The Idaho Commons. Pen on paper.
It’s coming up on a year that I’ve moved, a year since I graduated, and a year since I started working as a professional journalist.
Despite the amount of time away, I can’t help but think of Idaho as home. It’s where I grew up. It’s where everyone in the family except myself and my aunt live. And it is so much greener than the Southwest. The air is fresh, the breeze kisses the skin, the sun filters through the pine trees.
It was a good 20-some years, and I can’t wait to visit in on vacation.
May 20. 3:30 pm. Schuyler, Nebraska.
A few wispy clouds speckled the blue sky. Sunshine filtered through the weeping willows leaves, landing on a teenager’s pearly face. Her boyfriend stared at her. Her and her ethereal beauty. He loved the way the light made her blue eyes shine, the way the breeze ruffled the grass around her face, and the way her lips curled into her famous soft smile. Whenever she smiled like that, the whole world reacted. The birds sang louder, the sun shined brighter, his heart beat faster. He took her slight hand in his, causing her to turn her eyes his way.
No fry sauce to be found in the Southwest.
Seriously. They don’t have fry sauce.
Pen, pencil, sharpie on paper.
Sometimes it is the childhood memories that make up the root of belief. However, for me it was an unexpected college experience that made me realize what I believe.
My best friend from childhood and I were sitting in her dorm room. The hideous puce tiles of the floor were scuffed and dirty, while the pin boards by her desk were peeling from the walls. I don’t remember why we were there. We never really hung out in her room; we had always just hung out in my dorm building. I think she had asked me to come over so we could talk.
We were chilling, not really saying much. Then, she opened her heart to me.
Left, right or center – liberal, conservative or moderate – politics do not belong anywhere in tragedy.
I used to hate the color blue.
It stood for sadness. Depression. Loneliness.
Now, four years after having walked into the obnoxiously blue Argonaut newsroom, blue has come to mean something else.
Blue means family.
I am a recovering anorexic.
I am not fully recovered, nor will I ever be.
However, I am at a point in my recovery — and a point in my life — where I feel like I can share my story.
Charcoal, pen and color pencil.