Tonight I made pizza. I cried the whole time I was doing it.
The last time I made pizza, I was still living in Grand Rapids. I was still living with the pup. I was still living with my boys. Before starting to write tonight I checked to see if I had mentioned it at all on here, and I did. It was November 16th 2009. I stopped at a Meijer on the way home from night class to pick up ingredients. I was taking night classes then because I had a morning job and an afternoon job, so I went to class in the evening. Clearly my time was occupied, but I missed my boys and I wanted to do something nice for them. When I got home that night two of them were on the couch playing video games, one was upstairs in his room studying medical books, and I'm pretty sure the last one was chasing girls. I began to cook and chop and assemble, the pup sat eagerly in the kitchen watching me; silently willing me to drop something to the floor so she could lap it up. It didn't take long for the two playing video games to make their way into the kitchen to see what I was making. And it didn't take long for them to claim a seat in the kitchen nook, silently willing me to drop a plate of pizza in front of them. Eventually the one that was upstairs studying came down too, entering the kitchen in a hoodie and moccasins, exclaiming that the whole house smelled of onions and wanting to know why. By the time the pizzas were out of the oven all four of us were sitting in the kitchen nook talking and telling each other what was going on in our lives( I made sure there were left overs for the one chasing girls). It felt so good. It was a perfect moment, in my life. I loved those boys, I loved that house, I loved that dog, I loved the life I had then. I will forever, until the day God puts me down, refer to them as my boys. Because that's how I saw them, I claimed them, whether they wanted it or not, and I did everything I could to keep it all together. After it fell apart, I vowed to myself to never lay claim on a guy again. And I haven't.
That was the first time I left Grand Rapids, after the second time I left Grand Rapids I vowed to never make plans for the future, and I still haven't. Since coming back to Illinois, post fleeing in the middle of the night, I haven't made any plans on what to do with my life in the future. After having everything I had made, after the life that I had built and suffered for, taken and broken so quickly I don't have the energy to try and assemble something again. What happens now, is I do whatever is in front of me. I do and/or perform so I can collect a paycheck. But something inside of me wanted to make a pizza. So I planned on making a pizza for my parents. Then my day got shot to shit when I was called my job #2 and asked why I was 80 minutes late for my shift. So my dinner plans got ruined. My baby steps got gunned down right in front of me. For the record, it was a scheduling error on job #2's fault, not mine. But the point is, I didn't get to make the pizza dinner I had planned. I didn't get to feel like an actual human, who does actual human things, and who makes actual human plans. Instead I went to work. When I got home, I still wanted to make it though. So, at ten thirty six at night, with my dad sitting across the counter watching me, I began to make a pizza in the kitchen. About five minutes in, while beginning to dice the olives, I began to cry. I began to cry, but I still made the pizza. I stood there chopping, while tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried for having to leave my life in Grand Rapids, I hadn't done that yet. I cried for the fact that I won't see the pup ever again. That gorgeous, smart and wonderful mutt who meant so much to us all. I cried because I won't see my boys ever again. And I cried because I miss them everyday; not all day, but at least once a day I have the pang of knowing everything has passed. I cried because of how silly it is that one person, one tiny, minute person, can ruin my whole world. One person wanted me dead, wanted me gone, and now everything seems topsy turvy because of it. My approach was not to dwell on it, to count my blessings and be glad I was alive; that July afternoon could have gone drastically different, I know that. But I didn't let myself acknowledge the fact that I was so pissed. I was holding it together, right up until I was making a pizza in the kitchen of my parents condo. Somewhere between the red gravy and the fresh oregano I broke open. My dad was actually really good about. When I first started we began to get up from the stool to come and comfort me, but I signaled for him to sit back down. I didn't need to be consoled, everyone had been doing that since I moved back, what I needed was to just fucking cry. So he sat and listened while I told him about the last time I had made pizza, how it was a perfect symbol of the life I once had. He let me tell him how everything was so screwed up, while I spread the dough in the pan. In between sobs I explained how it didn't seem right that one person could topple the entire structure I had made. And then, after I had put them both in the oven, he began to clean up the kitchen and I went to my bathroom and Stridexed my face. A nasty side effect of emotions is break outs, and I hate those. While I was patting down my cheeks, I thought about how wonderful it would be if I could just sizzle my anger away. It would be brilliant if I could just dump it into a bowl and put it on the bottom rack of the oven and burn it into a charred oblivion. But, that's not how it works.
The pizza was perfect. The time I shared it with my boys, and again tonight. The first night was almost two years ago exactly, and yet perfect pizza was still perfect pizza. I will never have my Grand Rapids life again, that perfection is lost forever; but I am beginning to believe that some new form of perfection can be found. If I made it once, I can make it again.
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"Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe its as simple as that. Richard was the person Clarissa loved at her most optimistic moment." -M. Cunningham in The Hours. (My most favorite author, and my most favorite book.)
