A Walk Home by Gogo DeLeon

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            It comes back in intervals. I left her. I hear voices tell me that it’s okay. She’s not mad at me. She loves me. It just makes me cry more—they don’t understand. She’s going to be alone. I see glimpses of the city lights: the specks of light under the abyss of blackness above. We’re crossing a bridge, I know this bridge; the Space Needle stands to the left, watching me. I stare back at it, hoping to see a familiar face. But not one appears. I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face, and wait, wistfully, until I’m home again.

……

            It’s cold out tonight. The wind makes its way up my skirt and around the outer skin of my thighs. I can feel my fingers start to numb—silver jewelry and the Seattle freeze are emulsive. The clunk of my heels hitting the concrete below me makes a rhythm I focus on to pass the time. My toes don’t hurt as bad: the heels, already broken in.

I keep my head down, never looking at anyone I walk past in the eyes. My earbuds are in, but I can still hear the casual compliments I receive from other queer people. Capitol Hill is always like this in the winter—cold and queer. It’s nothing like back home. No one says hello, or compliments my outfits. But who compliments baggy hoodies and sweatpants?

            My hands, carefully painted with dark brown gel polish, clutch the strap of my bag. It’s so fucking cold. I imagine my sheer tights turning into a thin sheet of ice around my legs. How funny that would be, I smile and laugh to myself. My heels still clink on the pavement, and the drag queen getting closer to me says “yes, honey” as they pass me. I show them my smile and let out a humble laugh. I turn my head back, catching a glimpse of their faux-fur coat. The shimmer cast from their silver heels. The latex mini skirt cinched around their waist. I can’t remember, but I’m sure they had a full face of makeup: glam. I wonder about their life. Was it similar to mine?

            Did she always know who she was? Was she always this friendly or was she quiet, too? Did she have a name before the one she wears now, did she wonder why she hated hearing the prior? Was she the boy that hated his man-boobs because she didn’t know she really wanted to be a girl, or not a girl, but definitely not a boy? When did she start straying away from khaki pants, baggy jeans, sweatpants, and black hoodies and start clinging to heels, skirts, and make-up? What were the names she got called in school? Did she have friends, were they really her friends? Did she keep her head down when she walked, eat lunch alone, and finish her work before most people? Did she walk straight to her dad’s truck when the bell rang? Did he ever ask about her day, and if he ever did, did she tell him the truth? Did she only open her mouth to eat, and find that helped? Did she eat a lot back then, and always hear about it afterwards? Did her parents hold conflicting opinions? Father said she was too big and needed to eat less. Mother sometimes said she was just right, but should watch herself. Did she have siblings? Were they her best friends or number one enemies? Could she repeat all the things they’d said from memory, whether they were nice or not?

            The music from a club up the street blares outside its walls. There’s a line of drunk, almost drunk, or soon-to-be drunk people outside the door. Some of them look at me briefly, but say nothing, do nothing. I smile and let the music replace those lost thoughts with other memories. I see my friends' drunk faces and hear their lively laughs over the music. I was happy then, surrounded by the purest love I have ever felt. A love that made blood almost taste watered down. I’m happy now, even though that love is miles and miles too far. Can both be true? I imagine what it’d be like to have worn this same outfit on any one of those nights, and I almost want to cry. How robbed I was of possibility and expression. Fuck, the south.

            I make it home, the flats of my feet a bit achy. I undo the straps around my heels and let them fall to the floor. The tiles of my studio kitchen are almost as cold as the outside air. I strip, letting one piece of clothing after another fall too, like a rainstorm of exhaustion. I walk over to the tiny comfort of my twin XL bed, and wrap myself within the covers. I feel the bittersweet knitted formation of my late grandmother’s handiwork. The coarse threading, both soothing and a bit rough on my bare skin. I start to warm in this tiny bit of nightly comfort. I can feel it coming, the real storm that had been brewing throughout the night.

            I start to cry, softly and all at once.

            I cry for home. One tear after another—they all stand for something. This one for my grandmother, for how much I miss her unconditional love and home-cooking. A couple of more for her actually. Then, for my friends, who I also miss, but can call at any time. Three for my three best friends. Next, two for my brothers, the old me who hates, and the new me who’s still trying to forgive them. My father’s tear comes down, salty and cool as it hits my lip. My mother’s tears follow after, bitter and sweet, like a ripe fruit fallen in the dirt. I’m sorry I left you, Mama.

            The last tear. I know it’s my last because my lips have stopped quivering and my tongue has gone mute. This last tear is for me, for the old me who felt they’d had to leave home to feel happy, and for the new me. The new me who misses home and curses having found a version of themselves that can’t exist simultaneously. A version of myself that won’t be loved there, will never truly be. I didn’t just leave my mother, I left behind a bit of myself there too.