Slay

You know how balloons sometimes look over-inflated? Like they might burst at any moment? That’s you.

When you explode, will your anger come blasting out like a dragon spewing fire? That’s what I imagine. Not sure what I’ll do, dragons are hard to slay.

I’ve never experienced having to walk on eggshells and I don’t like how they feel. You might think egg shells wouldn’t hurt, but you would be wrong; my feet are scraped raw.

Don’t know how we got here, but it’s not a destination that I ever wanted to visit. I would like to leave immediately. Can we hop on a plane? Maybe if we go someplace tropical your anger will melt away.

Surely the universe or God wants better for us. Then again I’m not sure I believe in God. I pray every night, but that might just be a leftover habit from two excruciating years of Catholic school.

Living in anger’s house is exhausting. I have never been this tired. But, my spirit is slowly re-awakening. It’s as if my spirit went for a spa weekend and came back feeling renewed – remembering how to sparkle again.

And guess what? I just found out that sparkle can slay dragons.

Art by Lou Benesch

Do You Remember?

Remember in high school when we used to buy weed at the health food store? Our dealer worked there. He would pass us the drugs at the check-out counter as we paid for apples and yogurt-covered raisins.

So many memories of you and I. Always together as a team. Often up to no good, but maintaining excellent grades so that our parents stayed off our backs.

And always secretly in love with each other.

Sure we were part of a larger clique, but we were inseparable. Rolling our eyes at each other as Jenny and Steve made out in the hallway. Trying to make each other laugh in math class so that our teacher Mr. Halloway finally separated us. You had that thing where you flared your nostrils and it got me every time. Even if you were across the room, if I looked up and saw you flaring your nostrils I would burst out laughing.

Remember Halloween 1984? We dressed up as Sony and Cher and won best costume duo at the dance. That was the same year that Erica passed out in the coat room.

“She could choke on her vomit, she drank like five screwdrivers, let’s stay with her” you said, so we smoked cigarettes watching over her until she woke up.

Where were the teachers? The parents? I literally don’t remember anyone really in charge back then. Good God.

We occasionally dated people, but it was just for show. We weren’t actually interested in anyone but each other.

Remember that private school guy I dated for a few months? He was a fencer. You used to make fun of his fencing uniform and it was ridiculous. You dated that pretty Australian girl for awhile, the one who smelled like cherry lip gloss. I made fun of your mouth because it was always shiny after she kissed you.

Applying to colleges we made sure to apply to the same ones, or at least colleges in the same area. In the end you chose Columbia and I chose NYU and on the weekends we would meet up and go dancing at that crazy club. It was in a church. What was it called? Limelight! It was called Limelight. We saw kids shooting up heroin there and it scared me, so you grabbed my hand and flared your nostrils to make me laugh.

And then there was that night: tripping on mushrooms in Central Park. It was right after December exams and we were making snow angels and giggling at the stars which looked like psychedelic planets to us.

“I’ve been in love with you since the ninth grade, when you walked into home room wearing those pointy black buckled boots. You were so cool. So smart and funny. Way out of my league. But I swore that one day I would marry you.”

“Whaaaat?” I yelled, throwing snow on you.

“I’ve been in love with YOU since I saw you in home room. You were wearing skinny black cords and a Clash t-shirt and I thought you were the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.”

You grabbed my face with your mittens, the mittens your grandmother knit you every winter and you kissed me. We kissed and we kissed and we kissed and oh my god it felt so good to kiss you; I’d been waiting for years.

“I know we’re baked, but damn Lizzie I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

“Oh my God our parents will freak out!” I said between kisses.

“But, yes, I’ll marry you,” I said smiling.

A few days later we were standing in Manhattan’s City Clerk’s Office. You wearing a secondhand black suit, white shirt, skinny tie and your Chuck Taylors. Me wearing a 1960’s black lace dress, rhinestone earrings and black heels borrowed from my wealthy roommate. We bought our rings from a street vendor named Tate who made jewelry from discarded wire.

You remembered to bring your Nikon and we payed the security guard to take photos of us. God we were beautiful. Young and beautiful and so in love.

Who gets married in their Junior year of college? No one. So we kept it a secret.

We moved into that tiny east village apartment, the one near Avenue A. Our first night in our new home was Chinese take out from Lily’s around the corner. We ate with chopsticks, sitting on the beautiful Persian carpet that I had scored on garbage night. I eventually decorated our whole apartment with furniture I found on garbage night, mostly from the upper east side. I would take the subway home with all kinds of treasures: 1930’s standing lamps, ornate gold mirrors, mid-century artwork…People threw out good stuff back then.

Making love on that tiny futon up in the loft until we were exhausted and starving. You would climb down the rickety ladder to fetch us a snack and we’d fall asleep listening to “Pictures of You” by The Cure.

“Mom, let me take over for you. You’re exhausted. Go home and get some rest. I’ll stay here with dad.”

“Thanks love,” I say, taking my daughter’s hand.

“I’m going to read him my new poems. I’m pretty sure he can hear me, I think it soothes him.”

“Oh good, he loves your writing. And of course he can hear you, your father is still in there, we just need to give him time to wake up. Tatiana is the nighttime nurse, they have the sweetest southern accent.”

“Okay. Make sure to eat something when you get home. I bought you groceries and a nice bottle of red.”

“Oh what a nice treat, thank you Lily-Rose.”

Bending down to kiss your freckled forehead, I whisper in your ear:

“Beautiful man, wake up from your sleep. I need you. Lily-Rose needs you. Our love story is not finished yet, we have many chapters to go still.”

Photo by Mario De Biasi, Milan 1961

Betrayal

What happened?
Why didn’t you protect me?
I’m your spirit
You’re nothing without me, like a balloon with no air
I can’t believe you betrayed me like this
Your only job as a human was to protect me, to keep me alive and vibrant
You failed
Maybe I should feel sorry for you, show more compassion, try to understand why you let this happen
But I’m too angry
I gave you so many good years
So much Radiance. Laughter. Beauty. Sparkle. Enthusiasm. Joy. Abundance.
And this is how you repay me?
You watched as he broke me into pieces
You didn’t fight for me
You gave up
So don’t you dare assume that I’m going to get right back up and start twirling and tossing my damn glitter baton high up in the air for you
NO
Show me that you remember how breathtaking I am
Show me that you cherish me and will protect me forever
And then maybe, maybe I will come back and light up your life again

By artist Debra Bernier:

https://shapingspirit.myshopify.com

Fall Flowers

Scrolling through my Spotify playlists to find that song.
That song that makes me feel so good.
So good that when I walk along Queen Street with the sun shining and my fake Raybans on, I feel unstoppable.
There, found it. Press play.

Now I am beautiful.
I am emotionally, physically and spiritually healthy.
The kind of woman who drinks Matcha tea, organic wine and eats only eggs from the really happy hens, not the sad ones in cages.
Effortlessly chic.
I am fulfilled.
I use crystal rituals in my weekend self-care routines.
I am in a relationship that is both deep and nourishing, yet light and joyful.

Let me play this song again, just one more time.
I don’t want to let go of this version of myself quite yet.
I love her.
I looooove her.
Okay, it’s on repeat. All is good. I’m still her.

I smile at strangers walking past me, admire Halloween decorations and wave at a little toddler wearing sparkly shoes.
Being her means my roots are always touched up, never grey.
I practice yoga and tantric sex, giving my complexion that gorgeous, glow-y from within look.
I don’t just live, I thrive.

Oh no, someone is calling me, interrupting my time with her.
It’s my husband.
I answer.

“Can you pick up some snacks, you know like chips and stuff? The guys are coming over tonight to watch the game.”

“Sure, no problem,” I say lightly trying not to lose her.

I pop into our local grocer, waving at the checkout guy.
I’m still her, for a little longer.
I grab chips and pretzels and all the usual crap that my husband likes eating while watching sports.
Then I grab myself a bouquet of mixed fall flowers, that’s what she would do.
She would buy herself flowers every week, never leaving them to die and rot in the vase.
I spot a container of overpriced pre-cut fruit pieces – her favorite.

I replay the song again.
I feel so good being her.
She loves dark chocolate with sea salt, so I toss a couple of bars into my basket.
In the refrigerator, next to the Kombucha, is a new drink I’ve never seen before.
It’s called Goddess Juice, a turmeric based elixir that you take as a daily shot for:
“Enhancing your inner functioning, wellbeing and spirit,” the label says.
Oh this is exactly what she would like, she would totally buy this.

I pause my music so I can chat with the checkout guy.

“You watching the game tonight? I’ve got a good feeling about this one, I think the Leafs are gonna win.”

“My husband is. He just bought himself a special beer fridge for the new season.”

“Sweet.”

I pay, then continue walking home.
I’m now balancing two paper bags plus my purse, it’s too much and I’ve got several blocks to go.
Even though I’m still playing the song I feel her disappearing.

“Why can’t he buy his own snacks? What am I, his mother?”

As the irritation grows I feel her slipping further and further away. She’s wearing oatmeal-colored cashmere loungewear and she doesn’t like my energy right now.

I walk the final block to our tiny row house; I’m sweating. It’s fall but somehow I’m sweating.
I turn the key and my husband meets me at the door:

“Thanks babe, you’re fucking amazing,” he says as he takes the two bags and kisses my forehead.

He’s talking to me about I don’t know what, not even noticing the Goddess Juice, which is something he would usually make fun of. I hide the juice at the bottom of the fridge and fill a vase with water.

“I have a good feeling about the Leafs tonight, I think they’re gonna win,” I say while arranging my flowers.

“Ah babe, that’s what I like to hear. Go Leafs!” he yells, emptying bags of chips into bowls.

I pour myself a glass of red wine and take a sip, followed by a bite of dark chocolate with sea salt – it’s exactly what she would do. And My God it’s delicious.

https://janneford.com

Dry Hands

Let’s do it
Let’s jump together
Into lightness, into frivolity
I know it’s not usually where we hang out
We usually hang out in the darkness, in the heaviness
But I don’t like it here anymore
It’s sad and it’s hard to breathe
Please, take my hand and let’s jump together
No, I can’t promise anything
It might not work
Maybe we are not meant to live in lightness
Maybe in a past life we were horrible people and now we have to live in the darkness, you know like karma
But I think that’s unlikely
I think if we jumped into lightness, into joy
I think we would really like it there
We could laugh and sing and eat cake
I mean who doesn’t like cake?
Let’s try, it’s worth trying isn’t it?
Take my hand
I know my hand will probably feel weird because you’re not used to holding it
And it might be a little dry because I always forget to moisturize
But we deserve silly nights together, going to the fair and eating cotton candy
True, we don’t have an actual fair in this big angry city we live in, but think of it more like a metaphor
Take my hand and let’s just try
Let’s jump
And if you don’t like the light you can go back to the darkness
But I think I’m going to like the light
I’m ready for the light
Truthfully I’ve never liked living in this dark heavy place
I guess I should have told you that I didn’t like it here
But I felt like I wasn’t allowed to say anything
And it really is getting so hard to breathe
So please, won’t you take my hand and jump into the lightness with me?

Art by Willy Pogany

All The Candy You Want

It is both a beautiful blessing and kind of an odd curse to be so close with your parents. I cannot imagine my life without them.

Every time my mother falls, often hitting her head, I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. Yesterday she fell while I was visiting and though I was able to help her somewhat, I was not able to lift her up. So I made her comfortable on the floor and I fed her ice cubes while we waited for my father to return home from golf (she did not want me to call 911). Apparently they had perfected a way of him lifting her up:

“He should be finished his game by now, but he might be having lunch at the club. Call the restaurant.”

I called and he had just left. God forbid my dad actually bring his cell phone with him. So my dog Lexie sat with us on the bathroom floor for 45 minutes and every so often she tried stealing ice cubes from my mother’s mouth, convinced they were treats.

Having just turned 80, my dad is in relatively good health, but recently he’s been looking much older. When it’s hot and humid out and he insists on playing golf three days in a row – even though he returns home looking haggard – I’m tempted to call the club and scream:

“How could you let this man play so many days? He’s going to die out there and I swear to God I will come for blood if that happens!”

Of course I am not that un-hinged, at least not yet, so instead I use my loving daughter skills to convince him to take a day off. I think he’s happy to have the rest. On some level he knows he needs it.

At dinner he regals us with funny stories from his youth. Like the time he drove an out of town date to a garbage dump to watch bears scavenge for treats (he grew up in Northern Ontario):

“You did not do that dad!”

His face lighting up, he answers:

“I did.”

Chiming in, my mom says:

“He was hoping the girl would jump in his arms for protection.”

Almost every day my mother falls asleep at the breakfast table. Many times I have found her slumped over, newspaper on the floor. Fearing the worst, I shake her frantically:

“Mom, mom wake up, WAKE UP!”

Though her feet and ankles are gnarled like old trees from arthritis, my mother still jazzes up her orthopaedic sneakers with brightly colored shoe laces. I love that about her. She also keeps jewelry in pill boxes and stays up until 3 AM writing cards to relatives. After her children were grown and out of the house, she went back to university and got her Master’s Degree and PhD. My mother lives for literature, ceramics, art and gemstones. Everyone loves chatting with “Mary” and everyone knows her:

“Oh is this cappuccino for Mary? Are you Mary’s daughter? Say hi to your mom for me,” Starbucks staff say.

The idea of my mother not being around to write me cryptic, all CAPS emails, signed “L, MOM” is inconceivable.

Until the age of three I was very happily an only child, when much to my dismay my brother appeared. According to family lore I tried murdering him by pushing his baby carriage down a steep hill. That sounds a tad dramatic to me, I mean I was only three. But my mother swears I tried to kill him. A year and a half later another brother came along and I remained un-impressed. I had loved being an only child and didn’t understand the need to complicate our lives with these loud, ridiculous boys.

Speaking of dramatic, my father has developed the most dramatic, terrifying cough, apparently due to “particles in his lungs.” Of course he only got that diagnosis (and an inhaler), after my mother and I badgered him for six months:

“You sound like you’re dying, could you PLEASE go to the doctor?” we pleaded. He keeps his inhaler in their antique writing desk and likes demonstrating the correct way to use it:

“You have to attach the inhaler to this thing – the chamber – and you have to inhale TWO times, not one.”

When my father needs my help with something having to do with emails, his computer, or things like vaccine paperwork, he often slips back into his “I’m a lawyer and you’re my secretary” mode and I have to check him:

“Dad, don’t use that work voice, I’m not your secretary.”

He loves wearing only one hearing aid so that multiple conversations are happening simultaneously:

“The Russians invaded Ukraine,” I’ll say.

“I know, there’s too much rain here,” he’ll answer.

The idea of my father not being around to drive me nuts is inconceivable too.

“When you were a baby we drove to New England with you in a laundry basket in the back seat,” he tells me over blueberry pie and ice cream.

“Ummm, that’s a little crazy!” I answer laughing. He loves seeing me get worked up over his stories.

Recently I said to my mother:

“You guys can’t die, I can’t live without you.”

“I know. But you’ll get through it. The grief will be horrible, but then it will start coming in smaller, less intense waves.”

Hugging her I said,

“No, I won’t get through it.”

“You can have me made into jewelry and wear me.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked my mother horrified.

“You can turn my ashes into a diamond, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Then again, it might not be such a crazy idea. Better than a Catholic funeral. I remember my grandmother lying in her coffin in Hartford CT: the mortician had done a half assed job of sewing up her mouth. I leaned down close to her face, (closer than is proper etiquette), fixating on her stitches.

“But imagine if I lost you. Like if I lost your ashes-to-diamond jewelry?”

“Not a problem. You’re really good at finding things.”

That’s true. Whenever my parents lose something I usually find it within minutes.

Pre-grieving my parents’ death is of course an insane way to live, so I’m trying my best to stay in the present and enjoy every minute with them and write down all their stories:

“The neighbourhood boys tied me to a telephone pole because I wouldn’t give up my candy,” my mom recounted casually one day to me over shortbread cookies.

“OMG! That’s horrible, how scary.”

“I know and I was really upset because they took all my candy. When I didn’t come home from the store my mother went looking for me and and when she found me tied to the pole she said:
‘Mary, you could drive a saint to drink.'”

“That’s a horrible reaction, she was blaming you,” I said, but then we both burst out laughing. Later that night I noticed that there were several boxes of candy in the kitchen cupboard: chocolate balls, jujubes, hard toffee with creamy insides, turtles, mints…Now she gets all the candy she wants.

Maybe if I had kids of my own I would be too busy raising teenagers to spend so much time fixating on my parents. They would have loved to have had grandchildren. Instead my mother buys her grand-dog cozy velour blankets in every shade of the rainbow; Lexie has her own section in their hall closet. And my father adores her:

“You’re the best dog aren’t you? You’re the very best dog,” he says as he pets her lovingly.

In the TV room Lexie sits next to my father on the couch as he watches the news, or above his head on top of his giant reading chair as he reads The Wall Street Journal.

I’m fiercely protective of them and the older they get the more Mama Bear like my love for them becomes. Now if only I could find a way to keep them safe and healthy forever.

Spiritual Fixer

“I’m broken.”
“You are not broken.”
“But I am.”

“You might feel broken, but you are not broken. Do you hear me? You are not.”
“Okay.”

“Feeling broken is your psyche’s way of waving a giant red flag, it’s telling you to make changes immediately. Feeling broken is a warning sign and you must – you must – take it seriously.”

“I understand. Except that because I feel broken I also feel exhausted, unable to do anything.”

“That’s because you’ve given all your power away, you didn’t mean to, but you did. And that’s left you feeling tired: no power = no energy. I understand my dear sweet thing. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: you have a hidden reserve of power. Think of it like a backup generator. And in emergencies – like now – you need to switch that generator ON to power you up.”

“Well I don’t know, that sounds a little nuts. A backup generator to magically give me energy so that I can make changes in my life?”

“What’s nuts is that you’re allowing the life to be choked out of you.”

“Well…”

“Either you believe me and tap into that backup generator to energize yourself, or I’ll move on to help someone else. I’m not getting any younger.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to take up all your time, I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. Are you God?”

“God? No. If there’s a God he’s been on one long-assed vacation – I mean just look at the mess this world is in! Think of me more like a Fixer, A Spiritual Fixer.”

“That sounds like the name of a Netflix Series that I would watch.”

“Good, then maybe you’ll listen to me and use your backup generator and get your damn life turned around so you can stop feeling broken.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it. I believe you. I’m turning the generator on. Next time you see me I will have taken back all my power, I promise you.”

“Glad to hear it. Now I’ve got a busy schedule today, it seems there are a lot of people feeling broken in your neighborhood, so I’m off.”

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll email you my invoice.”

“Wait, you charge for your services?”

“Well of course I charge for my services, why wouldn’t I? A girl’s gotta eat – and buy shoes! I’ll check in on you in two weeks, there’s no charge for the follow-up appointment.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then, bye.”

“Bye sweetness. And remember: you’ve got this, you really do.”

Artwork by Lucia Dami

Light Catcher

Twirling in the park, trying to catch my light
I know it’s out here
I just have to twirl a little faster
My arms outstretched
I almost had it earlier, but it slipped through my fingers
Like when you’re trying to climax but you can’t
Frustration
I can do this
This light is mine for the taking
If other people get to have their light then I do too
I’m going to twirl in this park until it’s mine
Like Wonder Woman spinning from her civilian clothes into her superhero outfit
I’m spinning to get my version of that
I mean I’ll make it my own, I’m not going to copy Wonder Woman’s look
Mine will probably be a black lace dress
My tiara will be made of iridescent crystals and vintage rhinestones
I’ll wear over-the-knee black suede boots like the ones I had in the 80’s from Le Chateau
Witch-y chic meets Urban Boho
Whatever, I’ll figure out the aesthetic later on
Right now I need to concentrate
That light is rightfully mine
And by the way that light is also rightfully yours
So why aren’t you twirling in the park with me?
Come join me, we’ll twirl together
We need a twirling Spotify playlist
I’m thinking a Kate Bush/FKA Twigs/Tori Amos/Billie Elish vibe
I’m tossing my head back now because that’s what people do when they twirl, at least in the movies
Though I have a bad neck so I need to be careful
What will I do when I catch the light you ask?
I will use the light to guide me down the path that I already know I’m meant to take, it’s just been too dark for me to follow
Like a fancy flashlight, the light will beautifully illuminate my way
It will also give me special powers, different than Wonder Woman’s powers, like I won’t have The Lasso of Truth
Instead, I’ll speak my truth at all times, I won’t ever make myself small, I will speak my truth even if others don’t like it
I’ll put up boundaries with ease: “sorry your energy is wack, I’m outta here”
I’ll become best friends with my anxiety and calm her the fuck down
I’ll let go of everything that doesn’t serve me, like packing lightly for a trip:
I want to be the chic woman traveling with only one carry-on bag, not the frazzled sweating woman who’s checking two oversized suitcases held together with duct tape
My light will laser-beam away old trauma, making room – so so much room – for me to thrive
I’ll use my light to help anyone in need – so long as they have love in their heart
They can plug into me and I’ll charge them – just like charging an electric car
Light-infused energy will flood their body and psyche, allowing them to live with more ease & experience more joy
Maybe I’ll create a lovely room for people to relax while they plug into me, like “I Dream of Jeannie’s” room – a circular purple velvet couch with pink satin pillows
All this to say, that if you happen to see a woman twirling in the park don’t worry
It’s just me trying to catch my light

✨Artwork by Daria Hlazatova. Find her on Instagram✨

Spectacular

I miss you
I miss how we were together
At least I miss the memory of how we were together
I can’t honestly say whether my memories are 100% correct
It is entirely possible that I have romanticized things, embellished things; I do have a flair for the dramatic.
But regardless, whether my memory is “correct” or not, I don’t care.
I still miss you
I still miss us
You believed in me
You didn’t want me to dim my light, you wanted me to radiate.
You wanted me to sparkle like a crystal chandelier with high voltage lightbulbs
My light made you happy
To be encouraged to shine like a fucking diamond was the most beautiful feeling
Really, I’m not interested in any other kind of love
Truth be told, there is a chance that my psyche imagined this entire relationship.
That I never had someone like you
That you are a figment of my spectacular mind
If that’s the case, then I still don’t care
Because what I miss – you, us – is what I want in my life
I don’t want anything less
I won’t settle
What’s the point?
The planet is burning, there is no time for anything less
There is only time to love in a way that allows the other to blossom from a little bud to a glorious flower.
If we all loved like that, helping each other become our most sublime versions of ourselves, we might create an energy force so powerful that we could save the fucking world.

Modern Art

“Lily is practicing witchcraft. Like spells and shit.”

“Marcus – language! Lily, what’s this about witchcraft?”

“You better watch out idiot. I’ll put a spell on you and you’ll lose your next soccer game.”

“Kids, that’s enough. Can we please just enjoy this delicious lasagna that I bought from the overpriced takeout place?”

“It’s perfect babe and so is the salad, bread and wine.”

Jen leaned across the table and touched Monica’s hand.

“How was school today?” Jen asked.

“Lame,” answered Lily.

“Not that bad actually,” Marcus said, stuffing a large piece of garlic bread into his mouth.

“Lily, why was school lame?” Monica asked

Lily sighed.

“Because our educational system is broken. It’s astounding that I even know how to spell and read.”

“Oh Lily, don’t be so dramatic. Your school is one of the best in the city.”

Monica took a long sip of wine and eyed her children. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes she wished she’d never had kids. Sometimes she wished that she and Jen had just become foster parents to cats and dogs. Sometimes having one pre-teen and one teenager was just too fucking much.

“Well I had a challenging day. This new show I’m on is going to be a beast. But I like the lead actor, he’s totally down to earth – Chris Evermore – do you kids know him?”

“OMG Chris Evermore? Mom, I have to come to set with you, he is the most beautiful actor ever!”

“He is pretty handsome, I mean if you like chiseled males with wavy hair, green eyes and sparkling smiles.”

“He’s my favorite vampire from that Netflix series and I love his British accent,” Jen said.

“When you’re doing a fitting with him you have to text me,” Lily pleaded.

“Absolutely not. My work is actual work, it’s not for instagram selfies with celebs.”

After dinner Lily went to her room where she finished her homework then texted her best friend Ryder:

“Working on tarot cards. Talk later. xo”

Ryder texted back a line of witch emojis.

Switching on her IKEA faux candle to create a vibe, (real candles were forbidden in their house due to her parents’ shared fear of fire), Lily waved a selenite crystal over her cards, her body and around the bedroom to cleanse the energy.

Taking a few deep breaths, she shuffled the tarot deck while focusing on the question she wanted to ask:

“Should I lose my virginity to Isaiah?”

She and Isaiah had been friends since they were eight years old, they were fifteen now. They weren’t dating, but they both wanted to lose their virginity.

“It’s like too much pressure to be a virgin, I need some experience under my belt. You think I’m cool, but like no other girls do,” Isaiah complained, as they smoked pot in his backyard a couple of weeks ago.

“That’s because our school is made up of 90% losers. I mean we’re supposed to be an uber progressive collegiate, but like we have a giant football team and cheerleaders straight out of a John Hughes movie. What the fuck?”

“Totally. But I mean so many guys like you, you could be dating if you wanted to.”

“Isaiah, I’m gonna stop you right there. As I was saying earlier 90% of our schoolmates are losers. Derek Jeffries wants to run the Republican Party and one day he probably will – which is terrifying. Jared Keto is a sleaze-bag wanna be poet who has fucked at least 20 girls – and those are only the girls that I know about. Imagine him reciting some atrocious poem and then me sleeping with him. Like NO. Then there’s Moses and even though everyone says he has a thing for me and even though he’s gorgeous – I totally get a gay vibe from him. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I’m his cup of tea.”

“Well when you break it down like that I see your options are more limited than I thought.”

As they lay on the grass passing the joint between them, Lily came up with a plan:

“What about if we lose our virginity together? I mean we like each other. We respect each other. I think we could deal with any potential weirdness that might come up post sex. It’s just an idea and granted I am high as fuck right now, but give it some thought,” Lily suggested.

Over the last couple of weeks they had discussed the pros and cons of their secret sex plan, but always in person, they didn’t want to leave a text trail.

Lily dealt herself three tarot cards, lying them down side by side.

“Have you finished your homework?” asked Jen opening the door as she knocked.

“Hello, boundaries mom! First you knock, then you wait for me to answer before you barge in,” Lily said exasperated.

Jen stared at Lily, who was sitting cross-legged on a fake bear rug, wearing some kind of boho kimono with tarot cards in front of her.

“Oh My God, Marcus was right. You’re doing witchcraft. Lily be careful. Your great grandmother was a witch, well she was a secret witch because they were Catholic. But she created a lot of chaos with her witchery.”

Lily looked at her mom with utter disdain.

“Lily-Rose was a rock star. I would have loved to meet her. She didn’t create chaos – she killed off her horribly abusive husband, then she created a successful herbal beauty company and she had hot lovers right up until her death. That’s a good life if you ask me. Plus, I’m not a practicing Wiccan, at least not yet. I’m just working with tarot cards.”

“Fine. But no spells – ever.”

Jen went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.

“Lily is reading tarot cards.”

Monica looked up from her laptop:

“I rather she be reading tarot cards than making vacuous tik tok videos.”

“Good point,” Jen said.

After her mom’s rude intrusion Lily felt it necessary to re-cleanse the room’s energy, so she swished the selenite crystal around. Taking a slow deep breath, Lily turned over the three cards: they represented the past, present and future.

“Death” was her first card. Reading from the tarot card book she learned that death symbolized endings, freeing oneself and moving forward.

“Totally, this is totally what I’ve been feeling and wanting these last six months,” Lily thought.

The second card, “The Fool,” represented an exciting new adventure which might require taking a blind leap of faith, resulting in great emotional growth.

“LOL” Lily said out loud, throwing her head back and smiling.

“Knight of Cups,” was the final card, the future card. It represented overwhelming love energy. Like get ready to be swept away into a six part Netflix series about a Wiccan high schooler and her theatre club nerd crush.

“Wow. Well that’s maybe a little bit too much love energy. Does that mean I might fall in love with Isaiah? Or him with me? Cause that would be a problem. But still, I think in this context Knight of Cups is a good omen. It points to positive feelings,” Lily proclaimed, as if she was doing a tarot card reading for a client.

“Who are you talking to? A spirit?” asked Marcus who was leaning at her open doorway eating a pop tart.

“Oh my fucking God, does no one in this family knock? Get out Marcus, I’m busy.”

“Busy being a witch. Are you going to start dressing all Goth now?” he asked with his mouth full.

From under her bed Lily retrieved one of her floral Doc Martens and threw it at him.

“Lily just committed an act of violence against me,” he yelled as he left her doorway.

“For the love of God kids, cut it out!” screamed Monica.

Lily went through her cards again, reading more about their symbolism and about how best to interpret a three card spread.

“Ok. So that’s it. Isaiah and I are doing this,” she said lying down on the cozy rug.

“Thank you Goddess for guiding me in the right direction. Please don’t let our friendship get messed up. We’re simply helping each other out.”

“Why are you lying on the floor? Do you feel okay?” Monica asked from the door which had been left partly open by Marcus.

“Mom – boundaries!”

“Your door was open.”

“That’s because your idiot son just opened it without knocking. It’s like no one in this house – except me – actually respects boundaries. It’s not fair.”

“Okay sorry love, you’re totally right. So, what did you learn from your tarot reading?”

“I was guided in a positive direction,” Lily said vaguely, knowing it would irritate her.

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing. Let me kiss your beautiful face – I’m going to bed early.”

Monica bent down and kissed Lily’s soft cheek:

“You are a fucking Goddess and don’t you ever forget it.”

“Night mom,” Lily said.

“Night my love.”

Lily texted Ryder:

“Exhausted. Love u. See u manana.”

Ryder texted back:

“Same. XO”

Later in bed, Lily remembered the sex advice her Aunt Jess had given her last year:

“Your vulva should be happy. It should be wet and delighted, otherwise don’t let the penis inside. And make sure your lover spends time on your clitoris, help him figure it out if necessary. Most men are clueless and most teenage boys are even more clueless because they’ve grown up addicted to porn.”

Lily appreciated her Aunt’s advice, she was never shy talking about sex stuff. For Lily’s fifteenth birthday she had given her a pink vibrator with bunny ears.

They had celebrated her birthday at Gjelina’s on Abbott Kinney Blvd. Lily had taken the present out of its sparkly decorative gift bag, not knowing that she would be flashing everyone – the waiter, the bus person and the table of six sitting next to them – a vibrator called Pink Lady. Monica was mortified, Jen couldn’t stop laughing, Aunt Jess had no idea what all the fuss was about and Marcus posted a photo of it to Instagram.

Lily’s mind was dancing with wet vagina sugar plum fairies and erect penises, making it hard to sleep. She envisioned intercourse as kind of a weird modern art sculpture – two bodies entwined as one for a moment in time. It seemed both creepy and spectacular.

Artwork by Henri Matisse, “The Entwined Lovers,” 1948.