Took It For Granted, Want It Back

Where are we on collective effervescence? Here on the brink of emerging from confinement when anxiety about being back close to other humans is a helium balloon about to pop, I’m remembering the magic-est together moments that might not come again any time soon.  

I remember this past December being squashed into a coach bus seat next to Brian Nally passing around a tear-drop-shaped bottle of whiskey on the way down from the mountain. We all shouted at each other down the aisles and the music was too loud. It was our work Christmas party. A few days later everyone got the same sinus cold and didn’t care. 

I miss sweaty and 90 degrees on the 4th of July, pawing through a cooler of cold beer and La Croix, skating the mini ramp and hugging your friends when you leave early before the fireworks start, as you always do, along with all the other dog owners.  

I miss the dark and heat of a punk house basement watching our buddies' band Donkey Lips play. Guitar shredding. Ravaging of drums. Rampant shirtlessness. Glee.

I miss posing for pictures by putting your arms around people, cheek to cheek, and always hugging people fully and warmly and hard, enthusiastically—a weak and awkward hug being the equivalent of a warm-milk limp handshake.

I miss scampering up the street to Conquistador after work for rambling happy hours to celebrate festive news like people getting engaged instead of sad news like people quitting or getting laid off. 

I miss the coziest holiday potlucks where none of your friends bother to respond to your party text so you think no one is coming, but then everyone shows up and you pack in the kitchen sharing huge plates of food, mainly mashed potatoes and cookies and finger food, and then continue drinking and grazing with unwashed hands and unfaded smiles, while a toddler climbs onto the coffee table and dances for your entertainment into the wee hours of 10 p.m.