I have this scarf

Which doesn't mean too much, if you know me. I have many scarves. Dozens, with no exaggeration.  They are the one fashion item that I can't seem to let go.  I have them in varying lengths, all shades of colour (except yellow. My brown/yellow/pink Filipino skin never could hold up to that colour), differing patterns; infinity scarves and regular scarves; knit and wool and silk; warm and positively deathly hot and fashionable.

But there's this one scarf I have.

It's a knit infinity scarf, completely black, that loops snugly around my neck. It's kind of perfect, in a weird way - dark colours, fashionable enough to wear in all seasons, looped high enough on my neck to be warm in winter and low enough to allow a breeze on cool beach days.  It's a scarf I would never pick up because it's so similar to all the others I own, it'd be one where I can convince myself "No, I don't need this when I have X scarf," but I'll glance back at it as I walk away.

That's if I ever bothered to pick it up, anyway. It's unassuming and a bit plain and thousands of other scarves would probably be considered and shuffled before it was even noticed sitting folded in the rack or hanging from the hooks.

You gave me this scarf.  This absolutely nondescript, barely-noticeble scarf.  I lost it, for a few months. I couldn't find it, and I had no idea how long it had been missing before I realized it, because it's just that small of a thing to me. My mom found it eventually, it'd been hung up on my brother's coat rack, and even though it was sitting, plain as day in front of all of us, no one ever saw it for months.

It was a Christmas present, one I didn't even realize you were going to give me. I walked in the door one day, and it was sitting at my station, hidden in a bright box. I remember being surprised, and flattered, and a bit scared, to be honest. I didn't realize that we'd progressed that far.

You gave me this scarf, and I watched your face as I pried the top off this box and how it was so eager and you were so happy with your choice. You said you saw it and immediately knew it was for me, that you knew it was going to be given to me, no matter the price or consequence.  I remember your smile in return to my smile, when I said it was oddly perfect, that you were so pleased and puffed up on some weird post-gift-giving high the entire rest of the day.  I remember vaguely a few days later you were still proud of getting a gift so good for me.

I remember your face, too, when I wore it a few months later. You recognized it, and it was like this light went on behind your eyes that it was still in my life, that it was something I actually...chose.  I remember the satisfaction in your eyes, and I remember being terrified at what it all meant. You reached over to touch it lightly with your fingertips, and it felt like you were touching something much deeper.

You gave me that scarf.

I wore it today.

And today, you are no longer in my life.

It's a weird thing, to see the scarf. Even now, around my neck, it kind of hurts to see that this tiny item that I'd pass up is one of the few things remaining of you to me. It still kind of smells like you, which is probably more in my head, but does that even matter now?  It's you, and it's around me, and I know that you will not be.

Choosing to wear it this morning was a lot more personal and difficult than I thought it would be. Honestly, I haven't thought about it in awhile. It's just because I'm wearing an odd print today and it's kind of cold this evening and needed something that would be functional but not ruin everything, too. And when this came in my head, it was like a movie: I took two steps towards my room and paused, bit my lip as I thought about wearing it.

It shouldn't be this difficult.

But it is, and I understand why.

I have this scarf, and it's a little bit me of me with a little bit of you.

And it breaks my heart just a little bit to see it, because it's the only thing I have left aside from some smiling memories and hidden pictures in my hard drive that really shows us together.  It breaks my heart just a little.

But still, I wear it.

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All the Ways to Say I Love You (version sad)

“I love you,” I said to her.

And she smiled back, and kissed my forehead, and tucked my sheets in and said it back.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he smiled back, and wrapped me in a hug, and said he loved me more, and that he’d be back from work by 9 and to remind my brother of the bill to pay.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he gave me that funny crooked smile and punched my arm and mumbled back you too, sis.

“I love you,” I said to them.

And they hugged me and said it back, grandma squeezing my hand and grandpa clapping me on the back, right before he made a morbid joke about death and seeing me sometime again--hopefully!

“I love you,” I said to her.

And she cried and hugged me and said we’d always be friends and she’d send me postcards and the moment she was back in town, I’d be her first call to grab a cocktail and catch up on life.

“I love you,” I said to her.

And she smiled across the dinner table and told me she loved me and that I was the best friend she could ever ask for.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he smiled uncomfortably and looked around, finally saying ditto.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he said it right back, without hesitation, before picking up his camouflage duffle bag and walking into the terminal.

“I love you,” I said to them.

And they wrapped me in a hug and gave me their joint birthday gift before leaving the restaurant to go back to their house.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And they pulled the sheet up, covering his face in finality.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And Buster the dog jumped and yipped and licked my face and I took it to mean that he meant it back.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he looked down at me, his arms around me, our lips still swollen, curled into a smile, and he whispered it right back.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he returned the smile and bent to kiss my forehead as I stood at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes, and he told me he’d be back around 5 as he grabbed his backpack and whisked out the door to his first class of the day.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he gave me a tight-lipped return smile and said it back, in passing, as he watched the TV. The Raiders were playing.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he stared back at me, eyes unreadable, body language mute, with nothing to say.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he shook his head and backed away, staring at me like I was a stranger.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And he repeated it back to me, only he made it past tense.

“But I love you,” I said to him.

And he told me it wasn't enough in the end.

And he told me it didn't matter in the end.

And he told me it was the end.

And 

Finally

I

said

nothing.

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Five Things Lists to get to know me.

FIVE THINGS...

#5

...You Don't Know About Me:

1) i am bothered

when people who introduce me say I am from California. Even if I might say it sometimes (it's kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision as to what I'll say when people ask), I don't like the picture people get when they hear it.

2) i gave up singing

because one boy told me I was bad at it.

3) i've never

been on a date. I feel weird being 24 and still saying that, but...it's a truth I have to own. I've gone out plenty of times with guys, just the two of us (and on more than one occasion I've found out after the fact the boy called it a date), but I've never gone through the "will you have dinner with me?" first date kind of conversation and outing.

4) i fear being common.

So many people in my life are so...stellar. Everyone I know shines in some way, whether it's purposeful or not. I know people who have literally changed the world, altered the way a mass group lives; and people who reach stars and shoot for the moon with every second of their being. And I have a crushing fear that I'm just...background. That I'm not like them, that I'm the dullness in their life that just intensifies their shine. It terrifies me that I'll be just another person who takes up space in the world, a copy of a copy of a copy that no one will remember.

5) i went on a 4-day

road trip with 14 friends to Utah and Arizona (Zion National Park, Monument Valley, Antelope Canyon, The Four Corners, Lake Powell, and a friend's farm in Utah) when I was 22 and it is honestly one of the happiest, most in-the-moment times of my entire life. I strive to reach that kind of peace, harmony and satisfaction again. And yes, it was chaotic and complicated and filled with drama, but it all faded to the background once we stood on those cliffs.

...I'm Knowledgeable About:

1) figure skating

When I was 5, I had a poster of Nancy Kerrigan on my wall (Tonya Harding is a bitch). It probably started when I was doing ballet at 4 years old, but I've loved the grace and beauty of figure skating for as long as I can remember. The slice of ice, the glistening and sparkling and flowing costumes, the movement and thrill of programs. I can tell you pretty much everything about the sport, figure skaters, the scoring, anything. (Though I will pause and think when I'm explaining the different types of jumps and all - but I'll get it in the end!)

2) french

I moved to Belgium when I was 4, and I started taking French classes when I started school at age 5. For almost as long as I've known the English language, I've know the French language. Of course since I don't use it every day it's not as strong as it could be, but you could set me down in France or any French-speaking country and I'd survive quite well. I read it as well as English and can understand it almost as well - the speaking I stumble on, but it comes back to me.

3) singing

Even though I stopped it (see previous listing of five), my elementary schools' music programs were phenomenal and I started singing in choirs when I was 12. I also lived with several singers and have singer friends, so I've learned a lot about the technique of it and how to properly control your voice. It's beautiful in a very scientific way as well.

4) computers/technology

My dad worked with computers and security in the military since before I was born, so I've been around them all my life. I started typing at 4 years old (I can consistently type 120+ WPM) and using computers or various technology (tablets, iPads, phones, etc) kind of comes naturally to me. Give me a gadget and an hour, I'll come back to you with instructions.

5) people

My close friends will probably laugh at this, but I'm a quiet person--I don't speak much. And when I do, it's to prompt whoever I'm speaking with. Between how much I listen and observe and all the journalism and writing training I've done in my life, I've honed intuition and reading people quite well.

...I Know Nothing About:

1) geography

I'm terrible at it. If I haven't been there or seen it on TV, I cannot tell you where it is, the capital of it, or what rivers surround it. Also, please don't ever ask me where a certain mountain/range is. I have absolutely no idea.

2) cars

Again, absolutely clueless. I barely remember the make and model of my own well-loved vehicle, there's no way I understand the mechanics of it.

3) statistics (the mathematical sense)

Probability and all that simply do not make sense to me. I've been forced through various lessons of it, but I still cannot grasp any of the concepts. It is seriously like looking at Japanese characters to me. This is also the reason I ended up in AP Calculus in high school: if you didn't take the AP track, you had to take Stats - so I powered through all the Honors Algebra, Honors Geometry, Honors Pre-Calc, Trig, and AP Calc just to avoid Stats.

4) make-up

If it's not eyeliner or mascara, I'm lost. I don't wear anything other than eye makeup (don't even own it). How does anyone make sense of powders and matte and liquid make up and bases and foundation and concealer and all that junk?!

5) filipino culture

I may be it on the outside, and on occasion I'll spit out a few Tagalog words since my parents used them in my childhood, but I have absolutely no sense of it otherwise. I'm American (though Europe/Military-raised)-born and know only what it is to be American. I have zero clue the traditions, beliefs, history, anything to do with the Philippines and its people.

...I Believe In:

1) angels

I can't explain this one. I just do.

2) power of positive thinking

Because positivity will eventually lead to believing and believing leads to working hard and earning it. And if it doesn't in the end, then see the next item.

3) all things happen for a reason

No matter how crappy or hard my life has gotten, I've also always gotten through with whatever sort of lesson I'm meant to learn. You go through the worst to recognize the best, and you are given the best as a reward for being who you are. Whatever happens is meant to.

4) my brother

All his life he's been the kid whose teachers say "he has so much potential, he just doesn't get there...yet."  And I take faith in that 'yet.' He's destined to be something great, and there's so much he has to offer the world. It's taking him awhile, but...he'll get there. I know he will.

5) the limitlessness of book and words

When you think about it, there are only a finite amount of letters/characters in the world--so in theory, there is actually a limit of how many words/sentences/syllables/sounds we can make and their literal meanings. But that's just so untrue, and anyone who has ever been moved by another person or book or song can attest to that. There's something so powerful and soul-reaching in just the right sequence of words with just the right tone or mood, it's impossible to deny the magic and potential they all possess.

 

This post was written for Mama Kat's Workshop.

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I organized today.

I don't mean clean. I organized.  And it's not normally a bad thing.  It's never really a bad thing, in a way.

But it kind of is with me.

As I always allude to, my first and second year of college was...terrible.  Horrible.  Enough where I don't really talk about it with anyone - I cry, I get angry, I get frustrated.  So I avoid it and I don't talk about it (what's that? That's not healthy?  Hmm...) but I always allude to it because I can't help how much it affected my life.

People used to make fun of how "OCD" I was in college.  My roommate first year told me she thought she was living with a crazy person the first month we were in the dorms because I was such a neat freak.

And it's true, I was a freak about it.  My pictures on my walls were spaced completely evenly and uniformly. And I mean exactly even. And symmetrically.  I had roughly 48 photos on my wall when I began college, and they were organized in exact 6 rows, 8 columns, 2.5 inches between, above and below each of them.  I used a fucking ruler.

It didn't stop there.  I had to have certain numbers of pens/pencils in the cup on my desk. My laptop had to be dead center of my keyboard slide, despite the fact I didn't even use a keyboard on it. Books had to be in height order.  Photos on my dresser were in height order, then by colour. My hairbrush was always in the same spot, with 5 bobby pins, 2 big hair ties and 3 little ones to the left of it. I can't even tell you how bad my jewelry box became and how crazy I was about keeping everything organized.  Even my food drawer had a certain order to it, and I could always tell when someone took anything from it or the candy drawer we had below our tv.

As my life took a spiral downward, my obsessions climbed higher and higher.  Second year was worse; my pictures had diminished since the people I thought were worth something had too - but the evenness and symmetry remained. My calendar was still kept to the upper left, 3 inches from the top and sides. I insisted that the sleep time on my alarm clock had to be at 22 minutes; any more or less would fuck up my sleeping pattern and I wouldn't be able to sleep. My backpack had to be on my desk chair when I went to sleep. I bought the same foods, the same exact amounts each grocery trip, because each item had specific places in my cupboards and in the fridge, and I couldn't add or detract from it. I rarely shopped because my closet was organized just so and each shirt had a specific hanger and a specific spot.  If I did buy a shirt for work, I'd toss another one because I couldn't have it be any more than it was.

It got to the point where I was convinced I could only fall asleep a certain way: on my stomach, head pointed to the left facing the wall, left arm above my head on top of my pillows (always had 2), right arm tucked underneath the pillows, right leg bent, left leg straight.

None of these things had consequences if I didn't do it or keep to it though. Even as I was doing it all, I knew it was pointless.  I never felt like someone would die if my pencil wasn't to the left of my paper. The world wouldn't crumble, life wouldn't stop, no one I cared about would suddenly fall ill. These things I did weren't rituals, and they didn't really impede my life. I think the reason none of my roommates really thought much of it is because I didn't have a schedule I HAD to necessarily keep to.  Things could adjust around other people or their lives.  If a roommate put her peanut butter on the top shelf where my butter usually went, then I'd just put the butter a shelf down in the same spot and a new regular spot would emerge. Oddly, I was flexible in my obsessions.

Some people cut to control. Others become destructive. Some work out, some take it out on their bodies or their food intake because it's a way to control.

I organize.

It wasn't about needing things to be just so, it was the feeling of being able to control where things went. Of where items belonged, of controlling what seemed and felt normal to me.  The world is a shitstorm around me, everything is crumbling to pieces and imploding around me--but you know what? I can still put five pencils in a cup, and it feels good and looks symmetrical.  So that's one point for me and my life.

I didn't realize this at the time, of course.  Only in retrospect when my life started to get better and the obsessions diminished did I figure out what it all meant.  I still like things to be organized, don't get me wrong - symmetry and the aesthetic of it is still something I love. I like to have my DVDs in ABC order, and my books are still organized by height order, hardcover vs. softcover, by colour and genre and classics vs. contemporary.  But things are messy now, and my clothes aren't perfectly folded, and my receipts aren't in perfect order.


Today, though...I organized again.  Like a madwoman.  My bathroom is perfectly in order, with all my beauty products in height order, and nailpolishes in colour order.  And I put all the groceries away because I wanted to put all the green vegetables in the bottom crisper and line up the cheeses in the cheese drawer, and I put the chip bags by order of how the family will probably eat them.  I lined up the shampoo bottles in my shower to be the exact same.

I've been feeling it for a few weeks now - that feeling of needing to run. Of being scared, and trapped, and useless, and worthless, and not good enough, and alone, and lonely.  I'm starting to feel like second fiddle, like everyone's constant backup, like the Plan B to everyone's "well my plans got canceled so sure I'll hang out with you."  The "sure I'll see what's up and if I have nothing to do I'll join you" girl.  The dependable one, the one who's always there, the one no one notices until they need something done.

It's the same feeling of hanging in mid-air, of being suspended in time, like I'm just waiting for something to come along and jerk me out of this horrible, raw place.  And no matter how much I try to infer change, to take my own life into my own hands and make something of it...I can't.  I'm too scared to face whatever is it that's holding me back, I'm too terrified to confront what's blocking me.

And so I want to run. And when I want to run, I let things get out of control.

And so I organize.

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Remembering what matters.

"What is all this talking on my radio? Where's the music?" I was groggy, having just been woken up by something--I couldn't figure it out, I just knew it was around 6am, 30 minutes earlier than I would normally have gotten up.  My radio was constant words and chatter, but I didn't bother to listen to what they were saying.  A faint glow was coming down my hallway, which puzzled me more. No one turned on TVs in the morning in my house; it had been discouraged for as long as I could remember, and the idea anyone would even try was an absolute horror to my 14-year-old self.

I got out of bed and went to the living room, too curious to let it go. "Mom?!" I exclaimed. Of all the people in the house who I thought would violate the no-TV rule, she was the last. I had expected my brother, since my father had had overnight duty at work the night before. I was about to start asking about the TV when I finally saw how stiff she was sitting, how she hadn't even looked my way when I'd said anything.  The remote control was in one hand, the telephone in the other.  "Are you ok? What's wrong?"

And then I saw the TV.  I remember the smoke, mostly. Lots and lots of smoke, from every direction, from everywhere, no matter which way the camera turned.  I saw the headlines on the screen, but nothing really made sense.  I had only vaguely heard of the Twin Towers, but I had no idea what they really were.  The idea that she was watching a movie flashed in my head for a second, but the layout of the picture was clearly a news channel. "What's going on? I don't understand.  What's happening?"

I've forgotten a lot of details about that morning, important things that I was so sure I'd remember years later. I have no idea if I saw the second Tower get hit. I don't remember any of what the news anchors said. I don't remember if I saw people on TV, or just the constant pictures of the towers. I'm certain I saw the Towers fall, but I don't have a memory of it.  What I do remember is the fear, and the hurt, and the terror on my mom's face and in her voice when she told me that planes had been flown into the Towers. That planes were being hijacked, and that they were saying it was terrorism.

What an ugly word: terrorism.  What person could ever justify an act meant to incite terror into people?  How does anyone feel they are working towards the greater good if the means are by fear and intimidation and destruction?  Even when I was younger and it was just a word tossed around the military lifestyle, I knew the implications and how wrong it was.

Hearing my mom say it, and the TV, and everyone else that day, all I could think was how that word had never meant anything to me before. Being a military kid, certain words are always in your vocabulary, but their meaning never comes to fruition.  They're part of history, given reason long-ago.  Those words aren't in my present. They're just not.

But they were, and I felt that terror when my mom looked at me and said, "Your dad called me and told me to turn on the TV, and not to worry about him. I can't get through to him again."

And I learned that even when you are 2,831 miles away from the worst national tragedy you never thought to imagine, you can be affected.  You will feel your own version of tragedy, of doom and helplessness.  You don't have to be in that city, in that state, even on the right side of the country.  Because when you see and hear that every station of power, every military base has been shut down, evacuated and/or on lockdown, you will feel the world get pulled out from under you.  And you will understand how widespread the attack was, how it was meant to break the country, not just the people who lose someone in the plane crashes and hijacks.

Without too many details, my father had overnight duty from September 10-11, 2001 at the largest Naval Air Station on the West Coast. He was one of the personnel in charge of the base the day, the hour, the very minute that these attacks happened.  He was one of the officers to evacuate everyone else and stay behind with the other officers in the event they would have to take action. That if for whatever reason, the west coast would have to respond or launch air defenses, my father would be a part of it.  That if for whatever reason, the terrorists decided to turn a plane towards the west coast, my dad could be at a target.

I'm very lucky that my fears never became real, that my only tie to this entire tragedy was a viewer and a possibility; never a true victim or one left behind.  It doesn't make me feel any less of this, but I understand that how much I can and will feel towards that day is blessedly limited.

When I think about 9/11, I don't like to think of it as a catalyst, as the worst day in my lifetime, as an ending.  I feel that does a disservice to those lost that day. It is a tragedy, it is a never-should-have-happened, it is a never-should-happen-again.  It is sadness, and anger, and frustration and fear and confusion and something that no one can ever truly understand.

But it is also a day that, no matter what was going on, we were all one. It was a day we came together as support, as hope and love and concern and belief.  It is the day we discovered what it is to be an American, or what it means to simply be human.  It is a day that we were all the same, that the rich where not the richer and the poor were not the poorer; that employees aren't the only workers and the glamorous weren't the shiniest.  It was a day where it was an honor to be alive, a blessing to feel and a gift to be able to touch someone.

Sometimes I do get angry about it still, and sometimes I do blame the day for a lot of other things that have happened. Like making me actually take notice of the danger levels when I'm on base.  Or being the reason for a war that has taken on its own meanings and angers.  For that very war taking away my friends for years at a time and altering them into the men they never should really be.  For that same war taking away a friend, permanently, and altering my heart in a way that never really should be. For the security that my father enforces once again as an airport employee. For changing the way of life by force and fear, rather than through learning and evolving. For creating such a deep sadness and tragedy into millions of lives.

But I always know that ultimately, it was a day where the hug was never tighter and the "i love you"s never meant more when my dad walked through the door that afternoon.  And that, too, is something I will never forget.

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[via]

I often wonder what I did to him. What his side of the story was.

I know my side. I relive it often, much more than I want to admit.

But I wonder what I put him through.

Did I make him doubt their relationship? Did I plant a seed of doubt in his head? Her head?

Did it make him feel guilty? Was I an unwanted thought? Am I the person he always tried to get out of his head? Was I the bad dream that haunted him at night?

I wonder what he did with that birthday card I sent him. I wonder how he felt when he received it: was he happy? Did it make him sad? Smile? Was it another weight added to his heart? Did he read it often? Or did he throw it away, no reason to hold onto deadweight? Did he tell his girlfriend about it?

Was I just some silly girl to him, clinging to a person he never was? Was I temptation? Was I another lifeline?  Was I a passing thought?

Late at night, sleeping in the barracks, in the tent, as he and his unit moved from one camp to another...did he think of me?

Did he ever think of me?

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It's all coming back to me now.

(image via weheartit.com)

One of the main reasons I decided to go into journalism (if we can really call me "in" it) is because I love people.  I love everything about humanity: our interactions, our feeling, our secrets, our thoughts, our stories.  There's almost nothing I'd rather do than sit down with someone, anyone in the entire world, and just talk.  There's an exhilaration when you see someone, when you talk to them and find out what has made them who they are and who they think they are.

Since I was 7 years old, I've just wanted to know about everyone.  Yeah, it's a bit nosy, but I just want to find out everything about everyone.  It's utterly amazing how different every single person is.  You can walk right by someone, and never know that he saved a woman's life two years ago.  Or that woman you just bumped into was her high school's prom queen.  Or that the man walking in front of you served four terms in Iraq.  Or that the little child you see in the stroller almost didn't make it.  Or that respectable librarian you just checked out a book from goes home and gets high every night.  Or that the woman holding that little boy's hand is his adoptive mother.  Every little thing in a person's life has altered his or her course somehow, and it's such a thrill to discover these things.

For a long time, I haven't had that desire to know anymore.  I don't know why, but at the end of college, that want for stories faded.  I don't think it was necessarily lost, but it certainly was not there for me.  My love for writing remained, but my spark of intrigue couldn't find its light.  I was really sad for awhile, and there were even a couple months I was desperate to have it back.  I did a lot of things: went out with friends, people watched, sat in a park, viewed films, listened to music--I was searching for anything to relight that fire.  And I never found it.

I went to the laundromat with my mom today.  We have a washer and dryer, but they're not big enough to wash bed comforters (for the last 6 years I haven't had a comforter on my bed.  I currently sleep with a top sheet and five blankets.  Really.) so we had to go find the industrial size ones.

Being in that Coin Laundry today reignited something.  While waiting for three comforters to finish up, I started looking around and focusing on the people around me.  Coin Laundries have never had the best reputation, because people think that if you don't have a washer/dryer unit, you either a) can't afford one, or b) don't live in a place that provides them or offers the service.  Plus, I have to admit, some shady people do hang around them.  But...I know that to be wrong, because here my family is, with our own but one that's not industrial size to hold a Queen comforter.  What about the others?

A family, young parents with a son, probably 7 or 8 years old...I don't remember much of the kid except his lips were really blue because of a lollipop he was eating.  Perhaps a struggling family?  I thought so too until I saw the countless numbers of expensive clothing they were pulling from the machines.  And then they packed it all away into an Escalade with tricked out rims.  Maybe not a struggling family, but one that puts its priorities into...different ones than mine.  Maybe they, like me, have their own machines but they don't work right now.  If so, it must happen a lot because they knew their way around the laundromat and how to work the machines without reading any of the directions or procedures.  Who really knows?

There were two small filipinos, a husband and a wife (if you saw the way they worked together, you would know, too).  They also knew the machines, but I got the distinct feeling they were there because they had just gotten back from a vacation and had so many clothes to wash.  Something about the fact they had seven Ikea bags bulging with clothes, all of which were shorts and tanks.

And the one that struck me most was a very nondescript man who entered with a singular laundry bag.  He was quiet, walked behind most people, quietly loaded his wet clothes into a dryer, and left again.  He wore a plain flannel shirt, plain jeans, nondescript Nikes, a hat over his head.  Older, probably mid-40s or 50s.  And I have to say, I didn't really notice him that much--but what got me was his laundry.  As he'd loaded the dryers directly underneath the ones we were occupying, I started watching his clothes tumble. It was only his, so of course I wondered: is he married?  Is he divorced?  Never married?  Widower?  And then I saw two flannel shirts, two pairs of jeans, a t-shirt.  Where are work clothes?  Are those his work clothes?  What does he do?  Maybe he dry cleans them?  Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to ask this man about his life and find out his story.  Why is he here on a sunday night by himself with only his own clothes--and very few, at that?  I want to know.

I found a little bit of me again today.  And it's so nice to have it back.

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