Once upon a time, I would inhale, pat my tummy and coyly proclaim, “Oh, I need to lose some weight.” I was 23, with the metabolism of a 16-year-old, and not yet grown any babies. My skin was smooth, my complexion warm and sun-kissed, and I knew of eye creams only in passing.Continue reading“Still got it.”
My brother-in-law got called the N-word yesterday. My sister, Koko, and he were house hunting in a tiny little Oregon town. They were walking out of a cute house in an affluent neighborhood when they heard it.
A couple of Caucasian teenagers yelled from across the street. “N–!”
I’ve been feeling out of sorts lately. A general meh and what have you. Like I’m stuck in molasses, trapped under one of those dull yellow filters Hollywood uses for movies set in the middle east or Mexico. Continue reading“This has to change.”
I read somewhere that it takes three to four generations for a person to be forgotten. Their names lost, their existence erased in its entirety. Memories don’t last forever — even the deepest roots we put down are often pulled out by time. I don’t know who my great-grandparents were or what they looked like. And all I leave behind for my children will be diluted and washed away by my great-grandchildren, who will never know me. That’s just how it works.
This is a promise you made yourself a while back. But the last year has muddied the waters, and you appear to have lost your way. So here’s a reminder (and a loving kick in the butt) to put things in perspective.
I died when I was 28 years old. I stirred one morning at 7:01 am, shrieked inside my head, and passed out before my eyes opened. If I’d woken up an hour earlier, I’d have felt the warm gush of sleepy air, as the hallway heater came to life (Alexa set a reminder to clean the heater vent).