For the first time in many years, I can feel everything beginning to resurface out of me, like the invincible summer I always secretly prayed was there. I knew that there was always some remainder of the girl hiding inside of me - the one that laughed a lot, listened to music, and took photographs. Who would stand outside on the beach and could feel anything from a breeze to the Oversoul rippling through her.
As Dane packed the rest of his things and I watched him load his truck from my bedroom windows, I knew it was the last time I would see him that way. His face was harsh with pain and I wanted to cry out and scream to him through the glass not to go. But I steeled myself and let him drive away because I know now that everything will be better.
Yesterday, I left school early and came home and vomited for hours. Truly, every last ounce of bile and pain and negativity left me and instead of feeling sick and empty when I finally left the bathroom, I emerged a clean slate, ready to rewind my soul to a better place almost three years ago. Around two in the afternoon, with the sun filtering through my windows, Ian roused me from a dozing haze and we spent the afternoon tripping around Tacoma in short sleeves and sunglasses, drinking coffee and orange juice. We talked about coffee, city streets, and Ryan Adams as if we were experts and as we cruised down to Ruston with our windows open, I remembered what bliss feels like inside. I also scored an original Ian McFeron and the Band t-shirt and 2400 Love Me Blue coffee sleeves.
My craving for orange juice persisted after Ian left me back at my house and headed back to Seattle. I drank another glass in the kitchen as I heated the oven and then threw some tofu in the oven to bake for an hour with an orange juice and soy sauce marinade. The night concluded with a surprise Popsicle visit from Erin and an early bedtime. I went immediately for a tangerine popsicle. Followed by more orange juice. Orange juice, for some reason, always reminds me of Joe. Maybe it was the random nights spent on the island and how he would always be drinking juice in the middle of the night and then climbing back into bed, unknowingly bringing the cold of the refrigerator with him.
Come to think of it, there are so many memories of Joe that come with food, whether it be that same old middle-of-the-night-orange-juice, spontaneous runs to taco bell, sushi that manages to be delicate and vulgar at the same time, or random calm evenings of the Best Salad Ever or frozen pizzas. Or meeting for dinner, talking over Thai food downtown. In so many ways, we have built our friendship around food, which is maybe why I feel so empty not having cooked for him. So many meals made for Dane, the boys, Jacque, Ian, Melissa, Rachael, yet Joe remains elusive from my dining room table. No bottles of wine poured by roast chickens, no loaves of bread or pies made to counteract my Sunday afternoon kitchen cravings ever hit Joe's plate. No simple bowls of noodles or lamb sauteed in honey and soy sauce, which may just be why Joe and I have managed to drift so far from where we were, there is no kitchen time to ground us.
So why is that when I hear the click of the stove, I can feel him shifting his weight behind me as the blue flames shoot up under burners and olive oil hits the pan?
