don't worry, I don't have a green thumb either

I realize that I've been staring at this empty pot for as long as I can remember. Every now and then I find a plant and throw it in here, hoping it will fit. But everything is awful. Only because they don't settle in or they can't grow or something just isn't right. It never occurred to me that I could wait to get the right container once I got the plant.

I was lured in by it, though. The romance of it- made so sturdy by someone else. I was thinking they must know better than me. This is a time tested and true method for holding the plant that I don't know I want yet.

So I picked this pot and stuck with it. When it crushed tender leaves. When it enveloped and consequently blocked the sun from infant reeds. When the deep roots required more water than was available. When I got no pleasure from the plant that found it's way in and I watched it wither.

I really should have thought more about the plant I wanted. I'm trying it now. And my solution in the interim is to put this pot on the street. The truth is, I bought it cheap. I thought it looked like what I was supposed to have. I feel silly for holding onto it for so long.

I'm standing at the hardware store, now determined to make my own container for this mystery plant. And instead of looking at materials, I've got my eyes closed. Imagining broad, protective leaves. And succulent, verdant sprouts. And hard bark sheltering rubbery softness. And sticky, sweet sap. This plant is much larger than my borrowed pot could ever hold.

smear the queer

At least you pay attention enough to hear that I'm wheezing into the phone. Well, I guess it's pretty easy to hear the wheeze when I'm laughing out loud at your question: I wonder why it is that you get like this?

Do you mean how I can't breathe? How I've got some critical flaw when it comes to what's within my chest? Don't make me laugh. No really. Don't. Because it really hurts this time.

I answer you as plainly as I can, trying not to betray any emotion in my tone: Well, I get sick like this sometimes. And I have a lot of issues in terms of breathing. Do you remember the time when I was 12 and I got really bad bronchitis and I was out playing soccer in the middle of winter?

You grunt: hmmmmmnnn.

I'm so sick of this story. I'm not going to tell it anymore. It's not about being tough. It's about surviving. And I'm capable of so much more than that now.

In it's place I'll think about other things from that time. The cute, older girl on my team who gave me a NKOTB tape and how I didn't even like them. But that she must have known me better than I knew myself because I would eventually spend hours lip-synching to the songs in my brother's room. Maybe I just learned to like it because she gave it to me. How when people asked me which one was my favorite, I knew they meant which one did I find most attractive. I'd pick Jordan- but because he was the one I wanted to be like. I wish I could dance like that. I wish I could write songs that would have girls lusting after my rat tail and confessing their undying devotion.

Instead of teaching my body how to move like that, I spent time seeing how far I could push it. It wasn't enough to be good. I had to be the best. Then maybe I'd get noticed. My heart would flutter as much as it could when she'd say that I scared her- because I went out so far and went so fearlessly. But the fact is I'm too short. My hands are so much smaller than anyone would have guessed. And I never could quite breathe right.

I've certainly made do with what I have, but I had to work so hard for things that never brought me what I wanted. It's difficult to find what will stand in for those feelings. Because I want her to feel my arms and know that I can carry her, that I can pick her up, that I can hold her down. It is scary how far I'll go and how fearlessly.

I can see how it doesn't make sense- how hurting and failing can make you push even harder. But I know I'll always get up. And I used to make any excuse to try and go as far as could manage. Even just playing 'smear the queer' (it's like the whole world knew before I did) and hating falling but loving seeing how many people I could take on before I fell.

And the consequence is that sometimes I get so I can't breathe. And sometimes my shoulder feels like it wants to rip away from my body. And I love the feeling of sweat rolling down the small of my back, thinking about what her hands are going to feel like there.

I've put a lot of different pictures in this frame

Right now, it's your wedding picture. Well, it's actually the one where Mike is pulling the garter off. You're in this truly awful lace dress and sitting on a folding chair. It's probably at the VFW in Kent or something.

It's funny that it makes me feel hopeful. For romance. For love. Because we all know what a burning train you guys were on. And it's not like you've done much better for yourself, either. That said, there is something in your eyes and in the way you are looking at him. I wonder if you'd do it all again knowing the outcome. I wish I had it in me to ask you.

I feel like no matter how far and small I've made myself, I'm still somehow becoming like you. Even my awful handwriting is changing to look more like yours. Although I still dress like Fagan. I still have his jacket. I wonder if I make the same poor choices you do. I wonder if men have whispered the same things in your ear that women whisper to me.

I want to know if I'm going to be that woman in the chair- although I know I won't have a dress on. I wonder if I'll ever stand up and have someone take this hand for better or worse. I never want to be divorced so maybe I'll just never get married. I already know it doesn't work though. You can't avoid divorce just by avoiding a marriage. I've got the scars to prove it.

And here I am, with your picture at my door, ready to set out and do it all over again. Yup. And it feels pretty good, truth be told. And funnier still, I've got Helen's necklace on for luck. Go figure.