The Story Of

We read a poem in class called "Dear Song" by Joshua Bell and in it there was a line went something like "I started this letter 15 times, and ended it only once." That line spoke to me a lot more than it should have, because lately I've been thinking a lot about all the different ways there are to live your life, and the unfortunate fact that we only get to do it once.

I wrote a poem last week about my Mom, and started it with the line "This is the story of a woman who had done it all wrong." It talked about how she was dissatisfied with life and so she picked up her dance hobby and did her best to start again. As much as my mother and I might not see eye to eye on life these days, I definitely admire her. I can't help but wonder if I'll ever be able to squeeze in more than one life.

These are the kind of thoughts that occur to me when I see people from my old life. Watching the evolution of your relationships is the best commentary on your life you can ask for. Last Sunday, I went to Jessica Feld's engagement party, and it seemed everyone I'd ever been acquaintances with was there, only they were different - they were on this whole different plane where they all wanted to be married and they all seemed so adult and they were pregnant and they were learning all the time and I don't want that for myself and I know that I don't but sometimes you're surrounded by it and it's so hard to remember that it's not what you want. There's just this world that looks so comfortable and set in its ways and you can't help but think "God, that's easy - it's just ready and waiting."

Tonight, Zehava Bloch and Yoni Kirschner each got engaged. To me, those names together remind me of lots of things: of Morasha in general; of Zehava always insisting that she and Yoni had liked each other at some point and even though I'm sure she was right, everyone always made fun of her; the back clique; being two of the only non-Brovender's people I spoke to in Israel...they mean years and years of things to me, only they're not those things anymore. Zehava's not the 11-year-old girl I taught the word "slut" to, or the girl going to Mars 2112 with me for my 17th birthday, and Yoni's not the high school senior I hooked up with in Miami or the guy I went to bars with in Israel. And that's weird, because they can't stop being that to me, even if they're both directly on the path to adulthood, and they're both frum, and grounded, and mature, and so long past those days that they never look back.

I wish I didn't find it so painful to think that no one ever looks back but me.

I see people I used to know - I mean really know - and I wonder if they remember that we ever had anything to do with each other. I see Jon Miller and I wonder if he remembers that we once talked on the phone for four hours, and that he wrote me letters when I was in camp, even in Israel. I see Ilan Ulmer and I wonder if he remembers that we used to hang out in camp all the time. I see Daphna and I wonder if she remembers that when we were in seventh grade, we used to talk on the phone every single night without fail. I think about Michael Kraft and how I was such a bitch and I wonder if there is anything I could do to fix it, and if he even remembers my name. I think about Altman's wedding, and how I sat there with people who I had considered my best friends in high school and I realized that somewhere along the line I had been totally cast off and I suppose I will never know exactly why, and I'll blame it on the fact that I don't do drugs because it's better than thinking I'm just not likeable. I think about Dani Leeds. I think about Noah Klein.

I think and I wonder and it tells me that I am the story of a girl who did it all wrong.