Abbigail N Rosewood
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The Little Boat of God
July 26, 2013JournalAbbigail Rosewood
I laid on the grass today at Emigrant Lake and watched a little sailboat slid peacefully across the water, I thought of how much distance could transform perspective . To me, the boat floated easily on its own, when I could not see its sailor. The further the boat steered away from me, the more it became less of an object and more of a picture. I wondered if God were so far from us that our struggles were rendered invisible to him. In his perspective, perhaps our life looked effortless. And against such a beautiful scenery, it seemed we cannot suffer.
The night before graduation
June 15, 2013JournalAbbigail Rosewood
1.         Sushi was good, but as always, a little expensive. I didn’t look at the check when the waiter brought it to me. Instead, I was thinking about how I wasn’t hungry having had two macaroons and a latte before I came to Umi Sushi.
I could always get sushi no matter how stuffed I already was.
Because I was alone, I sat at a bench with single chairs. As soon as I put my purse down, a man next to me exclaimed how good his food was. On his plate were a few pieces left of what was probably a California Roll. I told him I was glad he was enjoying himself. The waiter walked over, seemingly annoyed that the older man was talking to me. The waiter seemed protective of me. He glanced at me then at the older man and interrupted whenever the older man spoke with–Is everything okay? How is everything?
Because the waiter was aware of the older man, I felt safer and more inclined to chatter. I liked to listen to strangers, especially when they seemed to have stories bursting at their lips, eager to be out. I didn’t trust the older man at first, especially because his skin was a bruised red, which matched the color of the wine he was drinking. I was always extra cautious around red faced men. But he sounded lucid when he spoke, ‘I’m here for my daughter’s graduation. Perhaps you know her.’ He told me her name, which I knew I would not remember because it sounded made-up like a string of notes pulled together. It was too pretty, too Native American to be real. Another reason why I didn’t trust the older man. He had been in town for an hour. I secretly reproached the daughter I didn’t believe existed for not having dinner with her father.
He pointed to an expensive-looking camera on the table, ‘I’m a photographer. Well, I work as a contractor and I’m also a photographer.’
I was disappointed that he needed to tell me he was also a contractor. Clearly, to demonstrate that he had a way of making a living. I wasn’t interested in either of those stories−the contractor story, or the photographer story. I was glad they weren’t the ones bursting at his lips.
The older man, who looked like he was fourty, fourty five, o