Sunset.

I took down my hair and flew through the yellow lights. Each intersection had a woman on the corner, waiting for their chance to move. I flew to you.
Later, I ate with you but looked at the sky alone, with a quiet and sole interpretation.
I asked, “I wonder how many times we’ve looked at a sky, called it beautiful, and then completely forgotten it?” I asked.
You said. “All I heard was ‘completely forgotten’,” you said.
Grinning, I explained why that fleeting moment was ironic.
In that moment, we were the sky.

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Sunset.

Hoops.

“If this is a life threatening emergency, hang up and call 911.  For English, press 1.”  1.  “To schedule an appointment, press 2.”  2.  “Hi, my name is Kelly. How can I help you?”  Hi Kelly.  I need to schedule an appointment.  “Okay!  Can I get a name and a date of birth?”  Angelique Peterson, 04/04/1997.  “What is the reason for the visit?”  Depression.  “Do you have a psychiatrist you visit?”  I have a psychologist.  “So, what is the reason for the visit?”  Depression.  Specifically, medication.  “Oh.  Um, I can get you in on December 15th at 9 a.m. Would that work?”  That’s over two weeks away.  Is there any sooner time?  “That’s our first available opening.  Oh, and it looks like we don’t take your insurance.”  Great.

Trying to get help while you still want to get help is half of the problem.

Hoops.

All That I Am.

The nursery rhyme “Little girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice” has never applied to me.  As a child, I constantly snubbed compliments, shied away from strangers’ cooing faces, and enjoyed my own company best.  My well-rehearsed mother would chuckle, look into the camera, and recite her favorite catchphrase; “She takes after her father”.

While most little girls were turning into princesses, I was slowly morphing into a grumpy, old man.  My slouchy, lean figure is a carbon copy of my father’s during his teenage years.  His pastel English coloring is displayed proudly across the sharp features he lent me.  Our perpetually sour mugs are broken for one thing and one thing only: a good joke.  Dad blessed me with the gift of quick wit and an elusive smile.  When we’re together, you’ll hear us before you see us.  Booming laughter and a hearty slap on the knee follow the delivery of every punchline.  Once the joke is successfully ran into the ground, the comfortable silence we enjoy dearly returns.

I spent days writing this piece.  Not because I wanted to accurately describe a beautiful relationship, but because I wanted to reveal the bitter truth behind a lovely exterior.  My dad and I aren’t close.  Due to our equally stubborn and lazy natures, we probably will never grow any closer.  We’ll skirt the truth with humor and fall back into the safety of silence, indefinitely.

All That I Am.