looking for love in a vintage store

I have fallen for open fields and long bike rides. I have fallen for conservative churches and jean skirts, welcoming families, big sunday dinners, red pickup trucks, country music, tightly pulled sheets, edited movies. I have fallen for a world that once petrified me as I sat alone in the Dayton airport listening to Enya and wondering where this journey would take me.

It took me to questioning my faith but always having it. It took me to long trails of weeping willows in the spring sunshine and 150 crunches on a tan carpet before bed. It took me to a place that showed me I don't have to work to be worthy of love. I don't have to lie or change who I am. I don't have to know the words to all these songs, i just have to start singing, and they will clap. and clap. and clap. until i realize i have always deserved this. This comfort. This peace. I have looked for love in vintage stores in Idaho. Searched frantically through the racks of musty smelling jean jackets and parachute pants, passion hungry fingertips skimming through baby blue lace slips and Led Zeppelin tees. I found treasure in the midst of oudated chaos, in a bin of old price tags and family crests. I held it gently in my hands and savored it because

this love is a novelty.

Strip me of my thumbrings

These past few days have made my heart beat to a thousand different melodies. Phone call from my dad and I laughed while he told me about my future nights of sleeping in teepees with alcoholic strangers. Hiking for miles every morning and then maybe after 45 days of un-needed therapy and incurable homesickness, kacky shorts and rehab, sleeping bags and diagnosis, maybe then he will finally look at me like we have the same color eyes again. Maybe then he will remmember all those nights I sacrificed to hold him. Remmember how I gave up on my Neverland so I could dry his tears when all those pretty blonde bimbos broke his heart. When sweet sins came back to haunt him. I'm not bitter.

I am not broken.

And yes when I hung up the phone I fell to my knees in the Idaho sunshine. Charcoal eyeliner making art on my soggy cheeks. Head in my hands and praying to whoever could hear those lovely whispers coming out of my chapped lips. Where do I go from here. Where do I go. But even though I'm on my knees I know soon I'll be standing tall again. In my tan leather boots and blue floral dress. Smelling like vintage perfumes and singing Fleetwood Mac and knowing that this is a miracle in disguise. This is a canvas I will fill with beauty. Show the world what I created out of all those shattered peices of stained glass I found on the floor while I was on my knees.

Flying home on Tuesday and as much as I want to see their smiles again I know nothing will hurt as much as saying goodbye for the second time. Knowing the pain that has plagued me these three weeks at the end of the day. Coldplay CD in my walkman but the batteries are dead and the only songs filling my head are the ones that remind me of home. A few days and I'll be back. Looking at all I have to fly away from. Feeling that puppys wet nose again. Riding shotgun of that shitty car. Sliding on the kitchen floor in mismatched socks. Waffle House at three in the morning, eating grits and falling in love with our chinese waitress.

Some of the most amazing people in the world work at Waffle House at 3 in the morning.

Who else could put up with red eyed teenagers, booze scented party girls, and pot bellied truck drivers for minimum wage? Flipping flap jacks with a smile. Those are the tiny things that give me faith. I'm not ready to give up on this mixed up human race. Not by a long shot.

So I'll repack my bags and take off all this jewelry. They can strip me of my thumbrings, bracelts, peace sign necklaces and Buddah earrings but this girl isn't going anywhere.

Getting Off My Carousel

These days are flying by faster and faster as I finally find a home in these gravel roads and sunset bike rides. Falling in love with Idaho families while they teach me how to cook and love and laugh even when the pain makes me shake on nights like these. Nights when the uncertainty of tommorow is overwhelming and my best friends poetry makes me cry. Beautiful words strung together that inspire my tired fingertips and make me want to breathe in all those nouns and verbs and adjectives. Angels are the people who breathe art to life.

And I am sorrounded by them.

My little sisters voice drifted over the phone line and I can hear how old her eyes must look now. Miles apart and she rehearses a presentation about The Giver like I'm sitting at the kitchen counter again, cheering her on and eating ramen noodles with a sloppy passion. Too much seasoning in a green porcelain bowl my mom got on her wedding from some nameless relative. All these pieces floating in my memory like a carousel. Spinning spinning spinning. An eternal circle in my mind.

Laying out in the sunshine that I know could be gone tommorow. My new red bikini and Fleetwood Mac. Another moment of sheer peace with my head rested on my Algebra book and my heart beating against the itchy grass. Feeling my body compressed against the earth. Grounded. Gravity taking control as i relax. as i surrender. as i let go and smell the bar-b-que scent of the suburbs. breathe it in deep and turn up the music. pretend I'm by the pool with my best friends again. It's not so hard to pretend with these tinted aviators on. When I open my eyes I'm alone again and the songs have stopped. Sometimes I think the only thing keeping me from happiness is reality.

Encouraging words on notebook paper that I'm sticking inside the cover of my favorite book. It doesnt matter how much I ache for his approval, his brown hair hasnt fallen in his face when he smiles for a long time now, instead blonde highlights shine in produce aisles while unhappy housewives stare and I feel sick because he used to wear Micky Mouse tank tops and speedos. He used to be so many things I am finally letting go of. I am finally forgiving him for not knowing how to love me. Because this pain will turn to anger. And that anger will paint my world a shade of red until all the colors fade and my heart is as cold as his is now. Please don't hate him. Just pray for him. It had to take so much pain to drain the life from those blue eyes and make them something plastic. My dad is in there somewhere. I know he is.

So now I'm giving it up. Handing my life to the universe and letting the stars fall where they will. Praying for a cosmic miracle to bring me home again. Jumping off my carousel because the circles were making me dizzy and I wasn't getting anywhere.

Unconditional Love

Last night my mascara ran all over striped golden pillow cases and the white cardigan sweater of my gaurdian angel. She has black hair and wears jean skirts. She loves pineapples and Jesus and makes me want to have faith again. Sitting around a card table and the church congregation of mothers and fathers and children and college kids laughed about undeserved spankings and walking their daughters down the aisle and memories of being a family. They love eachother unconditionally while we eat lemon cake and sing happy birthday. They forgive my mistakes and welcome me with open arms. When they hold me I can't help but cry because I don't deserve to be held like that. I have never been held like that. I didn't know how much I longed for someone to hold me like that. To stroke my blonde hair and whisper in my ear that they were proud of me. That I was strong. That I was beautiful. That they would to take care of me. That I was safe. That I didn't deserve the things in my life and that

it wasn't my fault.

I didn't know how long I had been doing the holding. How long I had been doing the whispering. I look at their modest sweaters and jean skirts, long unbrushed grey hair, silver cross necklaces, unpolished fingernails, compassionate eyes. I look at them and sob because my family has never known this beauty. Oh yes, they love. But they love in rated R movies and well meant lies and self centered motives. They love in new jaguar convertibles and beautiful whores at our dinner table and fifty dollar bills. Their love is messy and unclean and broken. I have never known dinners like the one i had last night. My brother and sister have never known dinners like the one I had last night. Never known love like the love that I was showered with. Pure. Whole. A love that doesnt ask for anything in return.

I have been in the darkness for so long that when these people bathed me in light I wanted to run. My body is trembling because in three hours from now I will know if I can finally come home or if my pretty words i spent so long to write were not enough. Please

Please let them be enough.