Bend Fly Run

Los Angeles: July 2022

Dear Journal,

It's been a year since I wrote a letter. I've stepped onto half a dozen flight in that time but the pen never drew me, the paper didn't call. Some I slept. Others I munched on hard candy, squinted at a four-by-four screen. I thought of Jamie's tradition and liked what it stood for- detailing a chapter. Honoring the past. I have another flight tomorrow and I suppose I should've waited- for that cabin spotlight and polyester thread. But I woke this morning and slipped a fleece across my shoulders, searched my desk for a blank notebook. It felt like the time. I walked to the beach I surf at every morning, buried my heels in the white-speckled sand. I stared off at the horizon and thought of my life in Los Angeles, all that I've changed. I could write to Delilah or my mother but I talk to them often. I could write to my father- but I'll be honest- there are days that feels too hard. A journal seems like the answer, an entry in the sand. A mix of incarnation- the person I was, the one I'm still working on. The one I hope to be.

Delilah visited that first December. Her and Paul had finished their adoption paperwork and any moment a call could arrive. She clutched at her phone the entire trip. The last night we sat on my porch. Our chairs were shoulder to shoulder- wedged sideways so if a breeze blew the trees back, we might catch a slash of blue. My apartment's on the second floor, and cars from the street honked below. There could've been a ten-vehicle crash and Delilah wouldn't have noticed. She spun the phone in her palm. I asked her a question about dinner and she didn't respond. I reached for her hand and she startled.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," she said. She put the phone in her pocket. "I know- a watched pot doesn't boil."

I bit back a laugh.

"I'm desperate to meet them. Then I think about this phone ringing and I panic- what if we don't have the right stuff? What if there's more we need?"

"Paul said you send a list every day after work- he goes directly to Target without checking his messages."

"Unfortunately, that's true."

"You married a good one."

"I did," she said. "He's been patient. It just scares me. Years of failing at something you're told your whole life you can do naturally- what if I can't do this either? What if no matter how much stuff we buy or how much I research- it won't be enough?"

"Delilah."

"I'm so excited to adopt, I believe in my heart it was meant to happen. But what if this child feels like they're a second choice?"

"They won't."

"How can you know that?"

"Because you have so much love to give- every version of you. Look at how tight you've held your phone all weekend- you think that kid won't feel wanted? Please. They're going to beg you to leave them alone once in a while, get out of their face."

She smiled.

"Every new parent has no idea what they're doing- you're starting at the same spot as everyone. No one knows their kid's personality. No one knows what colors they'll like; what jokes will make them laugh. If Paul goes to Target a hundred more times or if he never goes again- it doesn't matter. This kid will have you- and there's no one better. Trust me. Everything you need you already have."

Delilah squeezed my hand. A truck moved past us and the street lulled quiet. We sunk into our chairs- feet kicking out against an ottoman. The breeze blew around us. It was a California evening- a warm, salty sky.