In November I turned twenty-three and was overly preoccupied with the idea of aging. This, I know, is ridiculous. But I was uncomfortable in my body, obsessed with its decay. Some of this is fueled by my fear of death, though a deeper, more cynical and perhaps much more real part of this is fueled by my fear of debt, of navigating the healthcare system on my own, of being seen as just another nameless patient.
In November I went home briefly, albeit a different kind of home, one where I never really lived, but nevertheless the kind where the heart is. I spent Thanksgiving at my mom’s house in Brunswick, Maine, a move she made after she married my stepdad the summer before my freshman year of college. It was cold there but it had only barely snowed. In a college town sports bar, my mom and I sang karaoke to celebrate my birthday, karaoke being one of the few spaces I feel myself fully realized nowadays. A Maine-looking man, bearded and flannel-wearing, asked me if I was single as I stepped off the stage, having just finished a Brandi Carlile song. I had the pleasure of telling him no.
My mom and I must have each sung eight or so songs that night. At one point, a man in a black t-shirt and baseball hat told my mother she had the “best face and voice in the whole place.” When she heard this, she put her hand up to her mouth to cover her smile.
November Diaries
11/16/2024
I come back to the diary because I realize I am nothing if I’m not writing. I am obsessed with the idea of the notebook. I am obsessed with the compulsive and neurotic need to make observations and write them down. I haven’t been writing because I have been trying to make friends. They are both too difficult to do at the same time.
11/17/2024
I was angry last night at the arcade bar. Zak beat me at air hockey, and people kept stepping on my toes.
Sometimes I can feel just how big this city is. At other times, such as when I’m waiting in line for Pac Man, listening to the man in front of me explain something very regular, like what it means when the ghosts change colors or what to do when the little apple pops up on screen, I am overwhelmed by how small the space between us is.
11/18/2024
After spending all morning putting a garden to bed in the rain, I spent the afternoon eating vegan grilled cheeses and tomato soup with six new friends in the basement of an old three-flat. Together we sang Christmas songs around the piano and I was, for the first time in a long time, happy to be exactly where I was.
11/19/2024
I am turning twenty-three soon, which is a ridiculous age. A friend of mine got married in the spring. Others are making six figures or working at pasta restaurants. Some have died. I don’t yet know what it means to be an adult, but Zak and I seem to be learning this together. Zak is a bit more preoccupied with grown-up things than I am. His job requires him to think about the future in that way. My job, if anything, requires me to fixate on the past, to stay agile, to remember what it’s like to be young, bored, and restless. My students and I learn and relearn everything together. We go over things multiple times, too rattled by the urgency and impermanence of our youth to stay focused in the classroom. We play with flashcards that look like bugs and water the garden with pink watering cans while talking about the world and all that confuses us. I hold on to these moments and think about how small I used to be. We talk, play, color, plan for the spring. And while we do this, the students and I both realize, all at the same time, that these moments don’t last forever.
i love you sweet ruby