It looks like I am moving to NYC in a couple of months.
I find it laughable when people talk about PT to me. Not always and not in general, but specifically about the break up.
My mom thought he broke up with me and was shocked when I said it was me who did it. It is funny because after that conversation with him, the rage in my heart just poured and poured out. I think he still thinks I was bluffing. It took me some time to be able to see it all, but for some time now I have understood why. And when I talk about him with other, my voice still carries the love I have for him. My tone denotes how much i admire and respect him, and people are surprised. So here I am going to write it out for myself. Not that i expect folks to read all this, and i am definitely not sending people a link to this! Haha…that be too much.
It is PTs birthday today. I miss him. Again and again a loop. I don’t think he know how much I understand, how much I don’t know him but also how much I still do.
Saw a photo of him yesterday and I cried and I cried. He got so skinny! I’m loosing weight too, biking everywhere, but not quite like him. I wonder how he feels about it, how he sees himself. I wonder how it feels to hug him or touch his face. I also wonder what his butt looks like..hehe.
The reason I was mad at him is still there, still valid. I don’t hate him anymore but I think that there is still too much anger on my part towards him in order for us to be friends. We haven’t been friends since the break-up, although he had said we were. We’d had this amazing conversation, when the love we still have for each other came through, but that is different.
I keep imagining what it would be like to see him again. To go up to him and just give him a big hug. I’d probably start crying. Breaks my heart. My heart is still broken over him. But like I said recently “I will not be surprised if we date again, I will not be surprised if we don’t. I know that we will be friends again, in some way there is a future there.”
I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. Happy birthday.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
I needed this today. And I’m posting it on my Facebook tomorrow. Thank you.(via veganemelda)