Elisabeth Writing

“We are an amalgamation of everyone we’ve known and loved.” I saw that quote, and it’s been there in the back of my mind, a whisper of a melody I long to hear in full. Some days I feel like a threadbare quilt, almost translucent, nearly gossamer. But I know I’m a tapestry, thick and rich and true; ocean blues, Midwest golden wheat, the green of forest fascination, tawny eyes, the ghostly alabaster of grief. And you, all of you, are a part of it: good, bad, ugly and beautiful.

The children in my Saint Augustine neighborhood come alive when I hitch up my skirts and climb trees damp with rain. They are there in my flushed cheeks as I dance to songs rife with nostalgic riffs. When I tell stories in a hushed voice to a rapt audience, I can almost see them in the back of the crowd, their bright blonde hair shining in the light, pug noses upturned as if they couldn’t care what I have to see, even as they strain to hear the tale. The bullies are there in every flinch I make when I say the wrong thing. Every time I can’t say “no” I’m reminded of the malicious gleam in their eyes. When I retreat into my Cancer moon shell, it is to mute the sound of their mocking laughter. It wasn’t all conch shells and warm waves.

My mother and father gave me the gift of imagination. Every time we’d explore open houses, pretending we were going to live there, I mentally tacked posters on the walls and planted flowers in the barren gardens. They stoked the curiosity of storytellers, with their stories about Rachel the raccoon and the Fey Queens Elizabethan and Alexandria. I dip cookies in my coffee because of my father. I whip up batches of sweets in the middle of the night, thanks to my mother. The sweet taste on my tongue never fails to make me grin. In every abandoned old home I see my father’s eyes in the leaded pane glass, winking at me as if to remind me what we could do to make it a lovely home once more. Every time I slip into faerie wings, I think of the delicate tips of Queen Elizabethan’s ears, the cadence of my mother’s voice humming lullabies. And still, superimposed over that image is the wan face of my dad, ringing the cancer treatment bell. The letters I wrote to say farewell, it’s ok because you’re in too much pain, tears catching on my nose before I could wipe them away. The angry storm of their footsteps every time I came home drunk. My mother’s pallor as we took a drive to escape the endless beeping of the feeding tube. The screaming. The weeping. The endings. They taught me how to love, how to leave, how to grow. I never did get good at saying goodbye, though.

My sister taught me how to smile through my tears, the light shimmering on lashes like old Hollywood movie stars. We learned how to dance in the kitchen while making brownies and bumping our hips, teasing each other and rolling our eyes and licking the battered spoons. I learned how to give people second (or third or fourth or fifth) chances, when all my Aquarius heart wanted to do was become a ghost. I watched the way she lit up the world, the way people orbited around like she was the sun itself, and I learned to shine, too, although my light was moonlit and mysterious. My friend Julie taught my younger self about what a true friend should be like, my first real friend in… forever. We learned together about shedding old ideals, climbing into a chrysalis and emerging as something winged and beautiful. We became children once again, playing within the ocean and dressing up in costumes. Letters and music, flowers and tears, sunsets and dawns; we gave each other our diaries for Christmas and became sisters. My friend Laura taught me about embracing the gifts we two had: innocence, writing, imagination. We raced around a slippery cabana deck and bent our heads, one dark and curly, the other blonde and pin straight, to the journals and pens we’d brought along. We summoned storms and starlight with pagan fingers and thunderous words, learning our powers. We paged through thesauruses and got ice cream over our fingers as we grew and grew and grew – together. My fox friend taught me about galaxies and soul stars. My wandering nomad of a friend taught me that seeing the world teaches you its own lessons. My Aether friend taught me to find pieces of my father in the kindred spirits around me. His cheerful gaiety always reminded me of the man who raised me. My lioness taught me how to change into someone fierce, strong and beautiful. She gave me a home, and a purpose, and a heart that regrew with every hug and laugh we shared. My Winter faerie taught me that even in the most bleak of places, in rustic and dark mountains, I could still dance and find heart twins in such an apocalypse. In her nurturing mother hands, I found safety. In hell, I found a slice of paradise with the Fey and my friend.

The first boy I loved taught me how to take that first dizzying, terrifying fall. He took my hand as we plunged through cotton candy clouds and swarths of melted starlight, laughing and free, caught at last and smiling about it. He also taught me that I was no woman; I was only a slip of a girl, confused and lost. The fall wasn’t as terrible as the landing, where my heart smashed into a billion garnet gems. I never did put it all together again; I didn’t find all the pieces. The scientist I fell for taught me about omens and fireworks, the loss of youth and freedom. He taught me to laugh at myself, and with him. I think I was still a child at heart when he dazzled me with lupine eyes. When I left, I was trying to climb up onto the precipice of knowledge and womanhood. I was trying to find myself again, and I didn’t know how to, with him. I’m still happy that he showed me how love can be warm without burning you. The elf with lavender eyes showed me how to giggle as I hid in the bushes, or how fun it was to watch his eyes go wide as I pretended to attack him, growling like an animal. He was my best friend. I didn’t know your lover could turn into your best friend, not the way we did. He taught me how to love life, as I learned to love him, and he learned to love me. I can taste bitter ash on my tongue when I speak his name, the way the salt of my tears cling to the consonants. Regret curdled my insides like poison. The hermit with clover eyes was my lightning moment; I was struck, half of my heart now scarred and blackened, albeit beautifully. I had the Grimm’s fairy tale kind of love with him: you know, the ones with a dark twist and an unhappy ending. He showed me the worst of myself, so I could become the best of myself. I’ll always love him for that, and for loving the villain parts of me and my story. My Faun took tender, tentative steps towards me, afraid I would shift into a Magnolia tree if he startled me. He was patient as I learned to trust, and taught me that he could be my lighthouse, even when I was both the ship and the storm. He has praised each small effort I’ve made, so that I feel like a queen at his side; he makes homemade noodles and I make homemade cannolis. And although he tried to teach me to love anchovies, there he failed. All else, though, has been peonies and peach sapphire love. He’s taught me the way love can be trusting, safe, warm and beautiful. 

I’m an amalgamation of all the people I’ve loved and hated. I’m an amalgamation of the people who have loved me and hated me, sometimes at the same time. I’m a faerie, witch, writer, butterfly, woodnymph, teacher, student, daughter, friend, villain, hero, love goddess, Hades, Persephone, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful… and I’m always adding more of me to the collection, as I meet more people to love, hate, and learn to feel.