from the archives — 11.3.2021

once upon a time, my grandmother picked me up from school in a freshly washed white car, ready to try on homecoming dresses. before alzheimer's disease and covid-19, there were passenger seat drives with her at the wheel and days spent running errands. sweet curtains of tulle and lace; strappy heels and a slip to match, pearl earrings and pit stops for pizza and ice cream. we take our seats by the window and it's nanny across the table, so the words fall effortlessly from my lips. before there was jake scott and his heart songs, there was the best day by taylor swift and the two of us living it together.

another year older and it's gone again, each day spinning into the next. years pass before my bleary eyes and i am losing track of the colors. five years to the day my brother barely graduates with his english degree, i vow to never send him a word of my writing. he's too sharp. too succinct. a master of words, cursed with the mind of hemingway and all too familiar with the burden. son of the father sees the world through the lens of a patriarch; spins an ode to pain and privilege with broken windows and smashed doors. the daughter of the mother uses language the way they were taught: boldly, assertively, and with reckless passion. she sees the world in lavender swirls of idealism; dancing through the excess like an imported french queen. late stage friendship between the children of siblings like our parents is unlikely, but we were never the ones who raised us. 

triple sec chases tequila until the night takes off with them, chasing anything that isn't the wasted potential on sharp breath.