Writing by Alexa LoSchiavo
The sun rose like a sluggish little boy, protesting waking up, covering his face with his hands, and I flew on a plane to Ohio.
My family is from Ohio, my dad’s side, at least. He grew up in a small town 30 minutes outside Columbus, which really means he grew up in the middle of nowhere with only one school that housed all grades. He grew up with cornfields and bikes that kicked up dust (because there were still dirt roads), and he grew up going to church every Sunday.
When I had to go to Ohio a year ago (because my grandma had moved out of her brick house she’d lived in for her entire life), I had just gone through a breakup that left me shattered in two, and I had just gone off my meds. I felt completely juxtaposed to the churchgoing, homophobic folks. I was trying to find some point to all of it. Some reason why I had to visit my grandma’s new house right on a golf course, or see family members who’d have some strong words to say about my breakup being with another woman.
The sun got brighter and brighter. An act of resistance against my rage. It grew and grew until everyone had to glare to see straight. The bright white of the sun was feverishly big, and my hate grew with its glare.
I felt hateful and hated. The landscape was so still compared to my insides that it made me angry. I wanted to go to a city where the smog covered half the ground. I wanted to hear the cars honking instead of my incessant thoughts.
My grandma’s new house was on a cul-de-sac, and there weren’t very many places I could go to be alone. I paced around the roundabout looking for a curb that felt safe for my tears. I settled for crying my eyes out on the bright-yellow seat of a John Deere lawnmower against the backdrop of the pristine golf-course and texting my friends that the swans I’d seen when I was five were killed for biting a child, and I couldn’t see the full moon anymore, and all the things that reminded me of her — were gone.
The sun sank slow as a pebble, and a soft pink light offset all the angry yellow. It grew softer and softer til nothing was left but the fuzzy blue that happens right before night.
I didn’t know how to get better, but I was trying. I was searching for answers. Answers could be found, I was sure, even in the restless feeling that came from hate. I hated that we’d never said we loved each other. I hated that our relationship was only two months, and she kissed me on a hill and held my hand under my favorite tree. I hated the stillness of the cornfields because it felt the same as her leaving. Mainly, I hated that it all felt purposeful. I was supposed to feel this way. I could see the end, but I didn’t quite want to be there yet.
I saw swans the very next day, with my family at the zoo. They were caged, but they seemed happy enough. Graceful and flowing on the surface, even though their wings were clipped.
And instead of the moon, I saw fireflies at night. The night away from the city was so dark that once your eyes adjusted, it seemed almost blue, and I just saw flashes of light. There was beauty in that flash. A singular sign that change was coming. I was on the precipice. I wasn’t there yet, but soon I would be.
In the middle of the night, the darkness was nothing but stars and space. And I breathed deeply, knowing everything had meaning because I ascribed meaning to it, and everything would change when I was ready.
