This is a letter from deep in the trenches.
My mother’s lease ran out a few weeks ago, and our two-bedroom beach house won’t be ready for another week and a half so for the time being, I’ve been sleeping on a blow-up mattress amidst the summer clearance, with my cat curled around my legs.
During the days, I help in the shop for an hour or two when I can spare or stand it. My mother pays me under the table when she can afford it, which keeps me in gas money. I’ll need it with all the continual running away I’ll try to do.
I’ll hide in this coffee shop amidst the hubbub of orders and chatter, where I’m just another cliché in a hoodie with a laptop. I’ll hide in the library or, more often, its parking lot. I have learned the art of curling up into my unpacked boxes and napping in the air conditioning, sometimes with a mixed drink stowed away, other times without.
There’s another parking lot right before a fishing bridge that leads toward my new job, and I’ll open the car door, blast pop music from my iPhone, and watch the water. I’m becoming fond of parking lots. They’re good places to cry, to rest, to try to kill off the part of my life that engenders sadness, in order to forget.
I can’t forget the fact that I am living with my mother again after 10 years of being on my own, which means I’m constantly slathered in a mixture of being made breakfast, being force-fed Emergen-C, and her wondering where I’ve been when I come “home” at 1 am or where I’m going when I leave “home” at midnight.