not Him but something else

almost a life update

I admit I haven’t been writing much. catie asked me today when my newsletter comes out, and I told them maybe today. This one’s for you Catie, and to starting even when there’s nothing to say.

Life is slower in Grand Island than it ever was in DC. I take myself to the water; I watch birds and listen to boats’ wakes crash into the shore. I feed the seagulls cherries and I write poems about it. I write poems about my last lover because I can’t yet stomach being soft enough to write about my current one(s).

Slowness has served me well. I notice more beauty, and it holds me softly when Motaz, Bisan, and Plestia send their updates into the void of Instagram like prayers they probably feel are unheard, certainly unanswered.

I am lucky to be a stranger to unanswered prayers. I believe in the greatness of a More I can’t explain. Every text, every post — a little prayer.

Coming home to Grand Island initially felt like admitting defeat. Now, it feels like an honor to hold the truths of my hometown in this sacred gray area.

On my favorite trail, there’s a plastic yellow mailbox in the knot of a big tree. In it, a small dollar-store journal, and four pens (good luck finding the one that works). I devour the notes my neighbors leave each other every time I go. We share the weather; we wish each other well. When I was manic, finding this hidden gem felt like a scene from a Hallmark movie. It brings me back to this less-traveled trail like I’ll always know North.

If you’ll indulge me, reader, I actually have a compass on my keychain. I don’t think she knows North the way I pretend to on that trail. Off the trail, I’ve felt more like her. Like I have a job to do, and I’m failing without even knowing it. I hope she knows I don’t keep her to orient me to the poles, but to remind me I know the way home without her.

***

Last weekend, I escaped home with an anonymous lover. We have 14 mutual followers, none of whom care if we’ve fucked. Now that the weekend has passed, I’m occupied with thoughts I’d rather keep private. Half because they’re dirty, half because they’re embarrassingly anxious and insecure. I kept the keychain with that compass in my bag the whole weekend. I wonder where she pointed while I was with him.

***

Until next time,

Ash