I save for travel. I buy food for tomorrow. I exercise the option to refuse medicine. I can sleep through fire alarms, earthquakes, and hurricanes. I have one good shoulder that isn’t over-stretched out. I can see the colors of this world even when my contacts aren’t in. I’ve almost always had a ride home except for the time I jumped out of my parent’s car to prove that I stand with my truths. I’ve only had a handful of injuries that sidelined me for slightly longer than a few years, and scars that live mostly on the surface. Blessed.
I’m sitting on my floor listening to Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues and reading from Smoke and Pickles by Edward Lee. I realize that as much as my parents thought they were giving me a better life (in their definition of better life), they have done that so many times over. They have given me a freedom of expression. They have given me a freedom from defining success as dollars in the bank or stuck under a mattress. They have given me a freedom of possibilities. I know my kids won’t have to eat Kraft mac n cheese, ramen, frozen vegetables, vienna sausages, cereal for breakfast, spam, and foods canned or processed if they don’t want to. Sometimes, I crave “non-perishables” for they remind me of a time when being a tight family unit meant quick meals and achey stomachs. The past always seems harder in the present.
My dream, implanted by others, for most of the past decade has been to open a bakery, an extension of and expression of me. I sometimes fear failure, but if I linger on that thought, I will never know what could be. And when it opens, no matter the length of time, I did something, maybe planted a seed, and left blessings out there.
Thank you mom and dad for giving me blessings far greater than you imagined.