happiest places
My happy place is driving in my car. Ellery, my sister, is there, of course. Windows down, summer breeze, a hot coffee, and cold smoothie resting in the cupholders. She plays the best music, even when I tell her it’s the worst. We sit and yell at the top of our lungs. Fergie, Lizzo, Eminem, Queen- anything and everything. The world is a more beautiful place on those days. Our eyes connect in laughter, sometimes- and it shows me that everything is going to be alright. I hold my coffee in one hand, our makeshift microphone in the other- I steer with my knees down Red Arrow Highway, I gloss over abrupt potholes and look for the ancient cop car that hides behind bramble and brush down the road ahead of us. She records videos that we never watch later, for fear they won’t be as beautiful as the moments in which we lived them. We would be right. Sometimes if our emotions are too high, she will turn down the song, it’s how I know she needs to talk. I listen to her. She tells me about how she hurts for Mario, about how she misses the love and consistency we used to have as a family, how things hurt her a lot more sharply, lately. I squeeze her hand and take my eyes off of the wheel, I tell her how strong she is, how special, how she is going to take over this world with her eyes wide open. I want to say more. I want to say she deserves better than what she has been given, I want to say there is no universe in hell where she should be disregarded and treated the way she is, but I don’t want her to get an idea that she’s missing out on something, because what she is missing we already had. The morning family breakfasts, the annoying brother that always put too much syrup on his pancakes and the older sister with too much makeup and a cold heart. She has so much love, even if I am just a person- the love that I have for her resides in the sky and the breeze and her own beautiful smile. This is my happy place. We cry and storm through our worst problems, we spill tea to each other and dance within the frame of our seatbelts and on very, very rare occasions we cry. We spill ideas and memories that sometimes jolt me, sometimes I have to ask her to wait for us to talk about some things, some things are still just too painful. These instances don’t occur as often, anymore. I listen to her stories of mean middle schoolers and vow to her I will run them all over with my car, I make her laugh. I tell her stories of my shitty ex-boyfriend and my crazy friends and funny things I do when I’m high, I make her laugh. She makes me laugh just as much. Her soul has been aged, it is translucent and caring and lovely. I tell her this and she shrugs. Trauma doesn’t give you much of a choice when it comes to personality traits. We speak good thoughts into existence. I tell her things I am excited for and so does she- I talk to her about trips I want to take her on and places I want to go. I tell her stories of when our parents used to be different people, and sometimes her eyes grow wide at the stories I tell her, sometimes they remain as they were. Sometimes I listen to her rap or sing and I look out the window- out at the glossy green of trees speeding passed our car and I think about Mario, our dead father, I think about how easily he could be in the backseat with us, watching her sing, watching us laugh, watching us cry-I think about how I want to cry with him. I think about how I want to hold his hands in my own and hug him and Ellery and I want us to all cry. I want to yell my apologies to him until my voice stops working, I want to tell him all of the things that have been happening and I want him to help me make sense of it all because he’s the only one that would make sense to me, most of the time. My happy place is here.
