quiet hallelujahs

i made avocado gazpacho last night, and thought of you. pieces of green bell pepper, cucumber, avocado, and tomato. my mother taught me how to peel tomatoes- boil water, and drop the tomato in, just for a few seconds. when you pull it out, the skin comes off easily. i haven’t heard my mother’s voice in over a week- this has happened before and will happen again. sometimes she is too busy for me. sometimes there is little space in her life for my questions and needs. i’ve gotten used to this, i’m twenty, i’ve learned to not need her so much.

but this is about you, the end of summer and the beginning of fall. i used to make you dinner. you liked me more than i could let myself like you. my heart was still somewhere else, and i’m sorry about that, but. i just wanted you to know, last night, i was thinking about you. there was a long walk and a slow kiss. you got off work at three am, and we would go to the grocery store. the next day, while you were at work, i would make you dinner.

i met some incredible people at a time when my heart wasn’t available. this is life. i met someone incredible when my heart was just becoming available, and he claimed it. this is life. this is good.

i have an interview at my first-choice culinary school tomorrow. it’s a mutual interview, in a way- he said we’ll see if i would fit the program, and if the program would fit me. i would start in april. we spoke on the phone for a good fifteen minutes, and he said he liked how i sounded. like i had promise.

i’ve been saying things that need to be said, lately. i love yous and apologies and thanks, to the people they belong to. it feels right. i said, i love you you know that, and she said, i know i love you too. i said, thank you for june and july and august, for being an incredible friend above everything else. i don’t know how you did it. i said, i’m sorry you got caught in the middle. i’m sorry for any hurt i caused. — and i meant it, meant all of these, meant more that i’m not even telling you.

i have been dreaming of another weekend in los angeles. i have a stack of small red envelopes with colorful pictures, and they seem the perfect size for poems. i bought them in chinatown. i like to look at the pictures we took of the sunset from the santa monica pier. four hours isn’t such a long drive for a fortyeight hour escape.

dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

ps. about bread– i do use enough yeast, i do give it sufficient time to rise and in a warm enough place, and the yeast is not old. also, i properly dissolve the yeast, and i don’t use enough sugar to retard the rising. i’m not unfamiliar with the process; my mother has made bread all my life. i am beginning to suspect it is a sign from god, and after a few more lumps of dough that could’ve been beautiful, beautiful loaves of cinnamon raisin bread, i may give in and beg for a bread-maker.