The Good Life and Where to Find It

My friends were in a computer screen and my dad let me stay in my room to talk to them, so long as I went to church the next morning. My grandma bought me flip flops and jean shorts and cheap flowered shirts. They talked about how lazy I was. I punched myself in the chest when it all got to be too much.

In my daydreams, I was a child in soldier’s clothes, carried off from my family and martyred in some proxy war. But I was a girl and the Holy Roman Empire didn’t want me. So I tried to get away by chasing boys and going to their basketball games late at night and kissing them when I thought they would like it. They were all lanky and quiet and sad. I was curly haired and a poet and vulnerable, still growing into my shoes. Some boys seemed kind, but their love for me was a riddle or a funny joke because they couldn’t even love themselves. They didn’t know how.

One day at a time, I grew up. School stopped being easy when everything had to be in APA format, and I often wanted to stay in bed and never wake up. Politics and people on the Internet made me angry, and I thought they should be beaten over the head with a Bible. I eventually realized that I was crazy because my family was crazy. At some point, I forgave them. When my dad dug in the garden, I helped him even though I was so tired, just because I hated to see him out there alone.

I slowly quit going to the Internet for advice and started going to sweet old ladies. They told me I knew in my heart what is right, so I said goodbye to an awkward, gifted boy who I adored and would’ve married but who refused to grow up. I went to bed earlier. I tried to listen to my preacher and my professors, even though I still mistrusted them. I stopped hating children and their joy and their innocence.

War is real in many places right now, and while I am safe in my little small town bubble, maybe my brother and his friends will have to answer the call of duty soon. For now, I’m planning my wedding to a blue collar man, writing research papers, and cooking suppers every day. The chickens peck and squawk and make babies out the window in the front yard. I go out and pull up the carrots from last fall and smile into the sunshine, grateful.

Grateful that my heart has been gently bruised to the point of softening. Loneliness will do horrible things to a child, but as an adult, every day I decide to make war with it. Sometimes, I choose to ignore my doubts.

I let my mind be conditioned to believe in the good life. I am so glad I that I did.