Nostalgia: The fireworks behind closed eyes, birthday candles.
Youth: Littered candy wrappers, Bubble O’ Bills, breadcrumbs: little Hansel and Gretel hearts, Dreamworks theme song, bicycle chain grease, grazed knees
Irritation: Watery eyes, stubbed toes, lost keys, public transport time
Contentment: Fireplaces
A good kind of discomfort: Ghost stories, campfires, adventure
1. The First Man That Left Me Did So Before I Was Born.
My parents were engaged for three years, together for six, but never made it down the aisle. He left her for another woman and she waited steadfastly for his return while searching for names for the little dancer in her womb. She waited for eight years and then married the first man who asked her. At her bridal dress fitting, I clambered under and over the layers of tulle (which at the time, I thought, were made of swans feathers) to peer at her with my father’s eyes: “Do you love him?” She sighed and responded in all seriousness, because I was her best friend and she had made a promise to herself to never lie to me: “I guess.” I pulled on her hem. “Why do you guess?” I asked playfully. She carefully combed back the shorter hairs of my little blonde head. “He loves me.” She didn’t, but I knew she wanted to add: “That’s enough.”
2. My Uncle, Who Would Someday Become President, Was Literally Perfect In My Eyes.
He had three daughters: one my age, one adopted from China, one who always had her way. He chased them and volunteered piggybacks and sloppy kisses. He learned how to french braid and taught them to pretend-shave with whipped cream and a comb. He practiced ballet with them (though he was never very good) and declared himself their great protector from spiders and boys alike. My cousins never noticed how lucky they were, but I noted this bitterly in my first diary of little stars and whims.
