I love my family. I love coming home and seeing my father at the airport for the first time after a long break. I love being able to catch up on old times and listen to my parents marvel at my exploits. I love polish food. I love candy. I love turning the street corner and seeing memories burned in the streetlights and yellow dividers along the road. I love conversations with old friends.
I love listening to my dad tell me about his death. I love listening to him tell me about his resuscitation. "3-2-1 ... I was gone. They put the paddles on me. I counted down to my own death. I knew my heart had stopped. I refused to accept that. I felt nothing. Three hours later, I woke up."
I love my mother worrying about how we eat; when we eat; how much we eat; why we eat slowly; why we drink so much; why we want to bring juice to the movie theater; why we eat too much candy; why we stay on the computer so long; why we want to take so many risks; why we don't take off our shoes; and why we are always trying to make jokes out of everything.
I love my friends; their ideas; the memories with them; knowing I will be leaving them someday; knowing I have more time now. I love the three days of morning in a place now so foreign to me that the few ounces of familiarity remaining echo warmly deep in the caverns of memory. I love losing a place at the table of the past and finding my future upside down inside my eyes.
I love this world. I love the possibilities you have given me. I love all the pain and anguish we know will pass. I hope you and anyone you love feels loved.
Happy Holidays, sincerely, from me.
