Andrew to the Ninth Power

Halloween was the first day it snowed in Chicago and I saw Andrew McMahon for the 9th time in concert. It was, like always, a sturdy, clean set. Some SoCo, some new record, sending us off with the Jack's of pulling friends through. The Vic buzzed. A scarecrow next to me, a deer wandering near the bar, Severus Snape in the back row. Andrew himself was in full astronaut garb. He crowdsurfed his helmet. A Pikachu riffed guitar. The openers ran onto the stage in skin-tight Power Rangers 'tumes.

It was Bisque's first Andrew concert. He arrived right before doors opened toting cups of cocoa for my waiting-in-line fingers. Little stories about the commuting back to Echo Park. Mentions of the recovery, a few old tracks from People and Things, almost forgotten. Of course, "Astronaut"--thanks to attire.

The final finale was "Synesthesia." Our star crouched down to the front rows (where we were) and serenaded us. "So I never made a gold record," he sang. It was true when he recorded that song, but since his 2005 single went gold. I pointed to him and said, "But you do have a gold record!" He nodded and mouthed, "I do!" He joked with the hecklers, jumped off the piano, ended his show early enough for us to wait in coat-check, make the windy walk home, and watch Amityville Horror until we fell asleep. You're a good man, Andrew Mc.

The stars are out tonight,

One million fires burning.

Red Envelopes

So many young men have crumpled

backs from the wind,

clomping through Harvard Square holding

paper-wrapped bouquets.

Bisque points to a guy middle-age

outside the taco shop

penning a card.

"Last minute," he says

because his letter to me (the one with the s'more on it--

'I love you s'more every day')

is in his backpack

sealed, ready

for our date.

On Wednesday he left a vase of roses and

Reese's Cups on my kitchen table.

A tiny potted ivy for Ro. A pink flower for Rora.

Over high-end hazelnut cocoa

we hold hands.

We haven't been all day because there are children

to lasso. But they're all off

in the slushy streets. Doing

their own

stuff.

So we hold hands and we exchange red envelopes

(mine for him, two peanuts hugging)

with messages that sound

the same.

Every day is a better day.

The ultimate Valentine.

Charleston

Dad texted me, "You had anscestors who were on Folly Island during the Civil War." I texted back with a rare three exclamation point response: "We're staying at Folly Beach!!!"

DAD: History repeats itself.
ME: I'm mainly eating brunches.

Cocoa & s'more cake.

Biscuit & grits.

South Carolina is an old place that neither Bisque or I had never been to. It's funny when you travel alone with someone. You sort of are on an island--real or fake, historic or not. You make jokes at the start of the trip about the street sign "Courtenay" and repeat it over and over like a Forrest Gump "Jen-nay!" until it's funny, and it always is, every time. There's a little anthropology needed to unpack the vacation conversations. It all bleeds together. There's no one else.

Angel Oak: biggest oak in da world.

We slipped in an out of Southern accents. We saw Fort Sumter because I am my father's daughter and it didn't seem right to skip it. We looked at canons for half an hour and spent the remainder of the time waiting for the boat on a grassy patch under the confederate flag. I took out the Ziploc of snickerdoodles from Hill. A deer had smelled it in my purse the day before and followed me around the plantation petting zoo. I spent an extra minute admiring the pigs. They deserve life like people deserve life. The slave quarters were white and small. We saw from the nature tram.

Slaves lived here.

Meanwhile, we took happy caramel bites where the war began. "Six hundred thousand people died for this," Bisque said as he chomped again. It was a sunny day.

We had seen it rise. Because I had been up since three anyway. Donned those fleeces and stood with our iPhones bitter and quiet waiting for the star to peek over the water.

Our final afternoon we finally kicked off our shoes to make contact with the ocean. This is Bisque's very first time touching the Atlantic. We stood at the shoreline patiently waiting for the tide.

The mome.

Famous graveyard.

It was both charming and creepy to walk on cobblestones downtown. We started the trip with a ghost tour, so that sets a mood of sorts. We kept passing the Starbucks that was once a gallows. That type of thing. One day it ends. But it doesn't. Roots roots roots.

Blue Bow

The counselor staff gift in 2010 was a stationary set. We--Cocoa, KWall, and I--made them with care using rubber stamps and thick white paper. We stacked the little piles and wrapped them with blue bows.

The staff wore the bows all summer. I liked the robin's egg hue. I liked the length around my braids. I tied it around my pony tail last Monday morning. I was nostalgic for camp. The July dawns on the lake are mimetic of these February desert mornings. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine the view from Council Fire, the lighthouse in the distance, the smell of pine.

I saw bell hooks speak last Monday. (More on that in the future.) I felt rejuvenated after the talk. Ready to move. I hopped on my bicycle and scooted home. It was windy, but I was defiant. I arrived home to a stack of mail. I scurried up to my room, turned on the lamp, pulled up the covers. I reached back to run the bow between the valley of my thumb and pointer.

It was gone. It had flown away in the wind.

Maybe it is in a bird nest, or a river, or stranger's shoelace.