible greenery to avoid the inevitable. I heard Lauren reply with fake incredulousness. She loved moments like this.
"Uh, no...that would be illegal."
The confused man first asked her to repeat herself then hesitated...
“Oh, I get it."
Lauren kissed my face, letting all of the suburban moms and dads know what happens when you let your daughter go to a Liberal Arts college.
Thanksgiving arrived 48 hours later. DC’s free agents, who chose not to (or did not have the option to) share this traditional meal with the family dictated by their similar double helices, filled our first floor apartment. Everyone was thankful, as evidenced by a wall of post-it notes unabashedly expressing our gratuity for cats, ice cream, the upcoming end of the current presidential administration, booze, love, and family—both the one we were each born with and the one we built; carefully constructed the way tiny birds build nests from toothpicks and apple seeds.
Monday, June 30, 2008
"The Book Store"
It was on the second station of Japan’s third largest mountain that they agreed to stop loving each other. Izuichimonya Mountain was popular for pilgrimages, but in the off season, on the remote western island of Shodoshima, there were only a few hikers. The weather was unseasonably warm. So much so that she was without coat and he had only a cotton shirt. He had packed seven clean pairs of socks.
Having read and highlighted his hiking guide she was prepared for snow. She loved the stuff and focused on the mountain wide-eyed, hands at the hips, in a stance that appeared genuine. Of course she feigned this posture so that he would regret the words not sooner spoken. Goodbye. A ‘this is best for both of us’ adage. So she stood as she did, partly in punishment. One part. The other to convince herself of her footing, there, on a mountain, with a promised seven hours of movement.
Within five hours they had agreed on a spoken settlement. She, the dog; he, the business with half the profits of their two year partnership paid to her as soon as they descended, flew home and unleashed their respective keys. The dog was with his mother, 13 hours behind. He tried once to touch her back, though as he did she adjusted her camp sack to sit squarely on her shoulders. He grazed nylon as she had a habit of walking too fast. Five hours up and two down, she stayed the lead.
Trouble was, she was without map, without experience, without want or will to climb mountains. She liked cobblestone streets. When traveling she’d always shop for novelty items; buddhas in bibs, jade tiger statuettes with needle sharp teeth, to display in their shop. Now she had a rolled tapestry in her bag, a camera, 202 pictures full, keys, his unwashed undershirt and a book. Thick. Blunt.
That book wasn’t debated in property assignment but would be, when they reached flat ground to find it laying face-up, a kilometer or so off course near the train turnstile. She checked her bag- couldn’t recall having thrown the thing and he, heated, assumed responsibility. He said I threw it in anger. She said I threw it in disgust and the book became their child of divorce and the riotous unraveling of their business. 412 pages and they even resorted to taking separate flights.
Having read and highlighted his hiking guide she was prepared for snow. She loved the stuff and focused on the mountain wide-eyed, hands at the hips, in a stance that appeared genuine. Of course she feigned this posture so that he would regret the words not sooner spoken. Goodbye. A ‘this is best for both of us’ adage. So she stood as she did, partly in punishment. One part. The other to convince herself of her footing, there, on a mountain, with a promised seven hours of movement.
Within five hours they had agreed on a spoken settlement. She, the dog; he, the business with half the profits of their two year partnership paid to her as soon as they descended, flew home and unleashed their respective keys. The dog was with his mother, 13 hours behind. He tried once to touch her back, though as he did she adjusted her camp sack to sit squarely on her shoulders. He grazed nylon as she had a habit of walking too fast. Five hours up and two down, she stayed the lead.
Trouble was, she was without map, without experience, without want or will to climb mountains. She liked cobblestone streets. When traveling she’d always shop for novelty items; buddhas in bibs, jade tiger statuettes with needle sharp teeth, to display in their shop. Now she had a rolled tapestry in her bag, a camera, 202 pictures full, keys, his unwashed undershirt and a book. Thick. Blunt.
That book wasn’t debated in property assignment but would be, when they reached flat ground to find it laying face-up, a kilometer or so off course near the train turnstile. She checked her bag- couldn’t recall having thrown the thing and he, heated, assumed responsibility. He said I threw it in anger. She said I threw it in disgust and the book became their child of divorce and the riotous unraveling of their business. 412 pages and they even resorted to taking separate flights.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Summer of 400 Challenge
Not that the challenge ends in the heat of summer, but it begins here. Two women explore short form writing in both fiction and nonfiction every Monday. Stay Tuned.
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