Twenty Years Ago Today
March
Twenty years ago today, I was still living in the Before and I had no idea. If you would have asked me, I was just living. L-I-V-I-N. Because there is no Before without the After. The time Before the After is just time. Time to do whatever you want. Time to float in your oblivion. In your sweet ignorance. Galinda’s bubble unpopped. A golden sheen that inevitably sets with the sun.
Did I recognize the exquisite openness of the moment?
That moment, twenty years ago today, when everything was about to happen. When the wait for my life to begin was almost over, and I was about to be set loose in the world. When I got my first acceptance letter from one of the grad schools I had applied to, right on the heels of the first rejection letter that had sent me down a spiral of panic and tears, convinced I would be slinging tacos forever.
That moment the second letter came, when I was still living at home, and my mom was at the grocery store with my little sister, who was still a sophomore in high school. They had left me crying about the first letter and the tragedy of my epic failure, but then the mailman came and delivered my redemption. I read it over and over again until I heard the garage door open, and I ran to meet my mom and sister in the carport, waiting for them as they opened their doors, clutching my vindication, tears streaming down my face out of pure relief that my future hadn’t abandoned me. That it was all about to happen. My mom looked alarmed until I screamed, I MIGHT BE MOVING TO MIAMI, BITCHES. That moment when we all hugged, and I felt the possibilities of my future unfurling in front of me. Limitless options. Millions of pathways. My mom and my sister under each arm.
Did I allow time to stop and swirl around us and imprint us there together forever?
When I went to work and there was a lull in tables, so I wandered into the kitchen and made a bean taco to snack on. And then another server, Leo, came in and started rapping in Spanish about the monotony of our days, and I joined in as best I could. A rap duo—Ja-Leo-peño and Queso Blanco, me being the white cheese for obvious reasons. We would hold rap sessions in the kitchen, in between tables, running in and out with trays of margaritas and steaming fajitas. Every time we came back in, INTRODUCIIIIIIIIIING QUESO BLANCO Y JALEOPEÑO!!!! Hands cupping mouths, hollering into the bowels of the kitchen. Bellies hurting from beans and laughs.
Did I recognize the exquisite beauty of Queso Blanco?
When I went to Maw Maw and Paw Paw’s for my dad’s birthday lunch, did I swim in the smell of hot oil? Did I surrender to the chaos of my entire family there together under one roof? Did I fight for a scoop of the strawberry when they were dishing out the Neapolitan ice cream? Did I treasure the smell of my grandparents, who are no longer with me in the physical sense? Now, only in bursts of light during the blue hour—my eyes still closed, my consciousness bordering on awake, a slight bodily paralysis and a wave of calm, and I know they’ve come to visit. Did I treasure when they were still here, standing right in front of me, flesh and bone that could hug and pinch?
I hope I did. I hope I treasured it all. The carport. The restaurant kitchen. My grandparents’ house. The golden sheen wore off. It all flooded. It all emptied out. Everyone scattered. Most of us came back, but it was never the same—we were never the same.
Did I ever stop and look around? Did I catch the Japanese Magnolia bloom—the last one in the Before? Did I know how special the moment was? Do we ever know?
If I could go back now to twenty years ago today, I would go starfish facedown in the middle of Claiborne with no suicidal ideation, just a desire to hug and hold the Before. I would will hundreds of tiny suction cups into existence on the underside of my arms, and I would create an unbreakable bond between me and the pavement. And when the water came, I would pull it into my tube feet and use it to propel me forward. I would extend and contract, starfish arm over starfish arm, manipulating flood water pressure to grip and cling, working and moving down Claiborne, over all the abandoned cars on the neutral ground, up Louisiana, and down my stretch of Saint Charles. I would wrap myself around the oak tree in front of Superior Grill and pay homage to the emptied restaurant kitchen. Then I would go down Airline Highway until I reached my mom’s carport. I would time it to get there right as the water breached the door and bear witness to my childhood home’s last stand. Salute with my little starfish arm.
The water would keep coming, and I would keep moving. Extend and grip all the way to my grandparent’s house. Get one last look at the carpet—what color was it again?—before the water swirled in and stayed. Before the neighbors ripped the carpet out and my Paw Paw put down tile all throughout the entire house, saying he’s had it, his feet are still wet from Betsy. Then, I would pluck every Japanese Magnolia bloom off every tree I could find and fill my suction cups with them. I would flip over and float, blooms up, a magnolia water lily in the shape of a star. I would let the water carry me with it—the water would try to be angry, but I would soften it. I would place my blooms atop the rooves of every house I could still see. Every house that was emptied. Every family that was gone. I would christen the end of the Before. And then I would float into the After.
I suppose now I’m living in the Before of another After. Another moment of sweet oblivion. Another epoch of exquisite openness.
Twenty years from now, what will I hope I had done? Appreciate the blue of my house. Sit under my willow tree. Scratch my dog’s belly. Lunch with my parents. A phone call with my nieces. A little perimenopausal strength training session at the gym. Roast potatoes while Facetiming with my sister, who is also roasting potatoes in New York. One more drink in the Quarter. One more sunset at the lakefront. One more walk through City Park.
That is what I’ll do today.
I will stand in front of my Japanese Magnolia. Sink into its last blooms of the year. Take it all in. Accept that I do not know what is to come. Trust that I have everything I need to bear it. Embrace this version of myself who will be gone tomorrow, who gets the gift of today. Put my face up to the sky, eyes closed, wind in my hair, and treasure the scent of jasmine floating by.
