My favorite food are pickles. One of the first things I purchase at a grocery store in a new place is a jar of dill pickles, unsliced, obviously. They remind me of childhood, summer time, and the beach. Sometimes I think if I carry my jar of pickles around with me everywhere, I will always have sun. I feel similarly about clementines, my second favorite. When I was little I used to carry as many clementines as I could squeeze into my chubby little hands, into the pockets of my overalls, and under my chin. I never remember eating these. I was so terrible at peeling fruit when I was young. Honestly, I loved carrying things, still do, made my hands feel like they always had a purpose. My family jokes about how much I can carry at one time, a big time perk in the moving department. Rarely do I drop something, yet when I do it’s often a sock that I’m never going to find again.

Yesterday I upped and went to Denny’s for a waffle and a milkshake. There was a ton of families having dinner, all seeming to know each other. That is a wild and foreign thing to me. Something I will never understand but something I will always love. I realized that that feeling accompanies a lot of things in life. Being unable to understand but always loving. And I think people grow very conflicted and frustrated with this feeling, wanting to be a person that can fully grasp what another human is going through, then disappointed in themselves that they could never get there. The thing about experiences and uniqueness is that everyone sees everything differently.

I’ve got a stamp on my hand that says “gravy fries” and it’s freezing rain up here in New England, turning all the trees into icicles, dangerous territory. My body has been craving rest for a long time. It is something that is incredibly difficult for me to provide, takes a different type of energy for me to simply sit. This freezing rain and my gravy fries hand is leaving me feeling all sorts of jumbles for new experiences and new people that melt your heart.