My father is not a soft man. He has callouses and a gruff voice and doesn’t care that he sawed off his own thumb once. He is as much a builder as he is a father. But that doesn’t mean he is any less of a loving one.
I know that the person I spend time with in my mind now is no longer you, but an echo of you, a product of faded memories and half–remembered desires, almost entirely a construction of my own mind. I try to remember your smile and I can’t.
We always what we can’t have, like perfect skin, the blind confidence of men in a group project, or an honest mental health conversation (oops, different op–ed). So this is my love letter to all the clubs I’ve loved before.
Digging through a luggage pile of clothes, I reached for my favorite blue skirt. Hurriedly pulling at the belt loops, it rips in half. I didn’t need to turn to the mirror, but I did need to muster an outfit change. It wasn’t a “freshman fifty” nor a result of wear and tear, but rather a result of the love that surrounded and inspired me.