Rows

My birthday started in bed. Morning kisses and a perfectly blended cup of hot coffee from my best friend, one crumbly doughnut with rainbow sprinkles – because even Shaun knows that when it comes to unhealthy breakfast foods, my taste buds never evolved past age five – and endless, slobbery licks from my howling, tail wagging boys. After a night out playing pinball to whiskey and live music, I wouldn’t wake up to my twenty eighth year any other way.

And still I lay there in that realm of not-quite-awake, wedged between Marley and Ryder – my head tucked in the crook of Shaun’s arm, fighting to hold onto that singular thought. To really feel it. Before the inevitable shit crawled out of my head and crowded into bed with us like every other year.

I know I make it difficult on him. That the biggest driving force in his life is the will to make mine what I’ve always thought it should be, in all its undefinable glory and despite my Tetris-like cynicism. And I hate disappointing him. But I’m trying – I really am. True, my mind has this way of zeroing out every accomplishment while stacking up my many faults, countless missteps, every wrong turn – such bright colors and odd shapes…. But I know I haven’t really done as poorly as I think I have. I do. Promise. And having him here with me after all these years proves at least that much.

(Maybe I should throw him a party, instead…)

We ended up at this Irish pub in Orange County that I’ve wanted to go to since turning 21 in college. Played pool with some friends. Toasted Long Islands before moving on to well whiskey and coke for me and a few hits of the green stuff for my friends. Danced a little, though we were the only ones, and cracked jokes about the bar sign advertising wedding chapel services offered via my undergrad alma mater. My eye caught Shaun’s amidst all the laughter; he didn’t have to say anything for me to know he was thinking the same thing… maybe we’ll be back. And as Roy pulled off a bank shot that sent the eight ball spiraling into a corner pocket, I closed my eyes and thought… feel this erin…

When I opened them again we were in Lakewood – sucking down three cheese ravioli at our old favorite Italian restaurant, stuffing our liquor filled bellies even more full of toasted garlic bread and minestrone soup. The boys snuck in a round of chocolate brownie cake for the birthday twins, which proved to be so insanely delicious I swore to hell with my chocolate allergy and dug in again and again. It’s like magic, you know – the way cheese and gooey chocolate really do help to smush back together the pieces when they’ve fallen apart. So when Shaun leaned over in the booth to softly brush a kiss across that ticklish spot just below my ear, I thought, feel this too… don’t forget this one…

A breath later and we were at Signal Hill, Shaun leading me by the hand higher and higher atop the uppermost peak in Long Beach, the earth black as pitch but for the millions of twinkling city lights blanketing out before us. The City of Angels to my right and Catalina Island floating before me, it was the closest I’ve ever come to a lightening bug night sky.

It was eight years ago he took me to this same place and promised forever. A silver ring with tiny diamonds that took him two paychecks from the grocery store to buy. And that feeling in my stomach and on my face – I still remember… still feel it –

And felt it still then, looking over a brick wall that kept us from toppling over the ends of the earth in San Pedro – where I could hear the ocean thrashing against the sharp edges of vertical rocks but couldnt’t for the life of me see it.

A velvet expanse of a million somethings hidden in midnight oceanic nothingness.

I took a deep breath on the edge of this crazy cliff – felt the stinging spray of the Pacific and sank into the closing breaths of summer nights. Standing flat footed where things simultaneously end and begin.

This is it, I thought, I remember this –  what it feels like to collide…

My twenty eighth birthday ended then, my hand in his, standing in front of the magestic Point Fermin Lighthouse. An historic piece of art once slated for demolition… only to be restored and, eventually, cherished and protected.

What if feeling doesn’t work? I asked.

What if.

But now, what if it does?

At twenty eight, I’m still working on restoring that part of me. Filling in the gaps in that eight bit line. And even if I have to consciously remind myself to feel these things – Irish pubs, three cheese ravioli kisses, electric lightening bugs on hilltops, and the coming together of worlds – I know that, for now at least, if I work hard enough, I still do.

And even in my world, that’s got to count for something.