And I realized, that between the words, so hard-won and tenacious, there’s so much she doesn’t know about me.
How I love Ben Folds and will.i.am.
She doesn’t know that my first kiss was in a Toyota truck, or that I once cried in front of a class of seventh graders when teaching the last paragraphs of Of Mice and Men.
I’ve been published.
When people ask me how I like my coffee, I almost always say, “Black. Like my men.”
She doesn’t know about summers in Arizona pools, my toes pruned and my shoulders peeling. How grapes tasted like frozen sunshine.
My maiden name.
She knows none of these things, and I wish sometimes for a full hour of perfect comprehension.
We communicate, and smile over our glasses because we’re curious, and kind, and willing to be patient.
But there’s so much about her that I don’t understand. And so much about me that’s hazy, ethereal, unknown.
It’s strange that I feel so close to her; it’s strange that we’re crafting this odd little friendship.
It’s the purest bit of grace in my life right now.
I have so few words. But she hears these ones every time I kiss her goodbye: Gracias, amiga. Gracias.