"I wanna know—have you ever seen the rain?"

I.

Growing up, I was the kid who listened to oldies and walked around humming Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young." I was sure that Billy was talking about me. Catholic. Bright. Generally very good. And, I guess I figured, the message was pretty clear—I would be young, but maybe if I was always this good, I wouldn't have to worry too much about being old.

It's not that I thought I would die a horrible death before the first sign of needing to take responsibility. But it just seemed like being a "good kid" was my thing. I never had to worry—everything always fell into place. And when it came to thinking about the future, I just didn't really think about it. I could enjoy everything, and the only something I had to work towards was getting into a good college. No need to make any big decisions.

In any case, I never imagined I'd make it this far. People were always saying to me, "you'll go far." But I never really never thought I'd make it this far.

Across the ocean far. Away from the ocean far.

I never really thought about it at all. And, maybe I'm still young, but I'm not sure I'm still good. And I'm not sure that that's not good. In fact, I think it's much better.

........
II.

How is it that we measure the significance of a moment or an event or a thing?

We instinctively label some as bigger and more important and more significant than others.
Above all is our health, and our jobs. "At least we all have our health," was always a phrase thrown around the dinner table before meals.
But, sometimes, we're not healthy. Like, sometimes your Dad has a heart attack. And sometimes that can be a miracle.

Maybe we should throw around phrases like "at least we have our flowers," at the dinner table.

When you walk along the street do you let your fingers brush over the leaves? Seeing them is a piece of the picture, but do you notice them? Do you take a minute to feel them? Have you thought about what a miracle it is to feel anything at all?

Maybe it's not enough to wonder why. Why are we here. Why are you there. Why did this happen? Maybe questions don't get us to the answers. Maybe there's another way to be curious. Maybe there's a way to wonder without actually wondering?

I believe that we're following something without even knowing it, but we're so caught up in measurements. From our weight, to the wait, from our job to our house to our salary to our...

candids

You used to sit in the window and ask me things like, "Do you ever wonder if heaven really exists?" I'd pick up my eyes from my coffee, and they'd wander through the sunlight searching for the slopes of your body. "All the time," I said. "Every day."  You'd smile at me, though your eyes weren't yet satisfied with my answers, nor with your own. I liked when you looked that way. Then, you'd turn and disappear back into the sunlight. I'd turn and disappear back into my coffee.

You were always looking out. Looking out the window. Looking out for me. Looking out for signs of despair. Looking for ways out of your own despair.

I was always looking in. Because I feel like the inside needs more. It's more abstract. It's more forgiving. It's more of me.



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I was terrified to get out of this town, but I made the decision because I knew I would always wonder "what if." Otherwise, I had this feeling that there would be this alternative life hanging somewhere, suspended in the universe. Now was the time to get out. I knew that if I didn't do it now, I would be stuck here forever. I think I had planned to come back, in any case—to bring my experiences back and gather them all together in one me. But life doesn't always turn out the way you plan. I was pretty good at following plans, but not so good at following them to their ends. But so far I'd found a way to make everything work, or at least the universe had, for me. I don't think necessarily are meant to be or not meant to be. But I do think that opportunities present themselves to point you down the right route, and there's always a way back from the off track. It just sorta gets harder the longer you wait.
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You waited for me. You had a green hope in your eyes that I hadn't seen before.  Something like a light meant to be seen from a distance, and not so close up. Not so brilliant, not so searching. And you had a way of looking around that I liked. You would sort of sweep up your surroundings, and then you'd light up all the right details for me. You'd notice a chair, or an angle, or a light. And then you'd notice me noticing you. And that made your cheeks a bit warm. You'd look away to something else suddenly. And then I'd worry a little bit if you didn't like me looking at you. And I'd wonder if I was too old for you. And I'd make my way out of the room and I'd put myself back into my work.

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