Cameron, my boyfriend of six months, sits across from me in the cheap, Canton Chinese restaurant where we always eat. The white-walled, empty space fills with light through the windows, and wood tables are vacantly spread throughout. We look at each other blankly. The only sounds that come out our mouths are loud chews and slurps of stir-fry noodles hitting our lips with long, hungry uncomfortableness.

Modern love doesn’t mean a type of love we haven’t seen before, but it does mean it’s a love still seen as radical by those it encounters. It makes people look twice when they see you walking down the street. It makes your friends comment, “I’m so happy for you!” on your Instagram pics. It both surprises and entangles everyone it meets, creating an aura they begin to crave as well. It’s the type of love they should really be making potions for.

“I think you’re better off without me.” I blubbered, my hair thick in unwashed, oily residue. My clothes, more suitable for sleeping than for wearing out, a mess. As I heard myself say those words, I almost didn’t recognize myself. I, the romantic. The believer of fairy-tales and forever afters.

“Learn to make collages. Water your plant. Collect lucky pennies.”

Let’s be honest, you’re not going to make collages or collect lucky pennies. That seems like a waste of time. You do, however, eat a weed brownie and read Claudia Rankine’s Citizen in one sitting at a bar.

My mother’s treats have always been unexpected, precious morsels,
savored as much for their surprise as for their flavor—
a summer lunch of a lobster roll and coffee frappe at Gulf Hill creamery,
a butterscotch candy retrieved from deep within a purse,

I am difficult to love. I know that. And I’m pretty impossible to live with. Trust me, I recognize that too. I’m stubborn, have high expectations, and can be a smart ass. Luckily for me, I fell in love with someone with the exact same qualities. Clearly everything goes smoothly in our house on a daily basis. I’ve never found myself saying, “Do you even know what a toilet bowl brush looks like?”

Everyone has a chapter they don't read out loud. The Why is different for everyone. Why don't they talk about it? Sometimes, it is feelings of shame, guilt, regret, pain, or loss. Other times it is feelings of joy, hope, love, triumph. If the feelings about a situation are considered to be negative, I guess I understand more why someone wouldn't share it.

I still get pangs of guilt when I go by a hospital
and I remember the 3am, 7am, 11pm or Saturday 1pm calls
beckoning me to reach into myself and pull out some sort of aid for another person.
Reaching into the mess,

I laid all my clothes out the night before my big day, a light blue top with ironed dress pants. I spent the previous three years wearing yoga pants and a black T shirt to work. I was finally leaving food service and getting a desk job. No more slinging sandwiches. No more smelling like eggs and cheese after a long day.

Two days after my fifteenth birthday
I walked proudly into Newman Costumiers
to begin my first job.

The letter opener.

A humble, but truly magical office staple.

One swipe against an unruly letter, and presto -- your letter is open and you’re forever hailed as the resident entry-level administrative goddess.

"No!” I said as Angie, my coworker approached. She didn’t have to say a word. It was evident by the clear bowl in her hand what she wanted. She opened her mouth to speak but again I said, “No!” I raised one hand to let her know just how serious I was about the answer to the question which she hadn’t even asked.

Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual
in my family.
Each year my cousin would come to help my mum.
They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box
that used to hold her big doll called Topsy.
Then they would put them all in their special place
in my family.
 

My water broke as I climbed out of bed on Christmas morning. I'd stayed up late the previous evening, listening to a reading of Dylan Thomas' “A Child's Christmas in Wales” on the radio. Afterward, I lumbered to bed and collapsed onto the mattress like a sinking ship. Less than six hours later, I was suddenly in labor with my first child.

My
nephew
Joe begs
me to buy a
new tree. Buy 8
sets of LED lights,
buy shopping carts full
of ornaments, some glass,
some plastic, for the little ones
to pull and throw.

My shins felt like sponges.  My ankles were tree trunks.  I was exhausted.  My fucking maternity jeans refused to stay up; it was a constant game of tug-o-war to get them to stay up over the tender, stretched out skin of my stomach.

You always hear people say that you grow closer to your partner when you have children, or when you get married, or go through a life crisis. For my money, over the course of this year, I’ve learned that you grow closer to your partner when you travel. Well, you either grow closer or you end up hating them, it’s really a crap shoot.

In my dreams, a primary recurring theme is packing a bag - what goes in this time? What are the most important things to include in a limited space? How fast can you make those choices?

Many people love having the window seat when flying. They love the scenery and seeing people turn into ants and cars transform into small specs. The window seat is not just a seat, it is an experience.

It was day 8 of a 2-week study abroad trip I was leading through the south and north islands of New Zealand. It was also day 8 of suffering from poor, interrupted sleep, even though sleeping in new or strange places doesn’t generally pose a problem for me. In fact, I’m quite proud of my acquired skill to “travel light.” Give me a backpack with a change of clothes, necessary toiletries, a good book, and a writing pad, and I’m ready to travel anywhere, no problem.