Thirteen was Mom's favorite and lucky number. For her there was nothing more glorious and self-defining as the number thirteen. She often wore a gold-plated #13 charm she found just outside our house. An omen or homage of sorts. For awhile she wore it with the medal honoring St. Lucia, her namesake.
2013. Change. Yes I can feel it coming. Lately I have found myself feeling tremors, and maybe one might call it subtle seismic shift. Its an unsettling with equal parts nervousness, fear and excitement. And during these days I really wish I had someone to talk to, someone who really gets me. Someone who understands my head and will not think twice about calling me out on my shit, forcing me to answer to myself. You know who I mean, we all have (or have had) that person in our lives. I feel like I am that person for many but no one has been that person for me, not in a long while.
It makes it difficult to quiet the crazy-talk, and easier to slip beneath the murkiness of indecision. It would be nice to have a champion to guide me towards the next phase of my life. I don't mean lead me, I know I have to get there on my own but in those moments of doubt to help me to remember everything that I've accomplished, all who I've come to be. When I pause to think of who I want that person to be, I feel a sharp pang and I have to catch my breath. It's a bevel that cuts through my psyche, awakens the siren and the beast. I won't deny that at this point in my life I thought I would have a partner to lean on, someone to comfort me when the dull ache of life temporarily blindsides you and leads you sideways into a spiral of emotions over what comes next. Inevitably in these moments I conjure my mom when her absence is felt the greatest. I can go months without realizing she is not here, and in one instant am painfully cognizant that I am missing something, someone, that I am an island.