Summer Came Early This Year
Summer came early this year, and with it, a few old familiar stories. I wonder if these stories are asking me to revisit them so I can do them right this time, or if they’re a subtle reminder of what not to do the second time around. I think this is that first coming-of-age story we all have as late teens, the one that was meant to happen several years ago, but in true ‘me’ spirit, it’s decided to happen now. I’m trying hard to be optimistic, but in the quiet moments, I remember I do not have a handbook for what comes next. There is no safety net, and the parachute I was convinced I had was ripped off my body before I got pushed off the plane. Thankfully, the free fall is slow and the views are nice, but at the end of all of this is the hot ground. Unless I somehow manage to pull a rabbit out of my ass, there’s only one way this story ends. But I’m still hoping for that rabbit, I’m still clinging to the belief that magic is real and that hope is stronger than fear, because magic and hope are what have gotten me this far. And this, I hope, won’t be any different.
It’s a bit funny. Absurd, really. Over the last few weeks, I’ve watched my life happen to me like a viewer in my own body and not the actual inhabitant. Things are happening to me and all I can do is either cry or laugh and then say “This makes sense. Of course, this is happening. As expected. Carry on.” At some point, I do need to take control again, but what if I never do? Could I allow myself to float like a lily pad through life? Probably not. I need a death-grip vice on everything; control is in my hierarchy of needs. So, okay then, tough guy, what comes next?
I’m so used to doing what I think I’m supposed to do that I don’t know how to do what I want to do. I also don’t even know what it is that I want to do. Anytime I’ve tried to rebel, I’ve been just as quick to push myself back in line. Keep your head down, don’t say much. Any admission of anything is messy. Years of self-sacrificing have left me with a ghost.
I’m at multiple crossroads for everything in my life — and yes I do I want to throw caution to the wind and let loose, but the pragmatic chainlink fences that my dad and I built are rattling, howling, demanding that I stay within the plot and commit to being the best me that I’m supposed to be. But I want none of it, or at least not all of it. And this, I think, is that spark plug moment. Or, it might end up being my pie-in-the-face-can-you-believe-she-did-that? moment but I’m really hoping it’s more of the former.
It’s obvious that I’m scared, right? Yeah. Just a little bit. It’s funny, it is funny. I know I’ll get through this; I just wish I knew what this is. I wish I had a vague outline of what the future would look like even if the one I had been moving towards this whole time was not what I wanted either. It’s funny, it really is. Laugh with me, it’ll make me feel better. Even when everything is falling apart, I know it’s my own doing. I’m forcing my own hand. I’m the dealer and the player. This is what you wanted, is it not? It is. Forever the villain and the hero. Forever wanting to write the last chapter before I’ve even started the first.
Would it be so bad if I don’t pull that rabbit out? If I free-fall with no help? Am I not allowed to jump over the fence? It’s not even about the grass being greener over there. It’s not about jealousy or wanting more but about recognizing that deep down I’ve been a ghost trapped in a shell while my soul’s been circling the fence waiting for me to recognize that she left a long time ago.
A car blares its horn and I push my body back into the present. The streets and roads around Prospect Park are light in traffic this afternoon, probably because most people are at work. Most people are busy. I am not anymore. I am free, I guess.
My skin is trapped below the early summer heat, beads of sweat pooling at the nape of my neck and in the valleys behind my collarbones; once they’re ready, the sweat beads will swim down my chest and spine to form wet splotches in my clothes. I could walk slower, that would help, but I have no one to see, nowhere to be. I’m in a race against myself and I am breathless.
