The Other Side of You.
Greetings from Pittsburgh.

I’ve spent all weekend hanging out with my extended family here in the house I grew up in, which is wonderful and rare.

I just ate a dinner of lasagna and red wine with nieces, sister and madre, which was just lovely.

And now, all have dispersed for a while: my sister, next door with nieces at the neighbor’s pool, my mother, down in the basement doing laundry and probably sneaking a cigarette.

I am alone, alone, alone, right now. This is, perhaps, the best of all.

Because sometimes it’s as if the more I love people, the happier I am in those times of briefest respite when they’ve gone away. I anticipate and enjoy the rare family get-together - but I’m happiest when I’m in the next room over, with a good book or magazine. I can hear everyone laughing and talking but know that I won’t be called upon to engage.

When I was little I used to hide under tables or in hallways just outside living rooms and dining rooms. I was so much younger than everyone else; it was easy to be invisible if I was quiet. And people appreciate a quiet child. The sweetest reward was to hear my relatives wonder aloud in sort of an idle way at where I was. I would never reveal myself. And no one would bother me. It’s as if I could enjoy their company and feel their affection without having to deal with being with them.

Which again, is definitely not to say I love the people I love less than you do, Henshaw. I think this is just how it is to be an introvert.

Which is weird to say, because much of my behavior as an adult cannot be described as introverted. I hardly ever actually feel shy. I mean, I go up to people and talk with them for a damn living. Which is maybe why times like this feel like such a vacation. To be home with family, but not strangled by anyone’s attention. To know I’m loved but not be required to demonstrate, or get confirmation. To have space.