Pour a little salt we were never here...

I can still remember the smell of the hardwood floors underneath my sister's bed. The dust that hadn't moved in weeks. The feeling of hiding there in hopes of being gone forever. Of just disappearing for awhile.

I'm in Philadelphia with my family celebrating my sister's 30th birthday. Things are patched up for now, hidden under what my parents really want me to do and how I envision my life. We don't talk about yoga teacher training, but details are asked about my new jobs in my field. And I do feel good about it, but not for any of the reasons they do.

When the topic of parking in the Charlotte airport is discussed, I mention that I got a ride and the conversation stops. It's how I've always felt-frustrated and on the verge of telling the truth. But sometimes it's easier to be casual. And easy seems like the better choice.

Growing up I always knew I would leave the D.C. area and driving in last night to go to Bon Iver show, I realized even more why I left that area of the world. I felt stuck. And being alone at a show makes you take in the noise even more. Makes you hear the chatter below his soft, high voice. Wondering too where he's going to go from here. Whether heartbreak in the woods of Wisconsin should become popular. Whether things like his music should be felt in a room full of people asking for skinny love or another beer. And the whole time I wondered how he felt about that.

Eventually everyone is found. My mom stepped next to me under my sister's bed, angry at me for snapping the leg off of one of her old dolls. Talking about not knowing if there was a place to fix it in town. Then hearing how much it hurt her to have me break this doll from her childhood. And then watching it sit on the shelf in her closet for years, wondering when she was going to get around to fixing it.