The Attic: Posts from Seba’s original WordPress blog
It would be much easier if I were made of something else, something more sensible and human. Most of the time, I do not enjoy being here. There is too much pain and carelessness and self-indulgence and all of it cuts and beats and blocks the sun too often. But then again, once is too much, isn’t it?
Picture me, drinking my morning coffee on the day that same-sex marriage became legal in Alabama, stumbling onto this article while searching for the original video of Hozier’s song. At first, I was intrigued. It didn’t hurt that he wrote brilliantly. What really irks me? He’s wrong. Plain and simple. Let’s break this down a bit.
I fell in love with Auburn University while she was still alive. For this, I am so grateful. I remember her, rocking back and forth on the porch and chewing her nails, trying to grasp the difference between being a doctor and holding a doctorate. Not that it made any nevermind to her: I had made it. But here I am. Without her. Struggling to stand again.
I don’t know how old I was when magic tripped across symbols upon a page and flipped in the air to land in my heart. I do know that it made me hungry for something my birth had forgotten and that I felt certain that the moment was somehow a tragedy, as if I had found a hole that would never be full. I was right.
Leave it to me to get exactly what I asked for . . . and then be confounded by the answer. How long had I whined: I don’t want to teach anymore . . . I want to stay home and grow things and write things and cook things. Long enough that the echo of it is still haunting me. And: I cast for it.
And then . . . it was spring again. Funny how it always seems to be so far away. This year, I was convinced that it had taken the last train to Georgia, then hopped a boat to Jamaica. I reckon most of us magical folk knew something was beginning. As always, beginnings are the harder part for me–mostly on account of they always ensure endings.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I’ve blogged about this before, but today: I feel my friend standing behind me. Skinny. Blond. Troubled. Bullied. And now, gone. But I feel him, and I remember the first time I stood up for someone. It wouldn’t be the last.
Y’all, I wanted to write about my new Czech peppers. Or my impending granddaughter. Or anything, other than this. But: I am done.
I’ve always known I had no choice about one thing in my life. While others mitigate, ruminate and speculate I burn. An Aries according to Greek astrology, the rare Fire Horse according to Chinese theology, I am fire. Period, end of story. And I, according to legend, am cursed.
I remember the first time I saw my daughter’s face. I remember that season of my life. The sterile smell of a cheap hospital room, the glow from hospital-grade night lights, the hum of machinery running along the wire. And in that world, two liquid brown eyes. We were all alone. Nothing but my two boys ever came that close again to living; nothing ever will.