[Chapter 57] Seaside confessions


Today is one of those days when I have felt especially lonely. It’s been a theme since I’ve graduated. 

That’s one thing that’s not often emphasized about adulthood. The loneliness. 

All your life you’ve spent your days growing up and learning among peers, mentors, guardians, parents, and teachers. When you finally reach the pantheon of adulthood, job attainment, or whatever, sometimes you have to go it mostly alone. Especially when you’ve been dropped in the middle of nowhere with the nearest major city more than an hour away.

When I’m alone, I think of you. Three years. I decided to go on an “adventure” like we would do if we were bored and you were here with me. I warmed up Bessie, your aging Honda Accord (that’s what we named her), and drove her to the nearest town by the water. It’s blustery today. The wind’s kicked up waves that rumble at the promenade’s edge.

Unlike yesterday’s inviting weather, the wind appears to have driven away most potential visitors to the seaside. Three years. It’s interesting how we celebrate anniversaries. Because somehow, we have survived. Living, thriving, we have made it to the next year and, in a world of eat or be eaten, that’s something to celebrate. Longevity overcoming resistance.

I miss you.

And I’m sorry. For my various lofty expectations of you and the ways in which I can’t control my emotions and use them as a weapon to lash out at your innocence. Sometimes, I wonder how we’ve made it to three between you and me. How we were able to find the minutes, hours, and days to fill our relationship is sometimes a surprise to me… In so many ways we fit, but in others, we’re incongruent. I think about this as I look out into the empty ocean. A once-standing dock, now just stumps of wood, bears witness to my repentance.

In spite of that, I text you today that I feel lonely. And you instantly reply, telling me that you’re off getting ube things in Pasadena. That we should go to the City next weekend when you return. 

I smile. I don’t feel so lonely anymore.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s