Member-only story
The Orb that Sadness Touched
Or, Our Own Happy Rhythm
2009
At 18, I do not yet know how this time in my life, soon to be gone forever, will enshrine itself in my memory like a beloved photo reel, scratchy and discolored. It feels timeless now, like this warm and comfortable pattern of work, sleep, friends, drink, and the sleepy quiet of a hungover Sunday morning will continue in perpetuity.
For now — for as long as it lasts — the porch dirt and dog hairs, the card games, the counter collection of Aristocrat vodka and banana rum, these are my home. The stereo blasting Against Me! and the Chiodos and Sublime on a sticky summer night is home. These people, my brother Jax and his friends with their dreadlocks and mohawks and studded jackets and facial piercings; my friends all drenched in black, awkward as me but knowing they are cool in their uncoolness; my mother, wildly bright and alive, and her small collection of adult friends who have (almost) never fit into the standard model of what adulthood should look like — these are my people. This is my family.
My new boyfriend is a bit overwhelmed. He is quiet and shy; he was homeschooled for most of his life and knows mainly work and sleep. But he fits in quickly, easily laughing and joking and taking his turn at Kings and beer pong. He gives no indication of the social anxiety that…
