Dear Starlight,Â
I took my play seriously yesterday and went on an escapade.Â
I took myself to Coney Island.
Saltwater, crunchy hair, and sandy everything. Mangos served with salt, lemon, and chili sauce. Waves, LatinX music, hip-hop, screaming mothers, screaming children, Spanish, Italian, Polish, teen girl laughter, flying beach balls, and pigeons, the soundscape.Â
Me not talking or texting or writing or worrying.Â
Me disappearing into a sea of people unabashedly pulling out my packed lunch and nibbling on a cucumber and boiled egg. Me not wearing anything fashionable. Me wearing a backpack and a baseball cap.Â
…
I've been yearning for the Atlantic Ocean.Â
Yearning is defined as a painful longing.
…
I noticed something in my home this week. It has been a week in which my son, my husband, and I have all been reunited after being disbanded in June and July.Â
My sixteen-year-old son wants autonomy now.Â
I want my autonomy, too.Â
I have some guesses about what my husband wants.
I think he'd like to want to go to Coney Island with me.Â
…
I've been yearning for my freedom.
…
Being a mother and a wife means constantly collaborating and compromising for the collective benefit. Sometimes, the benefit disappears along with one's selfhood.Â
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This summer, I have been grieving the loss of my childhood home on Martha's Vineyard. Last summer, a psychic told me that when it sold, I would become more free.Â
This past week, I wondered what I would do with my long weekend, in a sort of pity party morose way knowing I couldn't go home.Â
Then, the clownish idea of Coney Island moved in, engulfing me in its colorful audacity. I realized my inner joke was actually a delightful idea, one that if I took it seriously, I could do.Â
I invited my family to join me. There was some chitter chatter. "Why go there? Why don't we drive instead of the train? What will we do while you are on the beach? Etc. The back and forth of my family attempting to see if they fit into my idea.
I didn't compromise, and my family didn't join me.Â
I was free to absorb my joy like a solitary lizard lying on a hot rock.
I set out yesterday at 8:00 a.m, and twelve hours later, joy came home with me. We walked into the house full of stories to share, and my skin itchy from sand and salt. My son was not home, as he had taken his own adventure to visit a friend in NJ, and my husband had dinner ready to share with me.