jar (jarreader) wrote,


My hair is finally long, but that doesn't mean seeing a friend for the first time in years is any kinder. I know I have gained weight and that the blue-green half-moons cradling my eyes have darkened. Meanwhile, time has further honed her wistful features. She is a replica of her old self, now brandishing a solitary, nondescript tattoo on her forearm. We hug and I think that I might crush her. She is as slight as ever.

Her home looks exactly as I imagined it might, right down to the bucolia sprawling behind her windows. Hand sewn gingham curtains hung in the kitchen windows, a Buddhist tapestry as a table cloth. Her effortless bohemia flourishes in this far-flung cottage. She sends me home with a jar of her raspberry jam.

I know I have a hot truck and I'm not sure exactly how that became something about which I'd feel proud. This is a new type of vanity. For the first time in my life my car registers as some sort of statement about my aesthetic. I drive, apparently, an object worthy of covet. Others driving pickups smile their approval, women and the elderly look bewildered, teen boys stare.

I feel suddenly healed. I am uncomfortable knowing that something as artificial as my license status is inexorably linked to my mental stability and health, but there it is.
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