IT'S ALWAYS SUNNIER IN SOMEONE ELSE'S PARKING LOT...

Ok, so I pretty much suck. It's been far too long since I have updated, and I honestly feel bad about it, as people who start blogs and never write in them is actually in my Top 100 most annoying things on the planet. But in my defense, I have been insanely busy with work, school and the revolving door of visitors I've been hosting since moving up here.

I've seen, done, and consumed some really amazing/interesting/unbelievable things in the last couple weeks, and I promise to include more on all that soon. In short, I love this city more with each passing day and hope that this feeling stays with me for years to come.

In the meantime, here is my latest writing assignment, for anyone interested in pickin up what I've been puttin down. If not, look for more in depth updates on life in the WINDY CITY (ya I can really say that after today) very soon.



A Sunnier Disposition

I suppose I used to like sunflowers. Perhaps in a way that you enjoy anything beautiful and unassuming that never captures too much of your attention at any one time. It’s remarkable, though, how a situation can completely alter your perception of an inanimate object, taking something perfectly ordinary and giving it a new meaning.

After my Father’s unexpected passing during the summer of 2001, the sunflower became one of those things, eerily rearing its head at unexpected times, linking together a string of unrelated events in a matter of weeks that could have easily been deemed coincidental until they just couldn't anymore, with the help of an otherwise hopeless afternoon late in the summer, when I was served brunch on a patio with an undeniable side of hope.

The sun was bright, but more forgiving than weeks prior. I stood hunched over in a bank parking lot with my hands on my knees, hoping to soon regain my bearings, not to mention my dignity which was now mixed in somewhere on the cement with the rest of last night's dinner. I stood up and opened one eye very slowly in attempt to fool my insistent, pulsating headache. I wiped the sides of my mouth and caught a glimpse of myself in the window. I silently scolded my reflection; it almost tricked me into believing I was this composed, attractive young woman dressed in summer white, instead of some unrecognizable, roving pile of hungover, emotional wreckage.

I rounded the corner back toward the car, where my Mom and sisters waited for me to finish getting sick in a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. The car ride was hushed and resembled a bus sparsely littered with strangers rather than a family on route to Sunday brunch. We meandered through the quiet neighborhood before stopping in front of one of the perfectly manicured homes. From the moment the car door opened and my aunt and cousin climbed in, my aunt’s incessant chatter filled the air. For once, it wasn’t met with averted glances and exasperated sighs. In fact, the noise was a welcome alternative to the deafening silence that blanketed our world for the few weeks before.

Brunch was a blur, interspersed with gourmet omelets, salmon croquettes and frequent rushes of nausea that sent me scurrying to the restroom through the well-to-do crowd on the café patio. Toward the end of the meal, my cell phone jingled on the table and the ‘unavailable’ number sent my stomach lurching in a whole different direction. It was my boyfriend, and thanks to several weeks of isolation in basic training at the Air Force Academy, it was the first time we spoke after my Father passed away. He received the news, however, nearly two weeks before by a hand-written letter.

I barely made it to a nearby bench before tears, the first since the funeral, began streaming relentlessly down my cheeks. As I watched them disintegrate on the steaming pavement below, something stepped between the sun and my bench. I looked up to see the sunlit outline of a young, Mexican busboy standing over me. He held out his hand and extended a small vase, half-filled with water and boasting a solitary sunflower.

I stared at him for a moment, confused, before looking to my family for some clarity. I was convinced they had sent him over, but the collective look of shock on their faces proved otherwise. As the boy handed me the flower, he told me to stop crying and promised me, in broken English and with a crooked smile, that everything would be okay. For some reason, despite the doubt that encased the endless waves of assurance from those closest to me, I believed him.

I can never be sure what compelled him to come over that day or why he chose that flower as his offering. He couldn’t have possibly known the significance of his gesture or that it may have lifted a complete stranger out of something deep. Deeper than uncomfortable car rides, unwelcome chatter and untouched croquettes. Deeper than fathers and funerals and long-awaited phone calls. Deeper than most anything on any given day, except the unadorned offering of hope on a sunny July Sunday.






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