2011-01-21 - 4:20 p.m.
It's a strong verb: to love. I wonder: can you love the act of seeing your breath? Can you love something so small, so common? Because I love seeing my breath. I can't help it. It's me plus January, me plus air from the Arctic, me plus tiny crystals. I bet Walt Whitman loved the shit out of seeing his breath.
I love getting emails from my parents. My dad sent me one today, recounting how, when I was little and hungry one day, I asked if I could eat the hot dog I saw in the fridge. My dad said, there's only one and your brother hasn't eaten yet, either. And I said, I'll share it with him. And I don't love this memory because I remember it clearly. I don't remember it at all. I don't love it because I shared something with my little brother, although that's a nice thing I did. I love it because it's heavy, because my dad said, in his email today, that remembering me and my brother and that hot dog sometimes makes him cry.
It sounds silly, putting frozen breath and sharing and crying in the same column. But there they are, together, and I love that there's room for both.
0 comments so far
