transparent.

i don't know how to say goodbye to my grandfather. i spent some time with him the past few days, sitting with him, watching part of an old movie with him, and i found myself staring, but not at him - through him. there i was, just trying to be with him, but i wasn't. at least, not as much as i'd have liked. we talked a little, but his voice was not the voice i remember. it was the echo of the voice i remember. my body was sitting next to him, kissing his cheek, his handlebar mustache scratching my face, hugging him while breathing deeply, stealing the smell i have grown up with so i don't forget. my thoughts are all over, wondering if this is the last time i will see my grandpa; if this is the last time i will hear him ask me if i was still his girl, if this is the last time, i hear him clearing his throat, his voice escaping gruffly, gravelly; if this is the last time i will smell him - the smell of my grandpa. the smell of love that doesn't pass judgment. his hands, smoother than mine, but so much larger, with a lifetime of manual labor engraved in his palm, old age and pain wrinkling the top, cool, and firm, makes mine disappear; wondering if this is the last time i will watch old movies i would never watch on my own, but find out that i can enjoy them, even if it is only because i am sitting here with him. i wonder how long it's been that i haven't seen him - i wonder how long it's been that i've looked at him and seen only my memories of him.

he's lived a lifetime that i only know scraps of. and i know it's been imperfect, that he's been imperfect, because i've heard traces of that as well, although i never could really internalize all of that because that's never been the grandpa i've known. and he mostly just lays out on his bed or his lazy boy now and doesn't get up much, but i still remember sitting on his lap, i still remember taking him by the hand to show him something i thought was exciting, and he did, too. he did, too. and i'm with him now, staring right through him, thinking that he seems not unhappy. he's 88. and i think he's lived a life that he seems quite proud of. and maybe his only doubt or misgivings is not whether or not he wants to do much more than he has, but what his wife will do when he's gone. the woman he met when they were just a boy and a girl, and this boy and girl who fell in love with each other, fought with each other, had a family together, struggled together, nagged each other, but were just there, together. and now, very soon, they both know, that they won't be together for longer than they've been apart their entire lifetimes, except when he was in the war.

it's a life i can't imagine. and i think to myself, maybe this is it. absence of regret isn't always about thinking that there were other choices that could've been made, because there are always choices to be made. maybe it's just believing in what made you choose something over something else so much that you think to yourself that whatever happened, you wanted something so bad, there was no other choice to be made. my father told me once that if someone didn't have any regret, they didn't live their life as fully as they could've. we disagree on many things, but he told me that, and it made me stop, and i realize now that he made me change my mind. i have a tendency to become immobilized by choices, which has made me the butt of many jokes, but this fear of making the wrong choice comes from a fear of making a choice that leads to regret later when i know more or think i do or something.

but here's what i know now. i'm glad that my precociousness as a child prevented me from having fear of taking my grandpa by the hand, that i never considered my loving him as a choice i had to make, that my love for him propelled me home when it was hard, harder than it should have been, because there are no regrets there. i think he knows by now how i love him, imperfect as i am, imperfect as my love is because i know how much he loves me. and i continue to be surprised by how much that still means to me at 24 and a layover away. i look at him and know that when he looks back, he still sees the unsullied joy of us, even when i'm not sitting right next to him. and he dozes off, but i'm wide awake, and just looking at him. i don't know how to say goodbye to my grandfather. so i don't. and i don't think he knows how to say goodbye to me, either. in any case, he didn't. i think we both appreciated it.

um.

i might have just given a thumbs up to the spice girls. i feel like i just betrayed myself. my standards! ack. it's all downhill from here, folks. and pandora is documenting every minute of my descent. i'm a marketer's dream. give me a soft smooth voice, maybe some nice harmonies, soothing instrumentals, and i'm a goner. "hey mama" just came on. in case you didn't figure it out from the title, it's country.

i don't even know what to say about it.

lyricism.

it's not true that you can't see stars in the city. the past few nights, the sky has been flecked with points of incredible brightness. i stared at the moon tonight and wondered if it was better to be able to reflect light with the shimmering grace of the moon, or absorb it in the insatiable insistence of the sun. growing up, i loved those long summer nights with the cool remembrance of the heat of the day, lying on damp grass, getting lost in the dizzying array of bursts of light. there is something very undemocratic about the sky - how only the brightest things get seen. and i know that i have always wanted both - to be both bright enough to get seen and small enough to get lost. i guess i still do.

i'm postponing writing a short essay about where i see myself five years after law school. i want to ask them if they know that if the sun were to burn out completely, that it would take at least 2, maybe 3, years before we felt a physical difference. that the moon would still be reflecting the light of something that ceased to exist for years. so my answer is this: if the night sky would still be the same given the absence of the brightest of stars, how does anyone know how a moment, or a series of moments, with people we've met and people we will meet affect us or cease to affect us? will we even begin to be able to say what the possibilities are?

but here's what i'll do: i will take a shower, think about doing my taxes, and hope tomorrow will bring a little less obstinance and a little less lyricism and a lot more pragmatism. i will say that i will be both insatiable in my desire to absorb the world and vigilant in my task of reflecting it. that i will demand both from myself. and i will strip away the metaphors, all the while hearing the question, "Yes, that's very pretty, but what exactly will you be doing?"

jesus surprises you every time.

today, i was walking up 13th street, feeling a little blue, but not a lot blue - just enough to fit the grey day, the wet blanket of rain. i actually like days like this, and i am concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, liking the rhythm created by my stride in my jogging pants, hands in pockets, thinking about the umbrella in my bag, head hidden under hat, enjoying the cool mist under the warmth of my hoodie and fleece. as i am arguing with myself about the umbrella, going back and forth about if one can actually catch a cold by being out in the rain, i am also surprised by how many people are out on such a day. surely not everyone is in love with days like this. as i peer out from under my cap, careful not to make eye contact, i glance at the people around me, and my eyes find a fine looking young man. breathtakingly beautiful, in fact. i smile, tightly, and he smiles back, great teeth, great lips, and i am mesmerized. i start looking away, a little more than embarrassed, and he says, hey.

hi.

he says something i can't remember. probably if it would be okay if he gave me something. he hands me a small, clear plastic bag, and i can see some sort of drawing and a business type card, but mainly, i'm still looking at him, thinking, oh my god, what is this? is he handing out condoms?! oh my god. of course they have really good looking people handing out information about safe sex. of course.

i hear the word christ, and i bring myself back. "there's a church right up the street, and it'd be great if you came. it's real close..."

riiight. i see now. i say thanks and walk away. and i'm laughing at myself because i think, nobody at any church i've ever gone to has been that good looking. almost makes me want to go. almost. and i can't stop smiling.

apparently, if you're that good looking, you make even jesus look good.