Mine

Lying in bed last night, atop a queen mattress in actuality but a single mattress in my brain. I’ve spent so many years perched on both edges of a single-width bed: back at home in Elko, in the dorms, down in California; that now I have the opportunity to reach out but I’m governed by remnant mental boundaries. All works out, however, since Lauren was gladly absorbing my unused portion of mattress…

The definition of true love does not lie in communication, humility, or any of the other standard replies. No, true love is defined by selfless release of all feelings and property. I let Lauren use my new Fred Meyer contoured space-foam pillow last night. There you have it, true love. (sarcasm, of course)

I’m sitting atop a yoga ball, screaming my thoughts to the screen (I will henceforth call it screaning) on this lovely Boise morning. Yesterday, during breakfast, cooking eggs in a frying pan, salting and peppering the solidifying puddles, I thought of James D. Allan. A welder by trade, his hands were calloused beyond repair and more heat resistant than any Kevlar oven mitt. Periodically during my childhood, he’d whip up one of the few dishes he made and made well: fried eggs.

So of course, after not thinking of him for weeks, months, his image pops in and obstructs the view of my surrounding apartment. Much like those cramps you get in an oblique rib muscle or a shot of pain from a high-neck/parietal muscle: sharp tingles from an entity you didn’t know existed or choose not to acknowledge.

I started thinking of my situation, my environment. I thought of him visiting me in my own apartment, making eggs in my pan with my salt and pepper. It was not a thought that saddened me, but actually pointed out another severe difference between him and me. It was rewarding, reassuring, to think of my situation. In twenty minutes I was headed to my job; my engineering job where I use my brain to design products, not my automatic medulla to accomplish a menial trade occupation. It is unfortunate yet gratifying that he does not own a house, a real job, nothing.

Is it wrong to exalt in another’s demise? Is that what I am doing? No, I’m simply giving myself credit for piloting my own life; navigating a path uninhibited or affected by his genetic or spatial influence. I’ve struggled with the feeling of genetic predisposition: the fear that I carry his hurtful, dysfunctional traits whether or not I am conscious of doing so. Well, that fear is being smothered by escalating confidence and accomplishment.

I am proud of my situation. Proud of my job. Proud of my eggs and egg pan and salt and pepper. I am mine.