Marissa Lingen (mrissa) wrote,
Marissa Lingen
mrissa

Still in love.

Next month, it will be three years since we moved home. People kept telling me to prepare to be disappointed, which I thought was terrible advice at the time -- if you're prepared, it isn't disappointment, is it? it's sadness or anger or something else, but not disappointment -- and it looks just as bad from three years' vantage. I have not been disappointed. No.

Instead, I have moments like one today, when I was driving past the State Fairgrounds on my way to Finnish Bistro. I got to that bit of Como Ave. where you can see the Minneapolis skyline from the wrong side, and I had just passed billboards for Pronto Pups, Hamline, and the Wild. They were doing some late-season construction on Linnea House. I was on my way to have lunch with porphyrin. The sun was out, and the trees are that mature late-summer green that's just about to go crazy with fall. And my breath caught in my throat, because I love this place so much. It's the kind of thing where you hope no one tries to make you talk, because if you have to put the words on it in the moment, you will fly apart into tiny pieces. If it was a man, you'd maybe run a finger along his beard and smile, and if he asked you, "What?", you'd just say, "You." I don't know what you do when it's your city or your Cities, though. Bite your lip and keep driving and smile until your face hurts, while your heart sings home, home, home.

Tonight all my energy has run out like someone poked a hole in the bottom of the energy bucket, and I don't know if I'm coming down with something or just running short on sleep from the earlier-week nightmares, but I do know that I'd rather be sick or well here than anywhere else in the world.
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