Experience is Expensive.

Selected Memories:
 

Strolling down the street, barefoot, with our pride tied to the tips of our hair; selling candy on the corner street. Overpriced, lafy tafys and melted chocolate Kit-Kats. We didn't make much money, and I swear it was more for my mom to have the kids out of the house than for us to learn what it’s like “earning a living.” I never took that seriously though. I knew my dad sat in an office, next to a grey copy machine. The fan and air conditioning blowing his eyes dry. Dazed from computer screens and scenes of office meetings. I didn't understand how sitting in a wheely chair at a desk was earning a “living.” I still would much rather sit outside, with the sun burning freckles to my shoulders, selling candy than sit in an office with the door shut. Fingers typing typing typing. I earned my living by breaking the neighborhood record for the longest time anyone could hang upside down. I earned my living by planting flowers in my window. I earned my living the way I wanted to live. 

***

Sitting in the back of the car, hands white and feet folded two times over. You had the guitar in your lap, strumming the same chord on repeat; while I breathed automatically. I had an aching sadness in my being that night. I was reverent and reasonable. You played me magic and hope between the strings of your guitar. We almost kissed that night. You said you wanted to. I said it was a bad idea. You were honest.

***

Driving too fast, blasting Taylor Swift and screaming lyrics straight out of our hearts.  Out looking the city and the colors. I saw it all in your eyes. Roof climbing and park swinging. We were reckless and young. We had wood chips jammed between our toes and grass in our hair. We climbed everything taller than us. We let our spirits fly high that night. It was my birthday and we all screamed when it was midnight. I was an adult but have never acted so childlike. 

***

I find love in the image of my dad hunched over our kitchen table. His white Sunday shirt on, un-buttoned at the sleeves, recklessly rolled up. His feet one place over the other.  His wire framed glass sitting at the edge of his nose, dancing with gravity. He's dipping his carrots in a little blue plastic bowl; that's meant for infants who are learning about the American romance with food. He's 42, with twin two year old boys. He's still learning what it means to be a father and I'm still learning what it means to be his daughter. 

***

This is me.
I'm a romantic.
I'm a realist.
I'm an extremist.
I'm lost and tired of high school.
I'm home sick. 

I'm happy to be alive.
I'm a lot more.
I'm a lot less.



Thanks for listening.


-Sarah Thueson 

xoxo