bags

Original date of post: December 30

I’m at a stoplight. I’m in a car. A man with one large bag crosses. It’s plastic and it’s for trash. It has a hole, and it’s gonna break. 

Thoughts flood me. . . I look around instinctually in the car for something to give him. Do I ever have anything worth giving at these moments? I wish I always remembered to have bananas, or croissants or more sturdier trash bags . . . .

Some of my bags have holes. And I’m lazy and scared and too stupid to fix them. I have so many bags. Some were given to me. Many were given to me. And, still. My only problem today is choosing a place to kiss my love on New Year’s Eve. Is it really a problem, choosing a shiny plastic bag place to look cute on New Year’s Eve?

It’s the 30th and I’m still sorting through all the gifts Lonny and I received. Still! We are loved, remembered, thought of. That's a big deal. I've cried twice going through them - funny as hell things, useful things we need and used right away, random things that just felt good to bring home that cold night. Even the Dr. Scholl’s shoe gels Joe got me (with cash tucked into them, hehehe). Even the funky socks and crazy pants my mom gave me. My father's gift this Christmas was a choice. Of cars. 

I’m grateful that so many tell me to keep writing. This also matters.

Today I’ll actually remember to put bananas in the park for those who wake up there. I always tell myself to but this time I will. I’ll leave the bag, too.