Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I have mentioned before that my mother was a grower of plants when I was a kid. I, however, was never an active participant in her hobby. Although I appreciated the flowers I did not like the work involved, and so I made sure to hightail it out of there whenever she would enter the living room dressed in her gardening clothes.
I find myself turning into my parents in a million small ways, in exactly the manner I swore I never would. And so it was with a little bit of sheepish mumbling that I asked my mom for a couple of plumeria cuttings when I was in Florida last June. But I was missing the lovely tropical flowers of my childhood living out here, and I found myself thinking longingly of the smell of plumeria by night and the silky thin feel of hibiscus between my fingers. So I brought them back with me and stuck them into pots, hoping. They sprouted leaves last year, but it was too late for flowers.
This is my first blossom, and I of course find something unspeakably appropriate in the fact that I have managed to cultivate warm-weather blooms in my frigid apartment. In the usual way, this makes me hopeful.

I'm alone tonight, back inside my head. Life has gotten away from me the past couple of months and I realized suddenly this morning at work that I hadn't even the prospect of plans for this evening. It's quiet in here, and my brain is spinning, not yet willing to calm down. Old philosophy jokes keep coming to mind, stuck in my head like bad radio songs and perhaps suggested by my plumeria. A couple of years ago, Friday nights would have meant a late night down at the spot, guitars and stories and sneaked cigarettes, aura boys and jokes and knee sex. A couple of months ago it would have meant dinner and a movie. Recently, it's meant drinks.
I'm glad for tonight's quiet. The recent social whirl has left me a little grumpy. But I'm thinking of you folks that I'm not with tonight--Steph and Ryan with family, Cat all far away, a certain boy that always smells of vanilla, and everyone else.

My favorite time to look at the Space Needle is just as dark is falling, when the flashes of the cameras on the observation deck are visible. It twinkles like a galaxy all its own, and it smiles at me.