Issue 10.1 Fall 2014

issue 10.1 cover image

 

 

The Holiday

 

Erica Young

 

 

Maybe I can just imagine I am that girl. Will that suffice? That I could be that type of girl to pack up and go. Let him drive some shitty car that smells like smoke and but feels like a well-worn pair of shoes, cozy and shaped to those who occupy it.


A boney hug, sharp but radiating with warmth. Conversation would start of awkward, tripping over each word before deciding to just fall. To be okay with imperfection.


Listening to some sad boy music that rings like an anthem of freedom, I’d lean my head on the window and watch the blur of bright leaves melt together, sweeping by. An appreciation with no desire to capture. No stress to succeed only freedom to be, maybe to fail. Freedom to-


Breathing in long sighs while I treasure pictures of poverty and illness. To make precious the yellowing on the pages, that bit of sickness seeping in from the corners; deafening and also silent. But see the incredible life found in it, fighting to stay above the surface. Always romanticizing the idea of intelligence and beauty hiding in the shadows, its affirmation found simply in its existence. After an eternity in the car and countless rest stops to stretch our legs, we arrive. The land of milk and honey after 40 years of wandering. A country too bright and too exposed.


To be free of home and old identities that fit like shorts one size too small. A muffin top peeking out, a sign to all how I try to hide but fail. Try to be small, but burst at the seams. To be free from those restraints.
Could I be that girl? Could I turn away? New beginnings. I could be that girl. It wouldn’t be hard. We’d pull in to a quaint suburb and I would do my best to make a good impression to those who don’t require one; those who deserve it the most. Would they say, “she’s a good one, I like her”? Would I be proud? If I got cold would they lend me sweaters? Two sizes too big and smelling like a home that is not my own. Make sanctuary in them, hiding, glowing. A home that opens its arms to me, wider than mine ever had. I could have freedom to, not just freedom from. I could politely eat turkey that is too dry and pie that is too runny. Small prices. The blankets would smell musty but sweet after lying, waiting in some closet unused. Maybe he’d try to kiss me and maybe I’d let him. He’d smell like body odor and taste like cigarettes but he’d look like life.


Could I be that girl? I could be. I would be that girl. If only no one was looking. But I am always watched and so am always consistent. A weeping angel, doomed in my concrete skin to remain unblinking for eternity. Looking peaceful and graceful and perfect but feeling vengeful and angry at the core.


Now quiet and tired on the way back to reality, sad but full of the hope of life. His words echo in my mind, crashing in and getting comfortable. We part ways, only able to shrug responsibilities for so long before returning the weight to its place, resting in the familiar grove it’s created in our shoulders, painful yet somehow right. The holiday we spent together. The holiday that exists only in my mind. The holiday that never was.

 

 

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