When I was sixteen, I had an awful doctor’s appointment in LA. Just bad in general: running back and forth between buildings, basement complexes, and labs, waiting hours for a doctor to follow up on his interns work. Dashed hopes, bad coffee, and sixteen different tones of white. I felt like a patient in a medical tellanovela.
Instead of taking me straight to the hotel and crashing on fast food and an in-room movie, Mom took me out, knowing exactly what I needed.
First came dinner at a tiny corner Italian place – the best Chicken Diablo and gelato in LA.
This was followed by a walk across the street to my own version of retail therapy – Borders – complete with Seattle’s Best and their fall specials
I spent two hours meandering through three stories of literature, history, philosophy, and poetry while drinking apple cider.
I left with a stack of books.
Today, I was leaning over rotting squash plants covered in the mosquitos from the nest I just crashed when I had the insatiable urge to drink apple cider.
Nostalgia is its own type of drug.
After work, where I wasn’t my typical self, I caved and went straight to our local used book store. As soon as I walked in Chris Botti’s trumpet and Maddy Matilda, the store cat, greeted me.
I realized the best place to be truly alone is in public. Everyone else pretends no one else exists.
My poor mother. Her eldest daughter enjoys cats, jazz, dead writers, and cider… She is never going be able to marry me off even if she gives me two goats and ten chickens as a dowry.