in April I painted the dining room a rich and solemn blue, a color that means what I want matters and I can have anything I want.
in April Dad gave Alen and me a ride to Charlie and Alex’s housewarming in his vintage green Chevelle and I carried tulips in my lap. in April I went to Carly’s birthday party in Jenna’s backyard, where we huddled around the fire after dark and Allie handed out flannels from the donation box in her car. In April I smoked a little hitter after we got home from another little party and I told Alen the worst betrayal I could imagine when we live together is that he would read any of my many journals or diaries lying about and he widened his eyes to look the most into mine and said baby, one—hundred—per—cent—heard and I felt exactly that because I was exactly that. later I wrapped my arms around his body in bed with wintergreen air seeping in from the open window above us and felt like I’d known him before in some way, that some parallel of our selves now had to have touched hands at some point in the long timeline of human hands, and sure I was stoned but I knew I was in love, too, thinking things like that.
in April I listened to playlists that included the words “treadmill” and “strut.” in April I iced my knee with frozen sweet peas. in April I went to the dentist who’s also my friend and we hugged hello and goodbye every time (and also she fixed my tooth). in April I woke up on Mondays and watched Succession. in April I ordered club sodas with lime. I ate ice cream. I played macabre videogames set on ships at sea. I started a database to keep track of my books. I started a database to solve a huge logic puzzle. I made Blue Apron meals and stocked my fridge with fizzy drinks. I drank cold green bottles of San Pellegrino in hot showers. I rubbed self-tanner on with a mitt in the spare bedroom as fast as I could while the contractors worked down the hall. I poured wet nitrogen fertilizer goo onto the plants and they sprouted new shoots in new colors.
April was a month of cats. picking Alen’s beautiful little cat up from having small surgery in a small town and her pitiful yowling on the country drive home. Combing Festus’s fur before bed and the tumbleweeds of fuzz that stick to my legs. Worrying about how to integrate the cats and saying to each other we’ll figure it out and then later worrying again even though we will figure it out.
in April my dad and I hauled the last of my stuff from my old apartment, the one I’ve held on to for five months since buying the house. Four carloads of spare sheets, Christmas ornaments, crinkly IKEA bags full of journals since third grade, little boxes full of thumbtacks and black paper clamps. On my IG story I complained that moving is grind culture while in the background my dad vacuumed every room and lifted all the heavy stuff. in April I said out loud hi good morning hello to the universe and gave a big smooch to one tarot card every morning after pulling it. All the cards talking about persistence, the final stretch.
On the last morning in April I woke up from a dream about Izzy, the black and white cat my ex-husband and I adopted in 2009, the little girl cat who stayed with him when I moved out. In the dream I walked around my house into the backyard and there she was, comfortable on one of the bright blue lounge chairs, her black and white fur shining in contrast. I teared up recalling it to Alen.
In the dream she’d found me and made her way to my house. I was so happy to see her again, this bittersweet vision from my past, an emblem of the love I had to lose in order to leave.
She had wanted to check on me after some time, see my new life, the bluebells in the backyard. As I came around the corner, she raised her little face and squinted. In the language of the dream, she agreed with me that it was all worth it. She looked around at my life and gave me a long slow blink, confirming that it’s all so good.
Playlist for this month, rabbit rabbit:
If you’re new: hi, I’m Lindsey and this is Better Still, a multimedia newsletter about creative growth and staying tender. I write personal essays and share playlists and paper zines.
I recently wrote about buying a house:
painting my dining room as an act of agency:
and being a Cancer and getting divorced and falling in love and listening to Post Malone:
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