We were talking about being far away. How I have lamented being the only one in the family west of the Mississippi. How I felt completely removed from them all, removed from all that coming and going and the closeness that characterized the family of my youth. How my brother and aunts and cousins and grandparents evolved new relationships as time went on but mine felt frozen in the 1970s.
“But here’s the thing,” she said. “In many ways, we know more about you than about each other.”
(Because of this, she meant. Because of the many words posted online over the years.)
I smiled.
I smiled, because of course these words are not me, not even close. The sun, the blue sky, the smell of Agarita blossoms on the wind, or Irises and Spiderworts standing tall, or wild, yellow Daisies, or wild pink Primroses. They’re nice, and all that, but what about the other side? There is another side. … So I smiled.
“There’s so much I don’t write,” I said.
What about the feeling of time lost over those years when I was commuting long distances? What about the cancellation of programs that I had stacked my adult life on? What about the anxiety of being a new architect on a project who is constantly out of sight and out of mind? What about quitting your job in your fifties and starting at a new place back at the starting line? What about the question I was asked, “So what did you do in your last job?” when it became apparent to that person that I wasn’t a database wiz. Or similar questions when I struggled with new development tools? Or the dark, nagging thoughts that woke me in the middle of the night making me sit up with hot sweats and a deep rush of anxiety attacks? What about…
“There’s a lot I won’t write about,” I said.
… um, except that now I kinda have and now they kinda do.
Nevertheless, caveat lector.