morning paradox.

Anniversaries are funny things.
There is an assumption that everything immediately changes at the 365th day.
I understand we need to measure time in some way.
If only for sanity and navigational purposes.

When I watched the movie Castaway, it hit me that to be alone with no person or measurement to break up my existence would be a mute version of hell.  Like in dreams when I try to scream and make no sound.  Days would run together like a toddler's over-painted rainbow.  No red, orange, yellow...only a brown puddle that was supposed to equal a life.

I want to celebrate the passage of time.  I want to celebrate it with the people who have divided it for me.  This is a strange gratitude.  To be thankful to a person for separating time into moments for distinct pleasure.  It is like saying to the sun,
"Thank you for blue.  Thank you for green.  Thank you for the distinction in 100 increments between the two."

But that's how I feel today.

My tweenager has been here 3 times already to hang from the corner of my desk.

"Go away," I tell her.

She rolls her eyes, and slumps her curls so they touch the computer's mouse.
She only wants my attention when I am busy.
I realize that I would not be any better off if my writing were never interrupted.
If I could go deep into the voice which retells my stories, and stay under for hours, I would not be more satisfied.
In fact, I would be lost.

So I find that my irritations on this morning of my 10 year anniversary of being sober, are in fact what make it worth while at all.

One day in a college bookstore

Water from the faucet is growing warmer.

I leave my hands in it after the dishes are already washed.
My vision is blurry from hot salty tears crowding their only exit
I hold my hands under the water and let the heat of everything build
I look out the window into blue sky and pine trees.
The glass is clean because I windexed it yesterday.
My body tenses and holds in air, ready to dive under and let this wave pass.
Instead I let it slam straight into my chest.  I let it hurt.
I press still wet hands into my cheeks.  The fresh and the salt mix together.

This is the house-wife's pain.  The lonely apex at her kitchen sink in sweat pants.
One white blossom hangs from a geranium.   I planted it in an old orange teapot.  I thought myself so clever, really winning at this whole domestic thing.
Now it holds space with me as I cry.
I miss my friend...

We bought our graduation hats together and marveled at the little tassel:  Class of 2010.
In the college bookstore, on her long grasshopper legs and high heels, she did a stupid jig.
I recorded it on my phone.
I was graduating with an Art Teaching degree, hers Film and Media arts.
It used to be other people who could succeed, and now it was us.
Together we were beating the odds.
Our laughing rippled out across a sea of Philosophy texts and scientific computers.
One hopeful curl which turned out to be too small.
It was not sustainable.  It petered out against the swell of books on Psychology and Mental Illness.

No one else knows this depth of sadness.
I go into it alone while the kids play swords in the other room.
I can hear them shouting "Hi-Ya!" and it makes my tears seem ridiculous.
But I don't care.  I stay with them.
If it I tried to explain why this memory hurts so much, it wouldn't make sense.
Or maybe it would, I don't know.
I guess I believe that other mothers weep for similar reasons at their own kitchen sinks while doing dishes.
It's all I can do to honor my tiny memory.
It didn't seem right to wipe my eyes with my sleeve and take out the trash.