I’ve been in mourning lately. My colorful wardrobe has been pushed aside, as I wade back through my black. I feel a real sense of loss. And so…I’ve been trying to find its source.
I have gained so much this past year. I came to Iowa, and fell in love with a boy and his family. I have lived for months with no fear of making rent, free to work less mentally demanding jobs. I have claimed my writing life. I have been so lucky. What exactly is it that I miss?
Turns out, I’m not missing things as much as I’m missing a different version of me. I am mourning who I was last year, and the years prior to that.
My sweet little Fuji, stored in the garage now, comes out to occasionally bike a paved country trail. “There’s someone coming behind us,” Nic will say, as if I should take caution, take heed. The things that flew past me in my previous life were SEMIS. They would drive too closely, nearly skinning me, annoyed with my presence on the city streets. They would tell me to fuck off and I would send the same tidings. I often had to swerve suddenly, to quite literally, save my life. So…I’m not worried about the older man on his cruiser behind me, Nic. He isn’t a threat.
We don’t lock the doors here. Not the doors of the house nor the doors of our cars. We can walk late at night, accompanied by the corn. There, our buildings were broken into. Things were stolen off the porch. Our bodies and our possessions were constantly at risk.
And maybe that’s what I miss. The constant threats on my well-being. Because of them, I had to be a badass. I was badass on the bike, badass on the bus (I dared people to make eye contact with me), and badass at home. Returning to my apartment after a night out, I would throw open the doors and begin threatening the non-existent intruders. “Get the fuck out here, you asshole!!!Let’s do this!! Let’s DO THIS!!” Just in case, you know. Just in case.
Maybe I’m bored here.
Maybe I’m at peace.
Maybe it’s a little bit of both.