Seeing the ball drop on new years was always a must do for me. Juka (My then boyfriend) promised me on my couch, new years eve of 2013 that next year that would be us. We would be the ones out there under the confetti and singing with Frank Sinatra about one of the coolest places on earth. Me, of course thinking he was all talk. He surprised me a couple months before December of 2013 saying that this was for real, he was going to take me to the city of my dreams on the best night of the year. Or, as he put it “The first day I met you, one of the very first things you said to me was that your dream was to see New York and I swore to myself that day that when I could, I would make that dream come true”, I know, I know I found a great one. So Juka and I came in a few days early to New York. We spent the days seeing the 9/11 Memorial, the Statue of liberty and of course Rockefeller center. Around 2 pm New years eve (this year) we took our spots. Yes you read that right, two pm, and if you can count that means we were outside for a hearty ten hours. We had thought that we had dressed warmly, but after a few hours we almost threw in the towel. If it wasn’t for Jukas constant “we cant turn back now” chant I don’t know if I would have made it after I lost the feeling in my feet. It even started snowing! We actually met some fellow Ohioans (OH!) and they were nice enough to share their pizza with us. Because of course like almost everyone else down there we were incredibly unprepared. As you can imagine ten hours doesn’t creep by slowly even when you are in one of the most magical places on earth. But, I would not have rather been down there in the perfect spot with anyone else. We passed the hours jumping, squatting, laughing, and shivering, and of course hugging for warmth. One of the hugs I felt something square under his jacket and when I asked him what it was he quickly responded with “Um my wallet and stuff”. When everyone was up and ready, it was within the hour that we had all been waiting for, the nivea balloons were passed out and we all got a pair of spider man gloves. A minute before the ball drop I hear Juka say something to me so I turn around to find him down on one knee and my very best friend asked me to marry him, right there on the disgustingly dirty streets of times square. I immediately put the ring on my finger, covered my mouth, and rapidly nodded yes. Just then the count down began, and I would try to explain what it feels like to be newly engaged, standing in one of the coolest places on earth, and chanting down the coming of a new year with millions of people, but I cant really find the words. When the ball was down and the fireworks began, the square became covered in a rainbow of confetti just as I had dreamed it would. We hugged, we cried, we screamed and then we took off for the subway to get the heck out of there. While it took me about an hour to feel my limbs again, I defiantly wouldn’t have changed going. I mean I probably wont go again, but hey it was an amazing once in a lifetime experience. In the middle of Times square I got engaged to a man that I only dreamed existed.
Have you ever wondered why you remember little tiny details from your life, usually lasting only a few moments and that seem to hold no real value? Because, if you are like me, I cant seem to remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, was it toast or, maybe cheerios. I mean its rather clear why I can graphically recall flipping over my handlebars and skidding down the drive way at the ripe age of four or the moment when I was eleven and my mother sat us down to tell us she had cancer, but what about the tiny, seemingly random moments that you can not seem to forget. Why do I remember being six and my brother being three and “riding” our magic carpets (our blankies laying on the floor of my childhood house). Why do I perfectly recall sitting in the passenger seat of my grandparents old, roughly worn truck seat and singing a christmas song with my grandfather. Its so clear that I can picture sitting there, my small hands covered in white mittens and riding the smooth country road to his house. Why do I recount the smell of buttery popcorn being made on the stove of our tiny house. I can see my beautiful mother standing there telling us it’s almost ready and her laughing about a joke that has drifted along with my memory. Why can I see myself riding down the block, wind in my hair, pink handlebars and all, on my way to my very best childhood friends house. Why do I remember laying in the backyard, the sun hitting us just right as my brother and I lay in the warm green grass. These random things I can not forget. Will they show me something about myself in the future, did I do something life changing without knowing, will I be shown these moments five people you meet in heaven style. Maybe we all remember these tiny moments because, while they were small, they were perfect. Maybe we felt an enormous amount of love, or happiness, or just flat out joy. As I grow older I cant think of a better afternoon than laying in the grass with my brother, and what I wouldn’t give to be sitting in that cold, old truck with my warm, perfect grandfather. Memories are all we have, as we get older. People leave us, you move away from home, and the world never ceases to change. Memories are what ground us, what inspire us and what makes us feel at home. While most are random and seem to hold no true value, if you think about it, most of these memories are perfect. Simple, short, and perfect.
There is something miraculously romantic about the way the warm butter creme light flows from my bedside lamp and tucks itself into every page of my book. The way the light smooths the rough edges of the room and the rough edges of my day. The way in shifts back and fourth, until it finds the perfect place to lay, until it covers the carpets, the quilted blankets. the closets and me. There is something so romantic about the way that candle light dances across my skin and the way it uses my bedroom wall to spend the night doing the Charleston like the flappers of history’s past. And the way that the crisp sweetness of apple fills the room and fills the stories. The way it folds you into itself, and makes you feel at home. There is something so romantic about the way that the words flow off my page and place me in the story. The smells, the people, the way the world looks. The way it sends me on a private trip to a place far away. Far away from my butter creme lamp, from the dancing candle, from today.