Today is the first Sunday I am actually by myself. Yesterday the little rascals came with their screaming and running-around, along with adults who often watch them helplessly, with or without threats that didn't have long-term effects. They tired me out pretty quickly and I needed to nap before going out. Despite my complaints, I miss them and wish they were around. They were here along with the rest of us for my Dad, for Father's Day. I didn't really spend a lot of time with my Dad, who sat quietly in the kitchen waiting for his turn at the cooking.
Today I woke up late. Someone who expressed interest in the car didn't show up. I woke up a few times before finally sleeping until 1PM, a record in recent memories. Perhaps it's getting too hot, and I am just dazed and dozing.
I wanted to try this lemon ice place. So I went to Coronoa, walked down the streets of typical "suburban" Queens townhouses. The place as like South America; everywhere I turned there was Spanish spoken and Latin music and Latino families. The people standing in line for the world famous lemon ice at Lemon Ice King were mostly white people from I don't know where.
With this medium size coconut lemon ice I walked to the Flushing Meadows Corona Park.
Then memories started flooding in, but in a very jumbled way. I was here, once. When? Was it recently, when I went to my one and only baseball game (for the pathetic Mets, of course). Or was it in high school. The sentimental taste of the memory makes me think it was high school, with my then best friend. When I went to the Mets game, there was nothing sentimental. I was also with that same then-best friend, along with my sister. Just another day with the pseudo-parents of my sister, the little one, and I was no longer interested in my best friend then. So was it in high school? I feel like it was. I was with her and also a friend of hers. I have no recollection of anything I saw there. I was nervous. I was full of feelings, I am sure.
Today, this afternoon, the weather was nice, I sat under a tree, wrote my jumbled thoughts in jumbled words on my little journal, and read the remainder of the chapter in that book of Irish people. The memories were like ghosts without a home (or rather, souls without a home, hence ghosts). I thought about my ex-best friend. I wonder if I should write to her. She probably knows by now that I live about 15 minutes door-to-door from her. She doesn't care, does she?
What do I care? I care too much things and people that don't deserve my love and attention. But that shouldn't be such a condemnable thing. To care too much about caring too much is itself an imbecility. Life goes on whether you worry or not.
Those memories will have to wait for another day for a home, another day for me to piece them together. For now, I enjoyed reading that book, I enjoyed being with these families, listening to their Spanish, and the weather. I enjoy those little rascals, and also seeing the rest of the family. I enjoy reading emails from my new friend in New York, sharing her thoughts, and letting me share mine. I saw her and talked to her last night at the milonga. I tried not to get off my path of having us be friends and nothing different. It wasn't easy. She has one of the most beautiful pairs of eyes in the world.
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