I think every square foot of Philadelphia holds a reminder of something that means something--or once meant something--to me. Trite as it sounds, Philly was the setting of my coming of age.
I sat on a Rittenhouse Park bench this morning with my mom and sister, watching dogs and children play as bums mumbled to themselves on neighboring benches. The breeze rustled the leaves of the lush canopy overhead, and everywhere I looked, I saw myself, the me of my past. I saw Single Me, reading a book on the ledge, my back against the pillar, stopping occasionally to jot something down in my journal. I saw Me In Various Relationships--with the boy I just didn't love enough, with the boy I inexplicably loved too much, with the friends I had who I've lost touch with, with the friends whom I'll never allow myself to lose touch with. With the boy I love just enough.
My departure from Philadelphia marked the end of my pseudo-family vacation; I left my mom and sister there. My mom's visit was relaxing and soothing and full of bonding and love. It was the perfect remedy for a mother and daughter who didn't know they needed a remedy. The addition of my sister made it chaotic in the way that families are chaotic: the best way. Now I'm alone again, in the place I now call home, and the thing I'm most aware of is the fact the happiness that surrounds me here. If I were to leave Pittsburgh today and come back to visit, every square foot would remind me of the contentment I felt while I was here.
1 comment:
Isn't it funny how you can love "too much"? I read a portion of "The art of loving" by Eric Fromm today, and there was a paragraph or two on "idolatry love", the kind they show in movies, and he says- and I kind of agree- that it's a symptom of not having fully developed one's identity...or something (I didn't have much time to read it because my boss was coming down the elevator). So I guess it kind of makes sense that people tend to experience this kind of love in adolescent years.
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