Puffer died.

I.

I don’t mind being dirty, but feeling my sinuses begin to run and my hands begin to crack from the cold is the worst feeling, even worse than the hard, freezing asphalt wearing on the knees of my jeans, worse than the sweat beginning to soak into my first layer of shirts. So much for not needing a shower this morning, I think, in between clambering around on the ground and rubbing more grease into my pants and coat.

It’s what has to be done though, and I’m just hoping and praying that it’s the last little streak of bad luck during the final week of this year. Why is this happening now? Why? I try not to think about this as I get the old tire off and jack the car up a little higher to accommodate the new one.

If it were warmer, I might have been able to change the tire in under half an hour. As it is, the tools have been sitting in my trunk out in the open for a week, the cold cuts through my hands and makes it hard to grip things, and so it takes me longer, about forty-five minutes, with the wind whipping the hair into my face, grease creeping further under my fingernails, and me hefting tires in and out of my trunk.

Still, I suppose it makes me feel empowered. I am on the road to work–albeit dirty, tired, and disgruntled–by ten o’clock, having taken care of something most people would just get upset and call a tow truck for. It’s the small victories, after all, that makes life what it is.

II.

I’m already strapped into the airplane, the belt loosely across my waist because I don’t like to feel it pinching too much. After wedging my bag under the seat (it barely fits), I’ve opened my crumpled McDonald’s bag and am unwrapping my last egg McMuffin sandwich to enjoy during the beginning part of my return home.  I take the second delicious-but-so-bad-for-you bite and see a shadow fall over the light above me and my two seat mates.

“Excuse me,” the flight attendant says. “I need 16C to de-plane. Are you 16C?” She says this to the gentleman who was in my seat when my cousin and I finally boarded.  I’d been ready to sit in the aisle the entire flight, always keeping my limbs tucked in and my head rigidly upright in the middle of the seat so as not to violate the personal space of the woman to my left, but having found someone already in the aisle seat, I simply contented myself with the one next to the window.

“That’s me,” I say, acknowledging her.

“Well we need that seat, and you need to de-plane,” the flight attendant says, rather tartly.

I know this is one of the hazards of flying standby, especially having been the second-to-last person called.  Some jerk probably arrived monstrously late with a full fare ticket and was now demanding to be seated on this flight.  Even though generally this is not supposed to happen, it does, and so I go without a fuss.  After all, there is a flight out for the rest of the day every hour on the hour.  I won’t be inconvenienced for long.

Walking a little awkwardly (and slightly shame-faced, although I’ve done nothing wrong) up the aisle of the plane, I am stopped by a different flight attendant who is upset that I just left.

“But you all told me to go,” I say to her, and the ground crew who has gathered on the breezeway backs up my story, even though she still regards me with suspicion.

At the gate again, the gate agent and I banter about who gets what priority.

“I’ve always wondered why sometimes my husband gets listed ahead of me, even though I’m higher priority,” she says, chuckling.

I suppose in situations like this, it has paid to be nice. She had even seemed surprised when the call came through that actually seat 14C was needed, or passenger Fie/J and not Abr/K or 16C, and I had waved her off and told her just to keep my cousin on the stupid plane since I was already out of my seat and standing there anyhow.

“I did beat my cousin at the check-in process,” I suggest, and she nods.

“That’s it,” she says, and then tells me I’m listed for the next flight. She smiles kindly and then leaves me to wait for the next half an hour to get home.

At least now there’s time to finish my last egg McMuffin.

III.

Blob’s Park in Jessup, Maryland, exists in two spots in my memory warehouse.

Its first location is set with the rest of the memories of my childhood, and it is this memory that I reference the most often. Really, my mental version of Blob’s Park is made from an aggregation of memories from all the times I had visited as a child.  I see the stage looming up above my head, the dance floor stretching on for ages, the glittering disco ball rotating above us and sending spots of light here and there.  I see the deer heads on the walls, the trophy sharks and fowl, the German flag hung like a banner in one corner.  There are steins of beer and soda and always chips and pretzels over wax paper in red plastic baskets. Then I see me as a little girl, trying to step in time to my grandfather’s beat–polkas generally go in 3/4 time, waltzes in 4/4–trying not to step on his feet or stumble, although he holds on to both of my hands tightly in case I do.

The last memory is from high school, when we ran a race here. We did not go inside the dance hall, which I found ironic, but instead stayed outside. Kids around me wondered what the inside of the hall looked like and I tried to tell them, but how to convey the place without making it sound trite? It is just a dance hall, but to me it is more than that. Instead, we focus on the rolling hills behind the property, the smell of cow manure, the long, circuitous trail we have to run in a few hours. I think in the end this is my favorite course, because even in the beginning of the run I smell grass and sweat and dirt, three scents that bring me right back to every time I have ever run hard outside.

But we gather as a family here, and it’s the first time in a while that I’ve seen my grandfather smiling. We are there to celebrate the 60 years that they have been married.

“Frankly,” Grandma had said to me as we waited for our rides, “I didn’t think it would last this long!”

But it has lasted this long. The band is not particularly good, but polka is polka to most of us, and it doesn’t matter anyway. The cousins and I sit at the kid’s table, only now we are old enough to get a pitcher of beer each, and we eat crab cake sandwiches, fruit, smokey cheese, and spend the evening taking pictures of one another and laughing.

IV.

“Avatar” was enjoyable the second time around with friends who came from all over to see it with us.  We tell stories and generally have an okay time.  I’m glad that they seem to accept my brothers and cousin without blinking much, so that I can let down my guard a little and not worry (like I always do) if everyone is having fun.  On the way back to Rockville, we spend the time bantering about the differences in zombie infections, because it is important to know these things for when the apocalypse hits.

“I’d much rather it be zombies than a rage infection,” my cousin says from the back seat, sensibly.  When I ask why, he informs me that it is preferable to have shambling zombies than running, enraged semi-humans chasing you.  I can do nothing but agree.

It is an ideal night, and one that ends very late in the back of a nice car, driving down dark roads through the rain and fog.

V.

I am by myself in first class, on a plane to Baltimore.  Heading north again, this time feeling very different, very much older.  I manage to finish an entire novel on the flight over, some trash about a kickass vampire hunter.  I’m also able to write a brief journal entry about my experiences this day and the last few.

It’s a moment of solitude for me, a moment that I have been waiting to savor for a while now. Even when my seat mate sits down–a quiet, withdrawn man who has on hiking shoes and reads a John Grisham novel the entire flight without even a word of acknowledgement–I’m thankful for the space in first class and the darkness that descends on the cabin as they dim the lights for the trip. It makes me feel alone on the plane, cocooned in my seat by the roar of the engines and the pressure of the plane as it cuts through the night.

Sometimes I can see dim patches of grey as we come further north, and I wonder what they are.  Then I realize that they are long stretches of snow broken by trees and roads and houses.  As we begin our descent, the street lights glitter more than usual, winking on and off as we come closer to landing.

It’s Christmas,  it’s the holidays, and I’m happy to visit somewhere else I can call home just before the new year.

I have started this entry over at least ten times so far, in my head, on paper, and here.

Over the last few years, increasingly, I have come to understand, at least for the moment, why I am here.

This is ironic, because I’ve felt for a very long time that I’ve always been searching for purpose, trying to derive meaning and some direction out of what I’ve been given. At the same time, I know I’ve wasted plenty of these gifts and a hell of a lot of time.

One would think I’d jump at the opportunity to do something right, then, or feel grateful for the insight. But the fact of the matter is, I haven’t jumped.

I spend a lot of time waffling between denial and resentment, thinking useless things like, why do I have to do this? And this is trivial when compared with the grand scheme of things. And I also struggle with the question of whether this calling, or purpose, or duty, whichever you’d like, really is just me grasping at straws and trying to avoid something else. Like finding my own true purpose. Is it that I’m just avoiding the real work of being a published, successful writer by holding onto this one thing?

But no. My gut tells me that I won’t be whole and healed, ever, unless I do this, even if I invest in years of therapy and possibly even medication. Even then I feel there would be times when I’d just feel like parts were missing, essential parts of me and this sense of being unfinished with the parts of myself I’ve tucked away. My life will never be my own until I can reconcile these things. I will never be able to dream my own dreams, and I will continue to write the same story over and over until this is done.

To start, I need these things: some documents. The trust and support of my family. Some money. Patience.

Everything on this list is within my grasp, except the support of my family, specifically my father. I don’t think he would want to be a part of this, and I don’t think he would understand. And, most importantly of all, I don’t think he and I are ready for a discussion like this.

Because of these things, and because I’m afraid, I don’t know how I can start. I wait for a sign to tell me that I’m ready, keep reaching inward and asking myself if I am ready. But I haven’t found that yet.

Nothing like a family dinner and some wine flowing to loosen tongues enough to tell you that the ethnicity you thought you were all your life isn’t right.

Before any more people in my life either disappear, disappoint me in a big, earth-shattering kind of way, or otherwise reveal themselves as something they’re not, I have to ask. Does anyone else have any jaw-dropping secrets they care to share? You know, because I wouldn’t want to go on believing stupid things. Wasting time, and such.

Anyone?

I haven’t written about the weekend, but it was wonderful for the most part.

Friday I rushed off to catch the train to the airport so fast, I forgot my shoes and my keys. The latter I wouldn’t realize until Saturday, though, and for the moment I put the annoyance of having forgotten my shoes out of my mind. The train got me to the airport, and I sped to the terminal whose plane would take me to Dulles. Having timed everything exactly, I arrived just as they called my name. Got on the plane. Settled in, and waited through the flight.

I was at the back and so I waited for a long time, but the flight seemed a bit shorter than the one to BWI is. Making stilted conversation with the guy next to me helped things to pass a bit faster as well, but mostly I read my book, No Country for Old Men. The Boy picked me up and we drove to my house, stopping for fried chicken along the way since I hadn’t eaten since two.

When we got to my house, everybody came from the innards of the house to greet us and sit with us in the living room while we caught up.  I had my brothers watch Dr. Horrible, we finished off the chicken, played with the dogs, and went to sleep.

Saturday was a date day, and the Boy and I went to DC to walk around, hold hands, eat good food, and enjoy the day. It was beautiful. In the evening we ate a fast dinner and drove to meet some friends at the movies, so we could watch Tropic Thunder together. About twenty minutes in, the fire alarm went off, and so we were herded outside to wait. Told to go home, we started to drift to the parking garage. Some of our friends had already started driving back to my house so we could hang out, since we assumed the theater had closed (it’s what the manager had said!), but we saw people re-entering. All of us ended up seeing the later showing, and had a good time because of it (plus, free food).

At night, the Boy and I cuddle in the room and watch an episode of Heroes.  In the morning, since I do not have to go home on the earliest, crack-of-dawn flight, we enjoy a rare moment of solitude, together, in the quiet of the morning.

These times are both the best to hold onto and the saddest for me; I love the moments we get to share during the brief visits right now, while we live apart. But leaving restores the inevitable distance and separation that comes between us when we can’t see one another somewhat regularly. What will this mean for the future? I’m not sure yet, and so I keep hold of what little I can, the photographs, the ticket stubs, the hugs and the late nights spent driving over and over the land from the airport to what used to be my home, and back again.

Sunday morning, when we finally get up, I get to eat eggs, pancakes, a bit of cherry yogurt, and drink coffee sweetened with cream and a little sugar.  We linger a bit longer than necessary, but I get to the airport around 11. Check in. Miss the next two flights, but have them change my priority (which ends up being downgraded anyway) so that I can try to make the 2:45 flight home.

I do, and sit in the first class seat that is by itself on the left side of the plane. But I make the most of the isolation by reading (currently Abundance, a novel about Marie Antoinette), writing, and musing about the weekend. Taking pictures of clouds out the window.

In the end, it is a long train ride back to Decatur, where I’ve left my car. My coworker has left the key hidden under the tire, visible with just a bit of string, and I am tried, aching, but happy. I return to the house with a load of sheet music. I clean, relax, and get a good night’s rest.

I hate those emails.

Today, except for those messages, it was beautiful. Perfect weather.

I went to the gym and then to our warehouse, where I walked around in the sun and fingered all of the things I couldn’t have. Later, my aunt dropped off her children so they too could shop at the warehouse sale. We watched movies and colored. Dinner was quick but friendly, at a small pub close to home. We sat outside. The wind felt sweet on my face, and the evening has passed pleasantly since then.

I have been playing with whether or not I should write. I feel as though words have left me recently, that I have nothing left to say. Is it simply extreme contentment? Since there’s little conflict left in my life, I cannot translate that into story anymore?

I hope that’s the reason. What a nice change it will be.

Tonight I’ve been more productive than I have been for a while. I vacuumed, took out the trash, and Chloroxed the counters, but it was only because earlier my cousin seemed angry with me. Actually, the conversation went like this:

Kath: Last night I killed a roach half the size of my pinky.
Andrew: That’s it, I’m moving out in August. I can’t live like this.
K: Like what? It was just one. I just hadn’t been keeping up with the poison.
A: It’s fucking disgusting.
K: Whatever. It’s not that bad.
A: Sorry if I have higher standards of sanitation than you.
[long pause]
A: Anyway, you can move with me in August if I don’t HATE you.

Hate me? This bugged me. I asked him why he would hate me, and apparently I’ve been making fun of his single-dom too much. Well, I thought I only made fun of him when he brought it up, which is often. And other than that, I thought I’d been being as supportive as possible given how miserable he chooses to be.

Don’t get me wrong. I am almost inexpressibly grateful that he wanted to live in this apartment with me, and share everything. I was and am still so excited that we get to hang out together once in a while, that he still finds it okay talking to me, and that we have seemed to fall back into touch so easily.

But I’ve also noticed from not having contact with him for the last ten years or so, he’s grown very bitter and grumpy. So grumpy. It’s one complaint after another, and rarely the positive comment. The food’s never good enough. It’s too cold, it’s too hot, the Mexicans next door are too loud or their kid is screaming, or it’s too quiet and boring and there’s nothing to do.

I wish he would just be content. And his comment upset me a bit today; I try to be nothing other than a good roommate, quiet and reserved or offering to do things with him when he’s home and free.

But while I sulked, I began to think about his unhappiness. You know what? It’s really not my problem. I think I have enough things to think about without him harping on me, too, and without concerning myself with his well-being. And to comments about the sanitation, you know what? The roaches aren’t that big a deal. I spray, they die, and sometimes they come back. We’ve only been here three weeks? And roaches probably move from building to building, and like to live crowded in with people who are messy and drop food, bits of trash, and pieces of skin. So whatever. They will outlive us all, and if he can’t live with some bugs now and again, well he might have some serious issues down the road. Or issues with every place he chooses to live from now until he dies.

And same with his being single. I won’t say anything further to him about it, but try to be supportive. Give me strength to do that. Secretly to myself, after he told me that it bothered him when I made fun of him too much, I thought that perhaps it would just be easier to accept being single, for him, than to find someone to date.

Yet he won’t choose to see anything good about his situation, so instead he sits at home, miserable. Happiness is part choice… I told him the first day we moved in and he started complaining, but he hasn’t listened since. Sometimes I just want to shake him and tell him that he’s lucky he has a roof. Or would he rather live with his mom fifty miles away? Would he rather have a shitty roommate, who’s a lot messier, doesn’t like him, and never hangs out with him or invites him places? Would he rather live in his shit hole of a crash pad, miserable and really by himself?

Maybe.

But I certainly don’t want that for myself, and I like where I am. I think I’m doing pretty well. I wake up in the mornings and watch the sun grow brighter through the shades. My room is flooded with light. The few close friends I have grow closer through letters and conversations during the day. I am thankful for the time they give me while I sit in exile at work. And I’m even thankful for that job, although sometimes it’s terribly boring. And when I get to leave work, I smile at the thought of going to the gym and doing something for myself, and even smile at the solitude of the apartment. Because sometimes everyone needs solitude.

I just wish my cousin would realize on occasion, take a deep breath, hold it in, and be concerned only with the moment.

I wish.

Finally, a chance to sleep in. Last night, Robbie sat on me and ran cars and trucks up and down my back while we looked up pictures of Batman. Sometimes he would grab the mouse out of my hand and exclaim, it’s my turn! Then he would meticulously  move the mouse. I watched its slow progress across the screen and then the determined way he rolled the scroller up and down the columns of pictures. It’s hard pretending to still be mad at the world when you’re around the little kids, so happy and content with everything, and then wake up on a Sunday, the first day you’ve slept in for weeks.

This morning I woke early and my mind started grinding again. What about utensils? What about a dresser? How will you carry it? What about plates? And food? And a toilet brush, a cabinet, and chairs? And I couldn’t sleep so I sat up and thought about trying to find a new journal. I suppose when I am supposed to start a new one, the sudden inspiration of where I left the blank ones will come to me. I’m sure they are around, just hidden away in a box in the corner of the garage.

For now, the sun shines and the smell of bacon wafts up from the kitchen. Little voices join together in a cacophony, blending with the vents and the trickle of water and the light music from the television. It’s the suburbs. Not my home, but soon it won’t have to be.