I tuck under the green blanket you bought me in Mexico when we were much younger, when our faces were unlined and our eyes unclouded by what would become our history.
It is here on the couch, toes wiggling free in the fringe at the bottom of the blanket, that I write. Propped up with a pillow behind my back in the red walls of our living room is where I am a writer, where I am the truest value of myself.
It’s where I write about teaching and the untainted faces of my students. It’s where I paint in the details of my town as seen from two wheels. It’s the place I write about you and I and how we swam beyond pain and have now come up for air in this place of joy.
On the computer I bought with money, blood money, from my dead father, I figure out who I am, what my purpose is.
Faces come to me here in intricate detail, illustrating my life.
In the solitude of our home, I write without veils, with truth so searing that I have to throw the blanket off and let the cool air slap against the sweat gathering on my skin.
This is writing, breathless and demanding, rushing red warmth into my cheeks.
In this version of myself I’m learning to let go, to type with racing fingers, to wander halls of my mind, to slip into the corners. My destination is unknown and there is a freedom in that. I can’t help but think that I am secure in that leap because I am grounded in our home, grounded by you.
I remember the day you bought me the blanket, walking in the market stalls of Tijuana after a long day building a church of stucco and tar babies. We walked a careless pace, eating from taco stands. The new blanket was made of itchy wool, so scratchy I could not sleep under it. Instead I piled it atop other blankets.
Fifteen years later it’s been washed so many times, spun through and dried, that all the itchy fibers have been rubbed away. I press the soft corner to my cheek and I wonder if you and I are the same way.
After a time of cleansing and spinning dry until there were no more tears, we are soft. You are soft and I press my cheek to yours. I curl under the blanket of you and write.
What is my favorite subject?
You are my happy ending.