I'll See You Tomorrow

Dear Starlight, 

I’m currently detoured from my ordinary life. This weekend, my baby sister had a baby, and I have a new niece who is only hours old. Vera. Truth.

I’m tucked into the hills of Western Massachusetts, a place that at first glance feels like an old fashioned Norman Rockwell portrait. But looking again, you see a wildly colorful, liberal rainbow. Queerness reigns here, and families of all expressions bloom like wildflowers, loving who they love openly. My mother and I describe this nook of farmland as wholesome, with the silver Connecticut River snaking through its communities.

It’s easy to fall in love here. I picked a pint of organic raspberries for $4 and a bunch of dahlias and daisies for $5. I ate Palestinian food from a food truck parked in Unity Park, where children played into the dusky evening.

Yesterday, I took Vera’s big sister to the lake. She made a friend in their pursuit of newts and minnows. At one point, I came to the lake’s edge to admire the sand fortress they built to house their mini-creatures.

The boy, no older than seven, enthusiastically advised my niece not to interrupt nature—especially the newt devouring the minnow for lunch. He told her, “Don’t try to stop the newt from eating the minnow. It’s just nature. Everything dies. It’s just a part of life. My dad died from cancer.”

My niece, barely seven herself and with a sister only hours old, agreed that she wouldn’t stop the newt from eating the minnow. She didn’t comment on her friend's dad’s death. Instead, she said that her new sister probably wouldn’t be able to wear lipstick until she’s at least five years old.

Sitting here now, I can hear my niece in the other room singing a sweet melody: “I’ll see you tomorrow... I’ll see you tomorrow... I’ll see you tomorrow...”

That’s all I have to share today. It’s easy to fall in love. It’s a part of life. It’s just nature.