Two Suitcases and a Pocketful of Sunshine

I left Atlanta with two 70-pound suitcases and the key to a locker-sized storage unit filled to the brim with photographs, winter clothes and wine glasses I couldn't bare to part with.

Besides that, I owned nothing. No car, no furniture, no dog. Only a plane ticket to a tropical island on the other side of the world and a key to my own destiny.

For the past few months, I had systematically sold everything I owned. The dresser my grandmother gave me when I got my first unfurnished apartment in college, the baker's rack I had somehow squeezed into my old Saturn and the first car I had actually made payments on.

All of it was secondhand and not worth much to most, but to me, it was a symbol of the life I had built for myself. I could see my independence in that old, beat-up dresser and the comfort of myself in that squeaky mattress.

All of it was hard to part with, in a way. Even though I knew it would be all worth it one day, when I'm laying on the couch watching re-runs of Law & Order with the man I love.

That made it a bit easier. That, and how everyone who bought my stuff on Craigslist seemed to genuinely be excited. Everyone said whatever it was happened to be "just what I was looking for."

There was Bertrand, the French college student who said the 5-shelf corner unit I bought from Wal-Mart so many years ago said was just what he needed. There was Joanne, the Southern belle who was "tickled pink" she had found a baker's rack for her kitchen. And Scott, who needed my end table to furnish he and his wife's first apartment. "Thanks," I remember him saying. "We don't even have anything to sit our coffee cups on in the morning."

I feel blessed to have been a part of those people's lives, even if it was slight. The fact that everyone -- even the 300-pound guy who drove a Miata and bought my old boxing gloves -- actually needed the small things I had to give, made the journey worthwhile.

Now that I am here, looking at the beautiful blue water crashing on the coast outside my bedroom window, it all seems so far away.

I hope my old Corolla isn't giving Jeffrey any problems in that cold weather.

You're Ridiculous.

I lub juice.

You want some milk?

I'd rather have a beer.

Do you want a banana?

Mmm-hmm.

Do you want a banana?

Mmm-hmm.

Here comes the hate mail.

Vat is so offensive about ze holiest geetar in ze vorld?

I wanna kiss you all over.

I'm gonna say it like a man and make you understand. Amanda.

I dub dew.

I'll bring you Mexican. Where's Sombrero's? And who the hell is Josie?

Kiss strange boys in the Gulf of Mexico? OK.

Sweet Caroline. Du, du, duuuu.

Who likes Project Pat?

I forgot the Ramones.

Yeah, yeah.

Penny Marshall lubs you too.

Popeye taught me to eats me spinach.

That's why I'm cock diesel.

How can I be the shiniest girl on the beach?

I love you. See? Nunchuks.

Is that a fish hook?

They're just like me?

I'll sew your holes.

Velveeta Shells.

I like ya. Kinda.

What do I do? Well, I'm unemployed.

Can you pack me in a box?

I'm not punk rock.

Can I wear your smedium?

I need to pack. Aaaaaahhh.

Airborne. Uh!

Your tit's out.

I like Vicky. And she likes me back!

Who the hell likes Tom Green?

Yes, New Kids on the Block is a band.

Eye Heart DaCrust.

Ya breath stinks.

My feet smell.

Sparked. And Strongbowed.

I drove all night to get to you.

LeAnn does not do trailer parks.

Or deep water. There's sharks!

My kinda love. Your kinda love.

Maybe you're not a Yankee.

I got dosed by you.

It's OK. I think we're alone now.

So Play Artist: Tiffany.

How's the Whale's Vagina?

Did you get my e-mail/missed call/Myspace/Facebook message/voicemail/messenger pigeon?

Morning pretty.

Don't tell anyone, but I'm a sports fan.

OH, and I love ya too.

If Dogs Could Talk.

Life would be much more interesting if I knew what certain things were thinking, like for example, dogs. I wish Penny could tell me why she squeals like a pig so much. And why Milk Bones are so good. And why in the world she won't play with tennis balls like all the other dogs.

I wish old homes could talk and tell me about all the families that grew up inside their walls.

I wish baseball fields and football fields could tell me about the best games they've seen and the best plays they've witnessed.

I wish my vintage cowboy boots could tell me whose feet made their home there before mine.

I wish roly-polys could tell me where they came from and how long it actually does take them to cross the street.

I wish birds and dolphins and lions in the zoo could tell me where they've been.

There's probably a reason why they don't. I just haven't figured it out yet.

Back Porches and Kitchen Tables.

I'm thankful for you.

I'm thankful that I can sit in a chair, prop my elbows up and talk about anything and everything with you in the room. I can share my deepest thoughts with people I love, and you won't say a thing. You just sit there and hold me up, without a complaint of how I've gained weight in the winter or I'm too sweaty in the summer.

When I cry, you catch my tears. And when I laugh, the sound bounces off you and hits me in the face. Sometimes I feel like you hold the laughter and the tears with you, like a diary of our family.

You have held some of the best meals I've ever eaten in your hands. And you've seen generation after generation pass through the walls around you. You've been the site of Italian backhands over lasagna, Uno games and Spades and Scrabble. You've seen my grandmother perfect her English with Sunday crossword puzzles. You've watched us open card after card sent to us when people we love have passed. And you've watched birthday cakes pass in front of you without complaining that we never offered you a bite.

You don't even know it, but you're the brother to my favorite back porch.

You're the brother to the back porch that stood in silence while I painstakingly learned the difference between a begonia and a portucala. "A good Southern woman knows her flowers," you heard my grandmother say.

You sat silent while we churned homemade ice cream in the backyard, grilled chicken covered in my grandfather's secret BBQ sauce and shot fireworks into the neighbor's yard on July Fourth. You watched me go to faraway lands that no one else could see, and splash in a plastic pool on hot Georgia afternoons.

When I grew up and moved away, you were there as a haven for my grandmother when she was left alone. And you sat many mornings and many nights with her, while she smoked cigarettes in her favorite swing. You watched as her garden eventually grew again after two years of staying barren, and you watched her face bloom like the yellow tulips by her front gate. You watched her become whole again.

You are as much a part of my family as the members of it. Because you have been there through it all. I hope one day I have a back porch and a kitchen table like you both. That way my family will come to know the meaning of love you have both seen. And I'll be thankful for years to come.

Love.

You feel further away than you've ever felt.

When I look at you sometimes, I don't see the boy with the orange Nehi mustache. I see a stranger. I see someone who cares less about their life than I do.

I shudder to think what you would do left to your own vices. Where you would be without me. Without your family. Without the few positive influences in your life you have left.

I wish you knew how much you meant to me. How much it hurts to think of your betrayal. And how you seem to think of consequences only after you do what reeps them.

I would give my life for you. Literally. I would die for your happiness in a second. A millisecond. Without another thought or another breath or another look at this world. For you, I would do anything. For me? I don't know. I don't know what you would do.

But when you love someone, it doesn't matter what you would get in return. You just surrender all you have for their happiness. I love you like that. I love you in a way most people never feel. I'm thankful, at least, that I can feel what it's like to care about someone that much.

I curse it at the same time. When you love someone so much you would die for them, you walk around in constant pain. You're always worrying about what they're doing. Always thinking about that some one or some thing that can take them away from you.

I wish you could feel that kind of love. Because if you did, somehow, I think you would buck up and start taking care of yourself. Because if you did, you would stop worrying or trying to change your life for you. And you would do it for me. And even though that's not how things are supposed to be, I would accept it. Because then, I know you would be safe.

I don't know the answer for your struggle. But I know one thing -- I want you back.

Girl Missing a Hubcap

Yesterday I needed to run.

It had been an eventful weekend, a roller coaster of emotions, and I wanted to sweat it all out and start fresh. I skipped on kickboxing, like I had planned, and drove straight home.

I left my iPod on the coffee table and set out. With no route.

I've recently discovered running with no music isn't as boring as I first thought. There are no tunes to pass the time, only the rhythm of my own breath. There are no songs to make me forget about my aching calves, only the sound of my keys clinking on the lanyard around my neck.

It's nice like that, in a way. There's nowhere to go but inside my own head. And sometimes, that's just where I need to be.

I made my way to 10th Street, and instead of taking my usual beeline to Piedmont Park, I stayed straight. Left on Monroe, right on some side street, all the way to Virginia Highlands. Just when I debated turning around and forgetting about running to Taco Mac like I had planned, I came up on a green Honda -- missing a hubcap.

My car has been missing a hubcap for three months. It's funny how you tend to notice things more when they relate directly to you. Like, for example, how many cars are missing hubcaps.

I recently broke down and ordered one on eBay, only for another to fall off the next day. I don't know where the hell they keep going, but sometimes, I get embarrassed for other folks to see I'm missing a hubcap -- well, two hubcaps. I wish my faults weren't so out in the open.

But, back to the girl in her green Honda. I slowed my run a bit when I passed her, just so I could listen to her belt out the lyrics to some ridiculous song. She never made eye contact, like most people you come upon who are singing out loud to themselves in their car. But, watching her wait at that red light, for some reason, made me feel better about my missing hubcap. And everything else that's so up in the air about my life right now.

It made me think that maybe sometimes it's OK if I'm missing a little something. Or if I'm unsure about something else. Or if I have no idea where the hell one thing or another is going. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe if I wait a little while, the something missing will be replaced by something else -- like some great song I can sing along to.

I don't know. But, at the time, it helped me forget that sometimes I hate running. And it gave me something to ponder until I finally did get to Taco Mac.

Funny how that happens.

The Nearness of You.

It's been one month and three days since I last saw you. And now, it's only a matter of hours and I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin.

Hurry up already!