Carissa's Corner

 I spent a couple hours giving my friend advice the other night.  My boyfriend said that I'm a good friend because I'm always fixing other people's problems even when I have my own going on. I said, "I like fixing other people's stuff because there's no way to fix my own." And I feel like that's really sad

Does anyone else notice something seemingly insignificant and wonder the backstory behind it? I was driving home from the gym a few days ago and noticed a red, partially deflated balloon in the street. I drove around it and watched in my rearview mirror as it floated to a new spot, displaced by the air from my car.  I wondered if the balloon was from a kid's birthday party, and if so, if the child was sad that the balloon flew away. I wondered if the balloon was from a retirement party, and if so, if the person was happy to retire or if they were going to miss the regularity and stability of an occupation. I wondered if the balloon wasn't blown for a celebration at all, and if so, why was it blown? I do this everywhere. In grocery store checkout lines, customers leave items they changed their mind about. Planners. Did they find a different one, or did they decide they wanted to live without a plan? Cookies. Are they watching their weight? Did their child pick them up when they ...

I made a new friend at work the other day. He told me he always wanted to talk to me, but that I always seemed so shy.  You wouldn't know this, but I study during every break I have while I'm at work. It's my own fault - I started studying the muscles way too late in the summer & grad school will not be happy with me. Anyways! The point is, I don't really talk to anyone or say anything.  I knew I was quiet at work, but his word choice of shy made me think about the difference between being quiet and being shy.  Also... I like being the quiet one because you learn more. About people's opinions, about social hierarchies, about who loves who, about everything. 

When my stomach is in knots, you take the time to investigate it. it looks like it's...     Right over left.               Through the center.                         Left over right. When my stomach is in knots, you grab both ends of the thread gently.  I think I can...     Left over right.             Through the center.                     Right over left. And then the thread is just thread. And you are you. 

I'll remember this. We're on the train and my head is in your lap. I look up at you. Your eyes are following the buildings outside, the buildings hidden by the shadows of the night sky.  You look down at me. I'm not sure if you're smiling because your face is covered. But then your hand is in my hair and it suddenly doesn't matter. I take your other hand. I hold it up against the palm of mine.  I'll remember this.

My dad grew up in Hunterdon County, New Jersey, and will never leave. He always smells like Marlboros and wears flannels with holes in the sleeves. He has a fuzzy mustache and a bald spot on his head, hidden by Nascar racing hats. He spends most of his time in the garage working on his race cars. A retired race car driver turned mailman. When we were young, he loved to come to our sports games and scream from the stands. I remember him as tired but content. A great dad. My mom could not be more different. It's as if God wrote down every characteristic of my father and Googled the antonym. Nevertheless, she was also a great mom. With the energy of a teenager, she was prone to spontaneity and adventure. Always laughing, always dancing. She liked to come home with random pets that we never asked for, like birds and bearded dragons. A great mom.

I grew up in a household where we fashioned our own mouse traps that wouldn't kill the poor little things. I am home this weekend and they've done it again. Two mice captured trying to survive the cold winter in our basement. An old fish tank made into a home, old hay as a blanket. Just until the winter ends. 

I know I'm getting older because I like the taste of wine now. It doesn't taste as bitter as it used to; actually, it tastes pretty sweet. Maybe all things bitter taste sweet the older you get. 

I was driving back to my dorm last night around 11:30pm and I turned on the radio. The station was doing a segment called "I'm Sorry." People would send in recordings apologizing for something and the station would select a few to play on the radio. The last person said, "I'm sorry Cole. I should have told you I loved you before you left for work 30 years ago. And my answer is yes, I will marry you. I still love you." 

My lungs feel as if they're lemons being squeezed. Breathe, breathe, breathe. The hill is steep, but we are almost at the top. My hand wraps around a thin tree and I propel myself forward. I can feel the pebbles of the path getting stuck into the bottom of my sneakers. Sweat is dripping down my back from the heat and extensive climb. I look up and see the setting sun peeking through the branches and leaves of the forest.  As I get to the top of the hill, the landscape clears. I search for the one clearing that I know like the back of my hand and find the ginormous boulder wedged into the side of the mountain. I step onto it and sit. The Delaware River stretches out in front of me like a snake. The sun reflects onto the water like an oil painting. Red, orange, yellow, blue, blending to create a scene that feels unreal to me. To me, home is not the little ranch house on Brook Road. Home is right here.