Dear Minivan GPS,

There's been a mistake.

Instead of taking me 'Home' like you promised, we ended up in this nightmarishly familiar place called Stafford. The house you assigned as 'Destination' was empty and unwelcoming.

You must have made a wrong turn. 

I'm sure it was just a simple mistake. When you've recalculated the journey and found the correct destination, I'm happily ready to get back in the car and let you direct me to the real 'Home'.

Dear Ginger From the Boathouse,

I was wondering which of us would be the first to say something that didn't concern the wooden fish I was decorating for my 8-year-old cousin while she abandoned the table for a nearby hula hoop.

"So are you from around here?"

You won.

It's too bad that you're a Gators fan, but you made up for it by complimenting my ability to draw a flower and sympathizing with me about the misery of moving to somewhere that's practically nowheresville. As I study the multicolored surface of my wooden creation, I can retrace the path of our conversation by what I was coloring at the time. 

I wouldn't mind if you found me on Facebook.

Sincerely, 

The Girl Who Kept Coming Back For Markers

The Boat Never Comes

It rained today. 

The tree was at the perfect angle for me to lean, so I did. I stared at the drizzle, the line of fishing boats, but especially the empty spaces. A patch of sidewalk, a vacant balcony, and the small expanse of open harbor where the last fishing boat might just cruise in. And on the deck, a waving figure. 

A leap onto the wet pavement. Running footsteps. Slower. Closer.

I jerk out of it. 

Don't be ridiculous.

It's so hard not to be.

Little Known Fact About Me and Airports...

Is it strange that whenever I'm in a strange airport, waiting to connect to some other flight, I hope that I'll see someone I know from long ago?

Yeah. It's pretty strange.

And yet, I still can't help imagining the scene. They'll be strolling through the terminal, wheeling their luggage behind, when by some twist of fate, they spot me from far away, sitting at gate A4. They'll do a double take when they recognize my plaid flannel, then their face will light up when they realize that the girl in the ponytail sipping the iced mocha is, in fact, who they thought. They'll yell my name and I'll look up in surprise, running across the walkway to hug them in elated joy. We'll spend the next hour talking, laughing and reminiscing, before I board to San Francisco and they to New York. But we'll always remember the hour when fate smiled on us in the airport. 

I've always wanted that to happen.

A.M.

The house is cool, but I'm bathed in a warm glow that encircles me in the form of a comforter. How aptly named. To dare to face the uncertainty that is the world, I need to leave this comfort that is my lowly bed. For the blissful moments I know nothing but my own breathing and the intricate stitching of the pillowcase, this is my own private world. The gentle rays of sunshine peek through the windows and witness the calmness I inhabit, warming my face and hands, the only things which lack the perfect shelter of the covers. As I bury myself deeper in the dimness underneath, my mind is conscious only to the notions that my deepest, inner soul will allow. And so I breathe deeply and fully, and let my mind play through these perfect moments, where I am warm and safe and loved.

My eyelids begin to release their grip on each other, and the once gentle rays become reminders. We're here! they announce. My limbs stretch and explore the warmth under the sheets. My thoughts still cling tightly to these faint memories, with which my feelings of bliss are so closely knit. My toes curl, my fingers stretch to the ends of the pillows, and slowly, my eyes take in the small wonders that will become insignificant once I leave this moment.

My limbs curl back in and hover next to my body, my only protection as the reality of Earth sinks through and soaks my thoughts. I try desperately to snatch the last fragments of the feelings of which I had captive just seconds before, but the rays become more patiently insistent.

My toes are the first to start the hesitant venture from the covers....

....Good morning. 

Oh You,

I can hardly wait for our encounter. However far away it may be, I eagerly anticipate the moment when the distance between ourselves and our adventures has been shortened until we are right in the middle of them, laughing as if no time at all is the same as forever, and both have passed in our absence.

Until then, as your nightly encounters with Steve Carell, Rainn Wilson, and the gang play out, I hope you seek out some new ventures to pursue. My introspective moments under the branches make me think of you and the song I have yet to pen about street corners and salads. New music and wonderings keep me occupied, but I worry about you, and I hope you'll find my newest ideas interesting. Maybe even inspiring.
Pale watercolors are impossible for me to master. The bright explosion of the colors just draws me in and I can't help myself when a brilliant streak glides onto the paper when I meant for it to be subdued. Maybe you'll have better luck than I. Anything is possible. I hope you have exceptional skill at imagery and personification...and that you're not afraid of heights.

Until then, comrade. I know you can't see me, but I'm there. 

Love,
Equally,
Awkwardly,
Great

Interrupted Boredom

Today, the same-ness of my situation became unbearable.

The same smell of chlorine in my hair, the same sound of a million bickering cousins, the same heavy stickiness on my face of eyeliner that wasn't mine, the same taste of Mexican food that I secretly hated, and so forth.

Luckily, I encountered a grandmotherly force that prodded through my melancholy stubborness.

Instead of honoring my pledge to spend the day in morose drudgery, I was forced to give my pride a proverbial kick in the teeth and allow my 21-year-old, electra-pumping, cap-wearing, mouth-farting partner-in-crime of a cousin step in and drag me out of my fog of pure and undiluted hatred for the planet and everyone in it.

In retrospect, a much better decision.

Instead of decaying on a couch alone, I spent the afternoon choking on Vietnamese spring rolls and immersing myself in my first Barnes and Noble of 3+ years. I read a children's book about a pole, written by Steven Colbert, and became fascinated by the creative writing excercizes found in The 3AM Epiphany. I pretended to read a 2013 weekly planner while really eavesdropping on the intense discussion between an extremely overweight latino and a longhaired, gangly 30-year-old, both of whom knew more about drones and motherships than most of us ever will.

Thank you ever so much, cousin. This is why you exist. For those of us with lives so interesting they get annoyingly stupid. Ironically enough, you make them seem boring. So thanks.