15 step

since i've met kristen, words - both spoken and written - have assumed a special sort of significance in my life. i've learned to avoid saying things to simultaneously irritate, disgust, and enrage her, or use them selectively to intentionally piss her off. moist. cheesy. (or anything relating to cheese, for that matter.) there's another one, too, something like damp or pickled or anything relating to an unsavory foodstuff or sweat. in any case, kristen has taught me that i, too, dislike some words and love others.

crisp is one of my favorite words - and one of hers, too. to me, it is the early morning in florida's winter. it is the clear blue sky, dotted with lethargic clouds; and, framed by tall oak and pine and palm trees, it hardly moves, brazenly languorous, in no great rush. it is when i walk outside, tennis racket in hand, a light sweater under my arm, just in case. it is when i am younger, much younger than my soon-to-be twenty years. it is when we are living in a three-story apartment in kissimmee, florida; i just left elementary school for the new middle school, and with the adolescent confusion typical of dollar novels, i need to prove myself and fit in and yet remain the person i am. it is metal gear solid, basketball, the swimming pool, algebra, pokemon cards. it is a new life, a yearning for independence, my mother.

tonight, crisp was different. it was in the air, in the breeze, moving between the leaves of these ancient trees and the cracks of cement between these ancient bricks. it hovered between the boutiques on mass. ave. toward porter square; it was in porter square, the homeless woman looking downtrodden beneath her bags, one of which presented a mesh interpretation of the american flag, my whisper that i knew what she was feeling and that she would overcome, too. it was in my return, along the river, the motorcycle that disrupted the early night and scared the shit out of me. it was in that brief moment of fear and the longer moment of recovery; it was in the couples i passed, their hands clutched and their collars popped, no doubt thinking about the boutiques they had just left.

and yet, despite the warring seasons and images and settings and times, i feel the same - the same need to prove myself, the same need to fit in. i miss my family, and i miss my friends. i long for the security of stasis, of plans, of not caring. and i am here, sitting in bed, my run behind me, the sensations of that peculiar crispness long past. for i am here, sitting in bed, without my family and without my friends. i need to prove to myself that i can, indeed, survive; without them, on my own, with my paper cup full of change and my box of matzah. whatever happens, i must remember that freedom inherent in running, the crispness rushing through my hair and past my shirt and between my legs, all around me, in everything. it is summer, and i am alone - but i have my memories, i have my reasons, and i have my words.