the taste of summer

Spring is fading into summer and I am singing new songs. Songs that make my hips sway and my heart hurt in all this humidity. Unrealistic expectations I created myself because I wanted to badly to believe I was worth holding. I wanted to badly to live out a fairy tale- I forgot I am no princess. Just a mixed up hippie child with a digital camera and home made perfume. Just a brown haired misfit who loves in run on sentences and ethnic food. Last night I walked downtown by my mothers side in a short skirt and floral print silk. We ate crab cakes with thai sauce while a bearded faced bohemian played the cello. Everything tastes better when there’s music. We dreamed of Greece and watched slow paced southern love unfold in a cold abandoned movie theatre. We browsed for vintage clothes and golden Buddha statues and silver rings to warm callused writers fingers. We were suspended in a mother daughter paradise.
Swimming under hot rain clouds and there’s a sun-burnt boy in that pool I used to think I loved. While his skin turns red he smothers me in memories I have been killing myself to forget. All those pictures last fall- my purple polka dot mittens and his blue hat. Cold ears and pink noses and golden leaves scattered on haunted roads in the middle of nowhere. It was just us and her and a whole lot of deserted bridges to stand on while the sun set and the wind warned us it was time to go home. He reminded me of bible studies and sweaty concerts and being his bands biggest fan. He told me the picture I made him was still hanging in his room and damnit I am so sick of those green eyes staring at me. For months they wouldn’t even look my way but here we are and oh how I long to be far from him and his memories- his words are no accident.
So we swam and ate sticky brownies and at the end of the day I can taste summer on these chapped lips of mine. Last night I said goodbye to a boy I barely know. One with blue eyes and dreams of the army. One I won’t see for months but kissed me softly on a Saturday night. Maybe I should regret giving my lips so willingly but I don’t because I’m just sixteen and hopelessly brainwashed by countless romance novels and Hollywood love stories. Don’t get me wrong, I know that was not love. It was just a goodbye kiss he can think about those long nights away from home. When he’s writing me letters from an army camp in cursive and I’m checking the mailbox barefoot in early mornings. We both know this is pretend.
I have become desperately addicted to five girls. We drink Starbucks at ten o clock and pile in a blue car. We sing and we cry and we love each other in a way only best friends can. Unconditionally. Beautifully. In endless nights and groggy mornings and heartache.

Words of Wisdom

Dearest Mallory,
I am writing to you with hands you would not recognize- callused, wrinkled hands. My fingers are gnarled and twisted but don't worry. On my wrists there are hemp bracelets and Earth-tone beads and silver charms from Barcelona, Paris, and Amsterdam. These hands are eighty years older than the ones you are holding this paper with now but darling they are still yours. They are still draped in memories and thrift store jewelry. Some things never change.
If I am not mistaken you are currently sixteen and utterly lost. You're in love and out of your mind and you cut off all those long blonde waves that cascaded down pale shoulders. You bite your lip when you lie and spend anxious nights anticipating midnight calls- praying for a blonde boy to sing you to sleep while you light lavender incense and scribble peace signs on your ankle. If I am not mistaken, you wish you were a tie-dye-tee-shirt goddess.
Before I go to sleep tonight I wanted to write you a letter to reassure you that yes, you do master calligraphy. You spent weeks in that Sunday morning class downtown but you can finally bring beauty to uppercase S's and lowercase y's. Your signature makes overweight store owners gawk- they have never seen penmanship so closely resemble art. And don't worry, you fall in love. Oh, you fall in love. Over. And over. And over. You surrender yourself to brown eyes and acoustic guitars with engraved initials of reckless lovers. Sometimes you get hurt but you wrap that broken heart in silk scarves and mend it with green tea and Kashi bars. You paint your pain on white linen canvases and hang your masterpieces on a lonely wall. You grow into a Picasso fueled by these next few years of pain so keep all this beauty in mind when you’re drenching your pillow in sweet tasting tears.
Remind yourself daily that there is a rhyme and reason to the seemingly random disaster of our America. Stop eating Weight Watchers fudge bars when you could devour straight up chocolate heaven from your favorite ice cream parlor. I know you think your sides are chubby and your thighs are too wide but trust me on this one, one day you will realize how beautiful you were and long for that summer figure. One day your joints will ache while you do yoga in Central Park. You'll look down at your thirty-something year old cellulite body and remember the days when you could wear low rider jeans and not terrify lollipop licking toddlers. You will regret every time you looked in the mirror and hated what you saw. Please start loving yourself, before you start losing yourself. Please stop writing your poems for everyone else- yours is the heart that needs those lovely words the most. You have always loved to fix what’s broken- always lived to breathe life into the eyes of the hopeless. But as a personal favor to me my dear Mallory, breathe life into your own eyes. Learn to play the guitar. Tell that boy you love him. Forgive your father for not being able to hold you when you needed those arms more than ever. Embrace your best friend. Make the world as beautiful as you want it to be.
Live for today. No regrets. No what-ifs. This is your time to shine darling.
Love,
Mallory