Lovely

12/3/22

New disco ball ornaments wink at me through a crackly plastic bag. Silver and gold promises of what might come if I can get up off the couch long enough to hook their tiny mouths onto the tree, still sticky with sap.

A bone-cracking virus, my insides shaky and burning, fighting whatever warrior made it past the wall of vaxes and shots. Me: ’I’m alone. I’ve done nothing. I never do anything.'

We tumble into bed at 9 pm, listen to Ozie’s favorite “Little Stories for Tiny People," the one about an always cheerful Hedgehog who gets sick. And when she gets sick, she gets sad. 

‘You never do anything.’ I used to wake up at this hour, ready to start my day/night. Patent leather platforms, tiny white barrettes, ruby hair, navy minidress. Twirling through the gay boys until we found ourselves.

Now it’s this child’s fable, my daughter a bright, twitching flame next to me, where it dawns on me— I never want to admit, in my ‘the disco ball-is-always-spinning-somewhere’ outlook that Yes! Me, too! I get sad when I’m sick! 

I fall into something. Not sleep. Not not sleep. Every cell shivering through a limitless pain. I float out of bed like a melting snowflake, muffling a moan of disbelief at how shockingly horrible the human body can feel. 

‘Shhh!!! I cannot take care of Ozie if she wakes up.’ I make it vertical, flail dizzily, and trip over the metal water bottle. CLANK CLANK CLANK across the hardwoods. Ozie’s breathing stops, hovers, ‘please….please no…’ Finally, a long exhale, and then she climbs up and down her little snore mountains.

I make it to the kitchen. 3 am. This is when my girlfriend and I would go back to our itty bitty studio to change, swallow white powdery pills, make out upon piles of thrift store clothes, fumble into black Docs, neon baby doll dresses, our raving, ecstatic souls. 

Now, I force down scratchy toast so I can take a horse pill-sized Advil and not barf. And think. ‘I’ve done nothing with my life.’ (But, the movies) ‘Not enough.’ (But your friends, your home) ‘Not enough.’ (There’s still time) ‘HA! Riiiiiigh!’ (But, you’re happy) ‘Am I?’ (But, Ozie) ‘Ok, yeah, she’s amazing. But I will never be successful enough, have enough time… money… love…’ and on and on until I finally hear. ‘YOU GET SAD WHEN YOU’RE SICK.’

Right. Yes. Ok. 

My artist/healer friend Suellen says a disco ball is her new spiritual symbol, a magical mosaic that pulls all our chaotic reflections into magnificent, sparkling order. 

I grab the bag, open it in the bathroom, the crackle a lightning strike to my tender brain, and pull out one shiny, mirrored bulb. I reach up to the naked tree and wrap its tiny mouth around a sappy limb.

Its tiny panels wink around, lighting up everything with a limitless glow.

It’s so, so lovely. Then. And now.