here comes the storm

The Man of the Year has made bold moves in my direction. He has gone out of town for the "holladays" and has not only responded to my texts in kind, but has also emailed me. He asked for my email some days ago; I presumed in an attempt to locate my myspace page. He has filled out an address entry in his email for "Christena Coffegirl." What infatuation I once held has become full-on fervor. His email contained the most personal and confidential information, the sort that one might share with a close friend. And yet, he shared it with me, the coffeegirl.

And now, I shiver and tremble, waiting in my spot, biding my time, wondering how it will go, and if this means anything, if this means we are having a relationship, if this means we will actually spend time in each others' vicinities without a countertop between us.

I feel I cannot force the issue. I fear I will cause whatever this is (progress?) to take a turn for the worst. I am terrified. I want to grab him and kiss him. I want to run away and hide. It is the oddest feeling. I want to ask him out for new year's eve, but I feel I must let him do the next step. I wonder how the time passes until it simply does, and I find myself in bed unable to sleep for the giddy thrill that races through me each time my mind skips across his name, or replays his last great laugh, or sees again that infamous wink (and it's companion, the once mentioned, dulcet stuffed, "Hey, peaches").

And it is Christmas. And he is somewhere thinking of me. He is somewhere far away and his mind is fingering the dark curls of my ponytail, the freckles on my skin, the easy conversations we've shared.

This has been the most unusual of holidays. I have spent my morning audibly tickled by my father, and my evening languishing in conversation with my mother.

I spent the time in between with Marilyn, whose gifts for me were far more sophisticated than I can hardly understand, yet they suit me perfectly. Her presence in my life has been steady and kind, and I have felt us growing closer, almost like two indistinct entities who have always been this way and none other, and we have a deep understanding of each other. She is my best friend. I feel completely known by her, and it is pleasant to spend time with her. Her ways amuse me, and she feels loved. She says, "It would be nice to drink some champagne!" and then a laugh, "Too bad I drank it all!" I surprise her with hysterical laughter that bubbles from the core of my being, for she is something else, and I know her all too well.

For one of my friends, my Christmas text to her was all too precise, and she called me with tears in her voice, and her heart in her throat, and I forgot the weeks since we'd seen each other last, and we melted into sorrow together.

I spent time with my family, and it was hectic. We are growing. There are more of us. They are small, and wanting for attention. And my smile grows wide when they are around.

Sitting on the front steps with her in my lap, her laughter wrapping around us, her beautiful dress billowing over my legs, her tickle spots unearthed, her sadness pushed away just for me, I asked, "Should I have Grandma take a picture of us together?" She shook her head no. I could see the pleading in her eyes. And like the other times we've spent together, we don't need words to communicate, I know her and she knows me, and we are one and the same, and we are beautiful together and there is nothing that is necessary when we are together and she wants nothing more than that moment to belong only to us; to have grandmothers coming over to take pictures would spoil the entire thing. So I persist in tickling her and she throws her head back and laughs and exposes her neck, the most ticklish area of them all, and I love her. Right then, I love her more than I've ever loved anyone in my life.

They leave in a flurry and we are alone again. We are back to our small bunch. We are shiftless and restless together. We have no reason to be together. We don't match anymore. I feel this most with my brother, whose reason for living is muddled by the realities of the world and its unfairness, and its lack of maps for some of us, and its oversight of him and his way in the world. Who is he supposed to be? When is he supposed to be? And he falls asleep, drifting into a world that makes the time pass and doesn't ask anything of him.

While he tosses and turns on the couch, my mother and I speak easily together, and the words follow the cigarette smoke between us, and I feel like crying when I tell her all of my hopes and dreams for the next year, which I have declared will be the best of my life until another comes later on to surpass it. I tell her, it is the year I will get married, it is the year I will join a master's program, it is the year I will travel abroad again (and we shall do this together), it is the year when my life will truly become solidified, and she will be with me, either vicariously or by my side, and it will be the best year of her life also; perhaps.

And we talk about the men I have loved and how great they were. She loved them too, in her own way. Her face is paralyzed by tears when we speak of them and their successes. Her face is frozen by pain when we consider why the last one had gone so badly and ignored the invitation to join us at Thanksgiving, because not only would it have been nice for him to be there, but his absence was a slap in my face and she felt it in hers as well.

And for the first time in a long time, I will spend my holidays alone in my big bed, which is perfect for me now. I look forward to tomorrow. A morning with little Nina, whose face delights in my presence, whose spontaneous laughter is part of a game we used to play and I know that no matter who I have been in my life, good or bad, it is always about who I will be, and she knows that I will be wondrous and kind and beautiful for her.

In the evening I will celebrate the thirtieth birthday of my new, great friend, Annie, who is responsible for loaning me the phrase salt-of-the-earth, and whose listening of me is far beyond anything I could have mustered for myself. I am included among her small list of friends she wishes to spend her birthday with, and I feel honored by her invitation.

I am surrounding myself with only goodness, only kindness, the things I want to see reflecting back at me in the mirror, and I feel them emanating from me, I feel their desire to be a part of me, and in my own small way, I know I created the depth that runs underneath the profound love I share with others. And I love them more than they will ever know.