WaterColor Eyes

Lately, I’ve been running out of place, running out of time.

At least this is what it feels like.

Things are over, and it’s all done.

I am not that girl anymore. I am not that girl.

Seeing love in a junk drawer, what a wretched irony!

The last petal has fallen.

I look in the mirror and feel wobbly. Sometimes. Some days. But then I look to my left and see photos of my friends, and then I turn to the right and see myself as a child.

I look and see how unaware she was of what life had in store for her. I wonder if she knows how to move past time. How to skip the spiral and find the perfect landing. I wonder if she’s satisfied. If she’s happy to know the choices I’ve made and the things I’ve continued to pursue. Are we the same in that way? Does she know me in this way?

I wonder if she knows about her collection of souvenirs. I wonder if she knows how much she’ll obsess over proof of what once was. I wonder if she’ll ever have the courage to wave it in the air, this receipt of ache, of the urban change.

This receipt will show her, remind us, that there was proof of paying a price.

You love well, I’d tell her—I’d show her.

I wonder if she knew how to endure. And if she did, I wonder how to ask.

In another universe, she’s still outside. She’s laying on the grass, she’s 8 and nothing bad has happened to her. Childhood made everything feel slow. The time it took for mass to be over, to when the abuelita chocolate would cool down, was eternal. My birthday took weeks and the night drive to my aunt’s house in Los Angeles was a whole new world.

It’s all too fast now. It makes no sense now.

Sometimes I have moments. Moments where I’ll sit in my tub and ask; what is the point of all this? And then I hang out with the girls I love, and for a brief moment, I see.

I see and feel that things do get better. I am surrounded by people who see me, who love me, and who know me. And the actual truth is that I’m loved. Regardless of who I am or what I do, there are people in my life who choose me. This is where my fortune is—being seen and being loved. I am so rich in this way. I am so okay with this way.

I mean, in retrospect, I’ll always hope that you’re happy. Because the sky is still the sky without you, and I’m not surprised by that anymore. This study of the human condition allows me to see that I love the people I’ve loved, even if I cross the street to avoid them.

And I rather have it like this, than be the girl who can’t remember love at all.