BitterSweet

Sweet Musings with a Bitterly Sharp Wit


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Marriage

Marriage changes everything. Or, it changes nothing- It depends on who you ask. So much goes into a wedding, from the time and logistics to the pure emotional energy, it’s easy to understand how much pressure the average bride and groom must feel. Surely, after all the hard work, legally binding documents, merriment and revelry, everything must seem different from this point forward. The truth of the matter is, I think that the shift has already happened, quietly and without fanfare, before you ever discussed floral arrangements or said, “I do.” For all intents and purposes, you’ve been married since the moment you met.

Brian, I’ve never seen my sister happier than when she’s with you. Rachel, I haven’t remotely liked a single one of your suitors before this, and in case you’re still wondering, I’m officially giving this one my seal of approval. You two are so good for each other; encouraging one another through challenges big and small, laughing off the little things that don’t really matter and tackling important issues that do head-on.

The world needs more complimentary pairings like you two, because that’s what marriage really is. It’s the love you two share, nothing more and nothing less. A piece of paper won’t change that. This momentous event, joyous as it is, won’t change that. We’ll have a clearly defined date to celebrate now, happily marking the years as you grow old together, but you’ll go home tonight and realize that everything feels the same. If you ask me, that’s the truest indication of your love, because it doesn’t depend on any external validation. Your love is enough- more than enough.

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Rush Hour

Rhythmically, persistently, a small child is kicking me in the shins. Propelling his legs with blissful abandon beyond the constraints of his stroller, the rubber-soled shoes strike with a dull thud as regularly as a metronome. This is the least of my concerns though, as I struggle to find an open pocket of air in the overcrowded BART car. A nauseating bouquet of sweat, cologne, and Chinese takeout infiltrates my lungs, mingling together in one pungent, irrepressible plume. Each inhalation skews slightly to one or the other, though none holds particular appeal. Breathing becomes a careful, measured effort, akin to meditation.

Hurtling through tunnels, cutting across highways and open fields, chasing after the fading sun, the train starts and stops, yet not a single person moves an inch. Wedged firmly in place, it would be impossible to fall, even if one gave up standing on their own volition. Familiar vistas flash by through smudged windows, but from my vantage point staring directly into some tall man’s armpit, the scenery looks all the same to me. Somewhere between Embarcadero and West Oakland, I find myself wearing someone else’s headphone wires. Perhaps the whole mob, myself included, is beginning to merge into a single person.

Compared to many, my trip across the bay is mercifully short. Swimming upstream against the current of writhing arms and legs, it takes many gentle shoves, a few accidentally trampled feet, and many profuse apologies to disentangle myself from the mass when the doors finally open at my home station. The stagnant but open air has never felt so good. To all the faithful, tireless workers who continue forward on their journeys, to repeat the trip once again the next day, again and again with no end in sight: I salute you. That onerous commute is a full time job, in and of itself.


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Summer Rains

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the summer rains.

The cool relief of a cloud burst washing away the built up pressure of the day. The rumble and crack of rolling thunder in the darkness, a lumbering giant invisible in the night sky. The damp long grasses, freckled with pinpricks of dew in the morning. Each component, tactile and visceral, makes up its own flashbulb memory; distinctive, yet distinctly separate. There’s no timestamp, no geolocation, no metadata to click through and extract more information. Surely there were many rainstorms that visited through my childhood, appearing and fading away much like the last, blending into one amalgamated vision, softened by time and distance.

I don’t know how I grew so attached to the comfortable rhythm of weather patterns, so predictable that they were more reliable than the calendar as an indication of the passing days. Back then, summer was endless, stretching on through countless unscheduled weeks, lazy afternoons one after the other, not a hint of stress or guilt associated with inactivity. Punctuating the sweltering evenings with a quiet, soothing staccato on the window panes, their whispered song serving as a lullaby. Filling my mind and washing away the harsh edges, the summer rains were my meditation.

There are no more summer rains these days, far removed from the climate of my childhood. I miss them deeply because their music sang of comfort, an audible reminder of my shelter from the storm. It was my song, set on repeat for days on end; after so many years, it became my anthem.