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My Best Friend’s Wedding

It feels like we were just roaming Newbury Street on a hot summer day in Boston. You were interning for a wedding planner, I was acting in LA visiting. I remember the boy who broke your heart that summer, the same one you were there for. We spent that entire weekend with him eating famous clam chowders and watching Tom Brady play with the rest of the townies.

You were always the cooler one, turning me on to beer at a Celtics game. You promised it was an acquired taste. We danced the night away the night the Celtics won celebrating just because.

Fast forward to you, in Chicago, living your best life with the love of your life whom you met while pursuing a master’s degree in an entirely unrelated career. And here I am, writing in New York City, flying out with him to help surprise you.

Cheers to life not always turning out the way we want it, darling. Every turn leading us to our happiest ending.

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home, story

Red Hot American Days

Holly Golightly: I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.

I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.

My mother remarried and we moved to the States. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our adoptive grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, a lover of film and dance.

My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, we sat enamored watching Patsy as she put on her drop earrings last.

I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s hideaway place, the local library.

I remember rushing home with her leading us to the den to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand then.

The only thing that quenched our thirst more: Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.

Image from Pleasantville