I Was There

According to my Webster’s Collegiate, to confess is 1—to admit [a fault or crime]; to acknowledge [an opinion or view]; 2—to declare one’s faith in; 3—[Old Poet] to be evidence of; reveal; manifest; 4—Eccles. To tell one’s sins to God, esp. in a public place of worship.

I suppose, then, this notion that I want to tell something that I find embarrassing falls in line with the above definition, and—typically—on a daily basis, I have a confession or thirty that I could make. So, here’s today’s earliest confession.

Back in Marquette, I had a routine that involved a lovely little establishment which specializes in soft serve. Now, for some, it might be enough to say that I visited this place—Frosty Treats—on a daily basis, but it isn’t really what I consider sinful. I hiked, I swam, I worked off the small twist I’d order each afternoon/evening.

No. What I feel that I should confess is that this morning, as I was getting ready to bring boy 2 to register for school, it occurred to me how much I missed my trips to Frosty Treats. Yes, moving has me all sentimental and nostalgic, and I know it’s a phase that I—being me—must go through. Anyway, the confession comes in this—when I was thinking about my small cone, I could see myself walking the sidewalk in front of the quaint little ice cream shop, which is nestled next to the Third Base—a hole-in-the-wall bar where I used to shoot pool with Stace—, and I was stepping up and over the parking block where no one parks, waiting in line, and ordering from one of the same three girls who really haven’t grasped the fine art that is cone making. Oh well. I digress. The point here is that I wondered—as I imagined myself there in that place—if there was anyone [perhaps the partiers across the street, the old couple who frequented a bench and shared a banana split, the woman who worked at the espresso drive-thru kitty corner] who wondered, what happened to the weird girl who’d come get a cone in her swimsuit, blasting some folk music from her CR-V every single day.

I know it’s super egocentric, but for as much time and energy as you put into a place—and when you really miss it—perhaps it’s normal to feel that the place [or its people—beyond your closest friends] should miss you, too.

And who knows—maybe it’s not so weird or even that egocentric. Perhaps we all want to be missed in this way, even by strangers. Especially by strangers.

This seems to me the most sincere and concrete way for the world, for one individual dot on the map, to say, she was here. she was here.

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