Three months after my 19th birthday, I was sent home from my freshman year of college for 2 weeks for some kind of virus going around. I spent those two weeks in blissful ignorance with my friends, waiting on an email with a return date from our colleges that would never come. 

In Chicago again, but years after, from the airport with my bags all packed, clutching a small quilted pillow and a backpack, my passport and a ticket for Rome in my hand. Blow a kiss. Wave wildly. Say farewell. My grandmother with her butterscotch breath. With her Filipino kisses: her nose pressed to my cheek, one long sniff.

On three, the boy next to us threw a Frisbee that wasn’t there. A second later, we let loose the real thing. Time slowed as we waited for a reaction. The man in charge of our European well-being cursed into the evening. Contact!  

During our time dating, Matt told me he had an ex-lover named Geoff.  For whatever reasons and coincidences, more than a couple of my boyfriends over the years have had exes named Geoff.  I apologize for this stupid and ridiculous response, but I developed a negative, visceral reaction when I hear that name mentioned by someone I’m seeing, no matter how it’s spelled. 

The only thing I knew about MS-related blindness was a condition called Optic Neuritis—a painful condition that hurt like a migraine, or worse. Now, in the waiting room, blind as a bat, I couldn’t recall being in any pain the night before when the issue started. New panic set in—was the issue my retina? Could it be falling off without me even feeling it? I’d been so used to blaming things on my MS, any alternatives fell by the wayside. I hoped for the best. 

One evening, she went to Grandpa’s restaurant, walked to the back, and beckoned for him to follow. There, she looked him straight in the eyes, said she was done waiting, and if he didn’t marry her within the next month, she would leave him.

He pours me a white. Usually a buttery Chardonnay. He doesn’t pour enough. Nothing is enough. I take a small sip. I mistakenly swallow way too soon without tasting it and await the blood alcohol brain depressive effect to cool my mood. Not quick enough.

Not a trace of shame in her voice. It was as if she were sharing an unexpected revelation with this fresh-faced kid, a former coworker, still stocking shelves at Frys. Like she’d been to the mountain, at the foot of the guru, and had returned with a higher wisdom.  

The problem with working on a home while living in it is that you are forever doomed to be making room, clearing away the debris of one to make room for the other, constantly compromising. Because neither is ever in its fullness, both remain in a protracted, seemingly infinite process of getting in each other’s way. 

We walk into the venue and it is literally empty. The three of us are the only ones in the crowd. Maeve stalls, tuning way longer than she needs, before yelling into the mic: “Everyone at the bar come on in, it’d really mean a lot. We’re the last of the night and we’re gonna play hard.” She starts with a fury.  

As Judge McDonough waltzes down the hallway towards his chambers, with three defense attorneys in tow, suddenly Johnny Lagatutta races past me and the other attorneys—including the defense attorney whose client had just been locked up, and jumps atop Judge McDonough’s back. Lagatutta wraps an arm around the judge’s neck and secures his choke hold with the other hand. McDonough swings his arms, trying to reach back to free Lagatutta’s grip, to no avail.  

She picks up another cup. It cracks under her grip; the plastic slices her thumb. Bright red runs along the crack. She watches blood mix with juice, the two turning brown, dirty. She adds the broken cup to the stack, others on top of the broken cup. 

Autzen Stadium is many things. At worst, it is an edifice of concrete and steel, that’s seen millions of dollars in renovations funded by a man who’s devoted similar levels of capital to influencing local elections. At the same time, Autzen is a thing of beauty. For a few Saturdays in the fall, tens of thousands of people fill the seats, regardless of weather.

I was more puzzled by the fact that the family acted as if this was normal. The father politely waited for his two kids to climb in next to me. I scooted over so I was on the edge of the crescent-shaped booth. The mother squeezed in and the father followed. He nodded at me and then grabbed a menu.

“What’s good here?” he asked.

Lyle was the real deal. He had been a Vietnam Green Beret, broke wild horses in his spare time, and was one of the very few people left in the world who still knew how to drive a four-horse stagecoach. He looked me up and down. “You ain’t from Montana.” 

My Mork from Ork attachment makes me wonder why kids cling to objects, or why they’re drawn to characters from T.V. Why do we require that thing in our hands, our grip, near our noses to feel emotionally organized and at ease from setting to setting? Blankies, dolls, pillows pieces of fabric, whatever it may be that gives children (and sometimes adults), the feeling of comfort and home. Why do we run to their refuge in our beds or on our sofas and hold them tighter than life? 

Yesterday he texted me the definition of a new word he was excited to learn, “freudenfreude.” It’s best translated as “the bliss we feel when someone else succeeds, even if we weren’t directly involved.” This morning, as I watched him watch me scarf down my favorite donut from Dunkin’ Donuts (a creation filled with something called “cookie butter”), I realized he’d given me a word to describe the look on his face.