Being Homesick

I enjoyed Jack for the people he succumbed to surrounding himself with more than I enjoyed his presence. If the way we talked was any indication, very delicately not to overstep each other's bounds like scratching an itch you hope doesn’t scab. The insane violence of sound scarcely defined in the company of friends died steadily once we were left in each other's care. There’s something to be said for voices quiet and gentle and meaningless that we don’t have to fawn for loud affection and that it’s okay to settle. Lying back against the wall of splotched, yellow mystery my head felt like tenderized meat being nailed to a cutting board between that smell of burnt coffee and a vast expanse of polaroid prints pasted to a map from Cozumel to Fargo all vying for my attention, with the remnants of gluey mess atop cheap tape that came undone right around Nashville. Some pile of laundry either mine or Jacks, or Louise; Jacks older friend with the lazy eye who slept on the couch and had a real job ‘bank teller I think’ and kept a guinea pig named Benny, acted as a pillow for the floor mattress. Letting my hands fondle a teddy bear once brown now grey with two eyes now only one little golden bead remained, I tossed it in the air, so it landed right side up on my lap its body had been mangled in graffiti. It only seemed fair to add my name in sharpie to the growing collection along this poor creature's fuzzy waist. There was a debate in my religion class on the validity of reincarnation in inanimate objects. I like to think this teddy bear was someone particularly horrific or rude in a past life, Son of Sam or Charles Bukowski resigned in sin to live eternally as a child's plaything. What could be a more heinous punishment. I slept better at night as my fingertip traced along the stitching and frayed edges where someone took a lighter to the ear. Bracing not to inhale the exhale from Jack’s cracked lips and sour breath. He’d pretend to engage my existence while the smoke swam around in the air for a while clouding his little green marbles like the aftermath of a grassfire. Then right on cue he grinded it into an ashtray and a gentle smile crept from his dimples before he slinked back along the carpet outstretched soft as pity. It wasn’t about the joys of ‘freeing’ your lungs that smoking entailed as much as the leash and collar of nervous habits. Tapping my foot along, Jack’s friend Louise propped up against the front door, bit her fingernails to bleed dry and Jack smoked cigarettes. 

I was the worst off truly, pain and addiction eventually commanded attention but I tapped away with no consequences for my actions. It’s funny we talked through it then went right back to our habits. Nothing in the room stood still, even the floor seemed to move like a spilled glass of water as Jack stretched out along the carpet and neon hues of green, red, and purple shone through those warehouse windows and no one noticed. Homesickness' is much better than loneliness, I decided, and here surrounded by strangers I'm well, and I hated how it calmed me to be in the care of anonymity. When I looked at the way his blonde hair shoulder length cupped his face as it curled upward and the way his nose held that imperfect indent that traced its way across the point. Two hands graced my calf as the sole of my foot met his stomach in a gesture of odd affection. He massaged and we both resigned to pretend the other didn’t exist. “I'm going to paint this place soon, maybe get some plants with vines to hang on the windows.” He let his eyes dance as if everything was done in an instant and he had peace. “I know you will.” not to ruin the moment my eyes close to the sound of jingling keys and the way cheap leather meets the end of a door as Louise slams it shut and her purse makes contact. ‘Off to work’ I thought, and I dream of being home.

The college experience has taught me to forget but I’m a visual learner so nevertheless the lessons continue. Pink pastel flowers ruminate as they twist and turn violently anxiously awaiting the day to soar past the confines of chalky whitewashed brick that make up the exterior of this flower shop. On my way to work across the street from Division station this delicate box of bouquets seemed daunting with empty lots on either side, spindly barbwire begging to be climbed and fields of dead grass where I assume people used to grow. People don’t buy themselves enough flowers never mind each other; I feel that we often punish ourselves for ‘taking time’ it’s strange to say but it’s a privilege to be well and practice wellness. The door sings when you enter, and it smells like earth encased and stowed away for those more fortunate. An irrational fear bankrupts the mind as I can’t bear running into someone familiar in such a nice place as this. A soft round woman in overalls who smelled like gingerbread entrapped me with her smile dauntingly filling the room with its influence. As I maundered about it became clear I was the only one in the store, “buying for yourself then?” The nerve of this woman, what if I was how could she possibly know. (I came to be enlightened that people have certain ‘calling cards’ in the way they carry themselves in a flower shop.) “I’ll show her”, browsing the stalls of roses, daffodils and daisies, lilies and marigolds, and morning glory how overwhelming. I settled on pink begonia’s nestled in a craft wood pot threaded with yarn to add different designs, my mom always said begonias were her favorite. At the register she kept the same smile and I stood cautiously with one foot already out the door. “Everyone deserves a little beauty in their life I think.” The words caught me off guard and I must’ve forgotten I paid as I tried to extend a wad of cash the woman shook her head, placing the pot into my palms in a forceful manner as to not drop them. I felt stupid walking to work which I'd surely be late for carrying potted begonias, but people started smiling at me as I passed and that made it a little bit more okay.