hopefully, mika

or, thoughts about what we’re remembered for

Dear Becca,

If someone from the vaguely near future had told me you were going to write about nostalgia, I would not at all be shocked. I would be concerned about the ramifications of time travel, though.

The truth is, I envy your attitude about legacy. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there is a little girl flailing about, doing ballerina twirls in an empty living room for her imaginary friend and hoping to one day grace a stage.

It’s hilarious to me how much I want to feel seen but how badly I don’t want to be perceived.

I’m constantly putting up garlands of my words for the world to read, then hastily tugging them down when the season passes.

Insert another breakdown over my books.

(I had typed said breakdown, but I will spare you and anyone else the trouble.)

Yesterday, I went dress shopping with my mom for the wedding we’re attending soon. My dad was our designated driver while we scurried through the aisles of this store or that.

In the dressing room, between moments of despair or excitement, came thoughts of the potential of seeing the Pacific again.

I miss it.

I miss being among trees with you.

It was far easier to forget the fear of being perceived when all I could focus on was the next step forward on our walks along the trail.

By the ocean, or peering down at mountains from a plane window, you remember how the world spins, endless and abundant. Abundant with our worries and wishes.

And as I rack my brain for a third ‘w’ word …

Today, I saw that there’s a wolf warning in the area we got our respective sunburns.

Naturally, I thought of that sea wolves documentary and, more prominently, Jake Davis’ video about that wolf kill.

I fret all the time about how it’ll be taken, whatever I leave behind. But I guess we’re always leaving something for each other to feast on. Bones and meat and story.

Or letters.

Anyway, thank you for saying what you said about my dress. In the dressing room, I felt good about it. About myself. My mom cheering me on helped, of course.

Then it sank in, as it always does, this discomfort of being in this specific body with these bones and this mass and the dark circles.

I’m on the verge of turning this into a lament over body shaming. So I’ll stop there.

We often joke about how history will not know what to make of you and me— emphasis on the ‘and.’

Honestly, if there is one thing I want to be known for, it is the love I got to share. With friends like you, with my family, or with the ducks at every park we go to, from Capaha to Kariya to Schiller to Kariya again.

So yes. In a lot of ways, I am that little girl, making a barre out of a chair, leaping and pleading for someone at home to watch.

And I hope when I fade, quietly or with uproar, whatever I leave behind will help the forest’s young make it through the winter.

hopefully,

mika