Savannah Jaye

i was more like a dictionary and less like a diary.
i was less like a poem and more like a prayer. 

organized and honest and forgiving.
simple explanations and deep meaning.
charismatic and piousness. 
half-hearted promises and feigning hopefulness.

i spent more time saying what i meant.
and not enough meaning what i said. 

you were less like a dictionary and more like a diary.
you were more like a poem and less like a prayer.

doodles and secrets and inspiration.
tiny lines and big scribbles.
post-modernism and symbolism.
grandiose claims and romantic gestures.

i would have been okay with it all too.
i wanted to breathe you in and never have direction again. 

But in truth we were neither dictionaries nor diaries, prayers nor poems.
Just two lovers always ending up in opposite corners. 

fighting and knockouts.
and punches below the belt.
scolding and timeouts.
but never really figuring much else out.

we were just an idealistic dream, awoken by our storms.
and sometimes, i still get to hear you in between the raindrops. 

Do you remember the last time we saw each other?

You held my hand and pulled me in.
Wrapping your arms around me.
Embracing me. Engulfing me.
Allowing us that one last moment of solidarity.

I recall breathing you in long and hard,
and thinking about how I may never get to smell your scent again.
Because I understood, even then, that it was our possibility.
Between my tears and heart breaks I tried my best to savor what was left of us.

And, after a time, I could feel you loosening your grip.
Feel you letting go. Feel you forming your final farewells.
And it was then that I first felt you slowly slipping from me,
as if you were an elusive fog that I knew I would never be able to catch up with again.

In this moment a normal girl would have let you go on your way.
She would have held back her tears long enough for you to be out of sight.
But I am not a normal girl, I am a lingerer.
And I will always be a lingerer.
So in that moment I resolved to do what it is that lingerers do best.
And I lingered.

Holding on for just a bit longer,
attempting to hide the last remaining tears with my head buried in your shoulder.
When I finally felt strong enough to release my clasp,
I was greeted with a kiss on the forehead and one last squeeze of my hand.
And there was your goodbye,
Almost oblivious to our too true future that we were accepting without so much as a fight.

The last time we saw each other you were standing on the other side of airport security, waving goodbye, with what appeared to be feet between us already feeling like millions of miles.

It had been exactly 3 days, 7 hours, 26 minutes, and 4 seconds since the last time we spoke. Since I pressed the send button on the text that was my definitive goodbye—asking you to respect my privacy and my need to heal. Telling you that I loved you and that I would always love you, but I couldn’t keep having my heart broken again and again. It wasn’t about what I wanted, but what I needed.

I was standing in Publix when I got the call that broke our vow of silence and before I even pulled the phone out of my pocket, I knew it was going to be you (you can blame it on my female intuition or your personalized ring tone). My stomach dropped, but not because I was angry that you didn’t respect my wishes. It dropped because I’m a girl, and at their core girls really just want to be pursued and chased after. My stomach dropped like an anchor and butterflies exploded throughout because I knew you were running after me, that our love had won out. You were calling to apologize and tell me that we could fix all of this. And in the .672 seconds it took me to whip out my phone and see your name, I released a breath of relief that I had been holding for days because I knew things were going to finally be okay again. There was hope and light at the end of this tunnel. I always said you were a keeper, after all.

Covering the speaker, I turned to my friend and mouthed, “It’s him.” before answering your call. “Heyy,” I said in the most calm-yet-alluring voice I could manage despite the fact that my heart was pounding out of my chest from nerves and excitement and elation. At first I could just make out the distorted sound of conversations in the background, but then I faintly began to hear the familiar voice of someone ordering from Waffle House, “Yeah, I’d like the All Star. Scrambled eggs with cheese. Bacon, but cooked lightly—I hate it burnt. The raisin toast. And I’d like my hashbrowns scattered, covered, peppered, and diced. Oh, and just a little crispy. Thanks.” I say hello again, this time a little louder but also with a little bit more confusion in my voice. It was met with the sound of ruffling fabric, a whispered “Oh, shit.”, and a click before the silence greeted me on the other end.

You had pocket dialed me.

And that night would be the second time in my life that I broke down and wept in a grocery store.

The house with the yellow gate.

It was whispered to me as if it was the kind of secret everyone knew, but none spoke of; immediately I had flashed back to my own house: gateless and void of all yellow. I needed to know what, and more importantly who, was behind that gate—despite the fact that deep down I was confident that I already knew the answer to those questions.

The next night as I left the beach, I resolved that to find this house and its notorious gate. It was time to meet the demons that had haunted me. I wanted to confront the very being that I blamed for everything—my pain, my hurt, my brokenness—in hopes that it could somehow make me whole again. 

Though I started my journey with no real sense of direction in mind, my feet just began: slowly at first but gradually picking up the pace. And they just feet kept going: one in front of the other. And then it repeated the process. One then the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. After what may have been miles, but could have just as easily been a few blocks, I finally had the courage to look up.

As I stood on the sidewalk, I looked across the street. At first glance it looked just like any other normal house: a door, some windows, a mailbox. Yet I instinctively knew it wasn’t, there seemed to be something off. Maybe it was the sole bedroom light on in the top left window. The strangely familiar car in the driveway, in the strangely unfamiliar location. Or maybe it was the waist high fence that went around its tiny yard with a small, yellow gate at its edge—inviting and foreboding at the same time (as facing your fears always seems to be). Eventually I cautiously walked up to the gate, ever so slowly opening it. In only ten more steps I was at the front porch, then in five more I found myself at the welcome mat, and with just another moment the doorbell would be mine to ring.

While trying to locate each and every last strand of courage within me, I abruptly noticed voices coming from the partially opened window. Mumbles at first, but later I’d come to recognize them as lovers’ sighs. They were whispered recycled phrases, lies they had told to plenty before. Promises made that had already been broken and gifts being given to someone other than their rightful owner. I stood outside hoping and wishing that just for a moment I too could enter the house and be apart of the exchange, but alas I knew it was not my fate, for I am not a violent person nor do I have the resolve to do something against my morals, so instead I opted to turn around and exit the yellow gate knowing that it was ultimately for the best.

I took the long way home that night; I had much to think about.

3 years. 3 months. 3 weeks. 3 days. 3 hours. 3 minutes. 3 seconds. 3 words.

Sometimes I think I can’t remember anything and other times I seem to be incapable of forgetting anything.  Memory is a fickle being: haunting us with what we want to lose and taunting us with what we need to recall.

I can remember the day I was late for my first summer class (I always seem to be late for the beginning).  I can remember what you were wearing when you walked away from me. I can remember what you wearing every time you walked back. I can remember crying in the towel aisle of Wal-Mart.  I can remember every conversation about coming and going.  I remember begging you to stay. I remember asking you to leave.  I remember winning you back with a wistful smile. I remember giving you the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever given anyone and I remember it not meaning a thing to me. I remember Finding Nemo. I remember drunk text messages. I remember sitting in the poetry aisle of Barnes and Noble. I remember sitting out by the pool and talking about constellations. I remember all of our unexpected conversations and I remember how I felt after each of them. I remember sending postcards. I remember drum sticks and wrestling belts. I remember Dead Poets Society. I remember car rides. I remember plays and organ recitals. I remember you making me watch UP in 3D. I remember the absence of drunk text messages. I remember walks at twilight with more fireflies than I had ever seen before in my life. I remember every band you introduced me to. I remember the night my parents asked me how old you were. I remember the longest week before you held my hand. I remember watching Planet Earth. I remember the longest text message I’ve ever sent. I remember happy and I remember sad.

They say those that don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it. Well, I can remember the first conversation we had and the last conversation we had, but no matter what I do I can’t seem to figure out what about our history I’m forgetting. So I’m still stuck on repeat: I was late for class that day, I was late for a bonfire, and I was late for church. I’m so sick of being late.

A community is often times thought of as a group of people who share an interest, a certain taste in clothing or music, or even a zip code.  A community can be understood an assembly of people that is fighting for a common goal or suffering from a common enemy.  We align our communities by income, religious doctrine, and political belief; however, I want to challenge these ideas.

I believe a community can be something so much larger than that if we let it be.  I believe in the best of people.  I believe that deep down everyone wants what is best for our world. I believe in a community that can be united in our desire for quality life, not divided in our approach.

And I want to be apart of that community.  A community that is open and accepting. A community that celebrates life and the good things in it.  A community that acknowledges its shortcomings and imperfections.  A community that is striving for something better together.

Recently my idea of community and relationships was challenged.  And then it was challenged again.  And then it was challenged again.  I was challenged to look outside of myself and my closest, oldest friends and ask others, strangers, to become apart of my community.  I was asked to be intentional with this process.  I was asked to be transparent with these strangers. I was asked to find their strengths and celebrate them.  And then?  Then I was asked to find their weaknesses and confront them.

Our weaknesses and imperfections are the best part about us, because it’s where we find our growth.  It’s where we find our true acceptance from others.  It’s where we find our encouragement. But it’s also where most communities fail.  Too often we’re afraid to confront others, even if it’s in love.   However, I believe that without this crucial last step, we can never grow into our potential as a community or as an individual.

So I want to be part of something.  With you.  And the person who just stole my parking spot.  I want to be part of something bigger.  I want to love and support. I want honesty and vulnerability.  But most importantly, I want confrontation and encouragement.  I want to find my strength, my hope, and my growth within this community.

This is my writing sample on the subject of community that I submitted with my To Write Love On Her Arm’s internship application!