Serendipity me manques.

I miss running into people I know on the street.

I miss places where you can sit and nurse a cup of coffee and a book for hours, even though I don't really do that in the States.

I miss American cups of coffee, in the paper cup with the little cardboard sleeve that you can grip while walking down the street. Espresso gets cold really, really fast.

I miss normal pillows. Wide squashy fluffy ones, that you can wrap your arm around or throw your leg over. Here you choose between two kinds of pillows - those roll things or the little square ones like toss pillows for dorm rooms. Mine is red.

I miss microwbrewed beer. French wine is great, but French beer ... well, French beer is Belgian beer, and I haven't found any yet that I can't get back home. I want a nice dry hoppy Glacial Pale Ale from Boscos on Madison at Cooper. Or Anchor Porter at the Liberty Cafe on Cortland. Or Pearl Street's Colorado Kind.

I miss cooking with my girlfriend. I miss the sound of her laugh. I miss her holding me while we laugh at the dubbed version of Iron Chef and wonder what the fuck they're going to do to make those weird sea urchins taste appetizing.

I don't think I have any idea what I want, these days.

I want to be a doctor. I want to fix people.

I want to never cry again.

I want to admit that I don't think mankind is really naturally good at heart.

I want to have a baby not because the world needs another person but because I deserve the right to be a mother.

I want to never be afraid again that I have said the wrong thing, and that my words are irreparable.

I want to hear Gena's voice on the phone.

I want to read a book because I can't stop.

I want to find the sentence that will make my father pack up the dogs and leave Memphis, because there will never be the time or the place or the people who will appreciate him there. I want the sentence that will tell my father that he is the wisest, kindest, and most brilliant man I've ever known, and that if I ever move a mountain, it will be because he taught me how to lift a shovel.

I want the sentence that will tell my mother that I know how scared she is of being misunderstood, because I share that same fear, passed down from her to me through Irish chromosomes. My mother and I, you see, share the the same tenacity, the same perspicacity, the same balls-to-the-wall, fuck-you-because-you'll-fuck-me-if-I-don't-outsmart-you terror. The same resistance for taking anything from anyone, even if we've earned it. The same relentless willfull energy. Because no matter how far we go or how much we do, neither of us believe that it's been enough.

I want my brother Daniel to call me, just to say hello.

I want to be old enough.

I want to tell Amanda that I'm selfish, and I'm sorry.

I want to tell all the people who think they want to change the world that all they really want is a way to rest easy in their own skins.

I miss the idea of being happy because of finding blackberries on a bush beside the road in France.

I miss having nothing at all to prove.