New Jersey 18, or Worries, Again

Dear You Know Who You Are,

See, part of the problem is that I remember you being cold. I remember you being gray. I remember the rain and the clouds that hid the mountains and I remember your streets. Steep streets. Long hills to walk for a body without a car. I remember exactly how few of your people I actually know, and how little I've even spoken to the ones I do. I remember your distance, wanting to call home when it was too late.

And I think of myself alone, or maybe with a roommate, trying to find a job and failing wildly. I think of not having enough money to see my family, blood and poet. I think of being miserable. You remind me of Prague, sometimes. At least in Prague, I didn't have to pay rent.

And then I think about Bent. I think about that small basement room filled with poets, and how sweet they were to me when I visited on tour. I think of maybe joining a choir (though I wish it were somehow possible to sing for free. One thing about being in school is someone else pays the director.) I think of the youth poets and the mentorships. I think, maybe, of Jews.

And I think of how sure I was just a few months ago. How I was so positive I couldn't stay here - "here" being anywhere on the East Coast. How much energy I had when I came back from touring. How scared I was when I decided to stay longer. I'm pushing my flight back again, just by a week, a few extra days. Let the airline prices drop a little. Help Mom pack just a little bit more. One or two more lunches and dinners with my grandparents. I'm stalling, Seattle.

But honestly, you're not helping. I know it's just as much my fault for not planting any seeds when I was there, so of course I won't be greeted with flowers than I arrive. But really, I could use some dandelions right about now. Nothing fancy - just a little splash of yellow, some soft blur about ankle-height, just so I remember why I'm doing this. What's important.

in trepidation,
~me