Life Among the Pastures

Dear Gregory,

I finally got to play in the adaptation of "Monster," that Japanese comic book you were always obsessed about during college. After I heard the news of the Hollywood adaptation of the series, enthusiasm overtook me and shot through my neural connection a dose of immense joy while my husband saw me jump up and down like a toddler—closer to being a rascal to say the least. The creases on my husband's face became more pronounced while he scrutinized my odd behavior, the sheer exaggerated enthusiasm while the anxious self became more transparent since my limbs could never stop from becoming shaky—my lips would quiver and the words would falter at the tip of my tongue and die on the way to a person's ear. I would cleanse the same damn dirty plate a couple of times before I realized that I wasted a pint of dishwasher soap. I was a woman of frugality and only used a slight dab to take care of the night's dishes. Thinking of dinner plates, I don't think I even recall the slightest of what I consumed tonight.

The taste in my mouth still oozed an aftertaste of barbecue savoriness, but I still don't recall what I plopped into my mouth. Maybe it was the generic medium-rare steak, or the lumpy mashed potatoes my husband always grunts over. Every time he comes back from work, he eats the dinner left before him in submissive quietness while, internally, the mad ogre is stirring within him.

"How is it?" I always ask while he's busy letting the mashed potatoes dissolve in his saliva. He gave a faint nod in a speechless and courteous manner. These days, the quality of the food set before him was probably deteriorating since I'm still incapable of shackling down my nerves before my brain ruptures from being a nervous wreck.
That same throbbing feeling in my breast duplicated that same feeling of that summer breeze that hinted at the end of its season while my young 19-year-old self rode under the angry flare. In my old minivan that zipped across highway routes that twisted in different directions, a body of water was formed on both sides with the faint glimmer of a distant sail cutting across the blue ridges that danced with the wind. That feeling of coming to Philadelphia enthralled me, and my nerves wouldn't stop firing while I could sense scars beginning to fester on the flesh of my heart if the nervous throbbing wouldn't ease.

Strips of black hovering across the windshield reflected from the pole lights while radio broke off and screeched statically. It was a Virginian radio station, and the static noises signified the arrival beyond the borders of home and into the open of the City of Beverly Love. The breeze, seeping in from the window that was left ajar, blew in the novel air from the abundant nuclear plants from the scenery, which was not as much back in Virginia. Clouds became a blur blinded by the smoke that blazed from afar, not like clouds in Virginia that showed resemblance to fluffy pillows and swirled like cotton candy.

At that time, I was glad that I brought cassettes that were bundled up in my Forever21 plastic bags and drove the cassette into the slot in the car radio. Like you figured, music was a form of movie on its own. Those lyrics and tunes that play a crisp nostalgia in your head and form imagery of your past self——whether it's unrequited love or the reminiscence of previous high school years that ended abruptly. The license plates indicated Philadelphian drivers from the looks of it behind their vehicles while the stereo played "Wild World" by Cat Stevens. Oh baby baby it's a Wild World, I sang along with such horrent vocals that stricken passing Philadelphians with curious glances from their windows. Those glances, by all means, does not give away pleasant admiration, but mirrored the faces of tragic grief.

First thing I stopped for when I entered Philadelphia was taking a jaunt down the Italian Market to the cheesesteak stalls that stood on polar opposite ends: Pat's and Geno's. Both ends were long filing lines with people with red-beaten necks under an oversized Eagle's shirt. The sun glazed over them and glistened patterns of dark green, white, and grey, while some filled in with the patterns of red from their Phillies merch. With a flip of a coin, I hopped behind the line filed before Geno's since my mouth didn't have a picky preference for food and, by all means, not a connoisseur of cheesesteaks. All I can distinguish within my mouth are the slices of thin steak, and the oozing of cheese whiz that simmered on top of the sandwich. I can't tell you which had the best quality and that may be a different story for you, Greg, since you breathed the Philly air all your life.