Hi! I'm Sandi MarLisa, your favorite small town rockstar. This is my story.

Prologue

Seward, Alaska

The sky over Seward, Alaska is deep blue at 9am, the first light of dawn is about to break.

It snowed yesterday. I watched the flurries dance in front of the wide windows of Resurrect Art Cafe tower.

At this point, you might be wondering why a lifelong Floridian is holed up four thousand miles away in a coastal town in Alaska.

That was me casually mentioning I’m a Floridian. How’d it go?

Anyway.

I’m supposed to be here finishing my book, only I’m experiencing terrible writer’s block and anxiety right now.

I gathered what I’ve written already, the total word count coming up to 90,000 words. But I couldn’t make sense of anything, couldn’t pull the pieces together for the story I wish to tell.

I was surprised I had written so much. When I left home, I thought I’d be lucky if I found thirty thousand words written. This past year has been such a haze… what with the divorce and 625625all…

You ever get that tingling sensation to blow up your life and start over? That’s kinda what I did. Only, I didn’t really want to blow up my life, it was just necessary on many counts.

My ex-husband and father of my two children is quite literally a genius, but like magic… it comes with a cost. I was his partner in life for fourteen years and most of it was extraordinary and good.

But I had to leave him, for many reasons. Not because I wanted to, but because it was the better of the options I had.

You may think I’m full of shit, and that’s okay. I doubted myself and my decisions all year long so I don’t blame you.

Yet, here I sit in… Seward… Alaska. Me. A Florida girl through and through.

I act like I’m so surprised but I planned this trip, much like the one when I initiated the divorce. I needed to get as far away from home as humanly possible so I called up my father who lives in Anchorage. I let my then husband know, who was in France at the time pursuing his PhD in Physics, that I was taking our two children out of school in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic and flying to Alaska.

Yeah. That happened.

In my defense, at the time my three bedroom home in Lynn Haven, Florida was full of people. My sister, recently divorced, and my two nieces had moved in with the expectation that she would be renting my home from me when I moved to France with my kids. Plus, the godfather of my children was crashing at my house for a few months to get back on his feet after the demise of a terrible relationship.

The godfather dubbed my home… drumroll please…

“Sandi’s Sanctuary for Sad Singles.”

I think he might have prophesied my impending divorce on the horizon. There were supposed to be T-shirts, we never got to it.

So, I left. I thought about staying gone.

But, like I said. I’m a Florida girl through and through. I prefer the fire to the cold, perhaps because I’m an Aries.

Or maybe just because I love my home so much. My little home in Lynn Haven has seen me through it all… bringing my two children home from the hospital, housing friends and family members in need, protecting my family from category 5 Hurricane Michael, overseeing the pain of taking care of my severely mentally ill spouse, and consequently providing the space for me to heal when it all fell desperately apart.

Plus, I had just started up my music career again. I didn’t want to lose the momentum now that I was staying in the States and not moving to France.

Regardless, I returned home from Alaska and threw myself into life. I stopped thinking and just became, saying yes to any and all opportunities to try something new.

I convinced the godfather to quit his job and start a musical duo with me, gigging all around the Panhandle of Florida.

I quit a huge client who treated me like dirt, losing 70% of my income in the process.

I took my newly single introverted self out into the wild of the bar scene in Bay County, Florida; singing and meeting men after having only slept with one person in my entire life.

I traveled. Wrote songs. Screamed into the void and said a final big “fuck you” to living a straight and narrow life.

My life, in short, did a complete 180.

I even found love again… but I’m getting ahead of myself here. And I want to do this right.

I’ve never been too good at writing things out chronologically. It always got me into trouble in school. My therapist I saw for two years said I may have ADHD. My brain has always worked differently when compared to most.

There is very little distinction to me between past, present and future. I see it altogether, all at once, all the time. I constantly string together patterns and come up with a story that makes it all make sense, even if it seems impossible for it to make sense.

I’m going to try though. There’s a fire in my bones today, warming me from the inside out in Seward, Alaska.

The mountains I’m staring at through the old church windows are called Resurrection Peaks… if you can believe it.

I can’t help but think of my favorite tree back home in Bay County, Florida as I look at them; a historical oak tree called the Sentry Tree. It’s 250 years old and has watched over my town for many generations.

After the Hurricane, my heart filled with joy when I saw it was still standing. The leaves were stripped bare from the branches, but green fern coated the thick arms of the giant.

Curiosity struck me, so I googled the name of the fern.

Resurrection leaves.

The name is not one I can fail to see the symbolism in. I was a Christian minister for a decade, serving in various capacities in the ministry, but mainly as a worship leader. Music is always how I have communed with the divine, something bigger than myself.

I was kicked out of church, and then proceeded to ruffle the feathers of every ministry I attempted to serve in since then. The final hammer came down last year around the divorce when the head honcho found out I was leaving my husband and told me I was, “at risk of endangering the lives of my children if I continued down the path I was on.”

I did his holiness a favor and quit on the spot.

But I still haven’t been able to shake the core of my spirituality. And as I stare out at the vastness of the Resurrection mountains before me, my sense of connection with the “otherness” I’ve always believed to be out there… stirs… awakens…

It enchants me.

I wonder if I’ve made the right decisions. I wonder what I will discover as I pen the final thoughts to complete this particular story, closing one chapter and welcoming a new one.

There is a process of germination that transpires during planting. When a seed is planted in the earth, it has to die in order for the plant to burst through the earth, creating new life.

The seed, essentially, resurrects into its new form… what it was always meant to be.

I’ve felt like a seed these past years. The process has been painful, but I believe, I hope, I can see the beginning sprouts of growth; much like the resurrection fern coating the bark of my favorite tree.

Or the looming mountains standing as sentries of a different sort in front of me.

Perhaps we are all creatures longing for the hope of resurrection. The concept is in many of our epic tales, from Achilles to Jesus to Harry Potter.

I think my greatest hope in penning this story, is in gaining the understanding of why everything had to happen the way it did. Maybe even finding some justification for the decisions I felt forced to make.

Maybe my greatest fear is in finding no justification at all.

I don’t know.

I guess I might as well get started though. To do that, I must start from the beginning. That is, why I ran away to Alaska in the first place.

Dear God. I don’t want to go back there. Not to that dark place under the soil when I never thought I’d see light again.

But, I really do think I must. I always have painted my pain with large brushstrokes.

It’s a need, really. Maybe even a selfish one.

There’s no fighting who you are though. Not unless you choose to kill the part of you that makes you… you.

So, I guess there is no delaying this next part. Go easy on me, reader.

I was fumbling around in the dark after all.

Ah, there it is. The first light of dawn over the Resurrection peaks.

Chapter 1

Fire Flurries

Sandi is my name.

And I woke up on the couch to the sound of my nieces and children squealing.

My sister took one of my spare bedrooms, the kids all bunked in one room and the godfather had the master.

It felt fair to give him some space in a house full of children.

So I took the couch. I didn’t mind. I could pass out anywhere. Plus, the idea of comfort or privacy had been a foreign concept to me for so long.

I blinked a few times and sat up.

My sister opened her door and walked into the living room in her robe.

“Passed out in your gig clothes last night?”

I looked down at the leather skirt I still wore. “You could say that.”

Before dawn, I had awakened in a bed that wasn’t mine.

A stranger slept next to me.

I knew he was in the military, a Navy diver. I knew he was a former stripper.

And I knew he liked Hallmark movies. That was the Netflix and “chill” part of the escapades the night before.

Only… we actually finished the movie.

The godfather knew where I was. I shared my location with him when I arrived at the house.

You know. The godfather texted. If I ever don’t hear back from you after you send me your locations, at least I know where to send the police when they search for your body.

Shut up. I texted back. Are the kids okay?

I waited in my car for the response.

Yep. He responded. They fell asleep pretty much as soon as you left for your gig.

I performed in my 80s synth pop duo that night. The godfather performed babysitting duties for me in exchange for cheap rent.

Great. I’ll be back before they wake up.

I slowly moved to get out of the bed, my feet hitting the cold tile floor.

I looked for my leather skirt and found it in the far corner of the room. My high heels next to the door.

The body in the bed stirred.

“You’re up early.”

I put on a saccharine smile. “Yeah. I have things to do.”

The body moved to get out of the bed. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

I wanted to say, “Don’t bother.” But I just finished getting dressed and let him walk me to his front door.

“Well, that was fun.” He said, reaching for my hand.

“Yeah.” I said. I stared at the hand.

“Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Sure.”

He kissed my hand and I turned to walk toward my car.

I never saw him again.

I felt it best that my sister remain oblivious to my late night escapades after my shows. As long as I got home before anyone woke up, no one was the wiser.

No one could judge.

Except the godfather. But he didn’t count. He was the ride-or-die.

I walked to the master bedroom and gave a soft knock.

No response.

I slowly opened the door and quickly stepped inside my old room. I still kept my clothes in the closet and showered in the master bathroom.

The godfather was still sleeping, so I tip-toed to the bathroom and quietly shut the door.

I treated the shower like a baptism, washing away all impurities and sins from the night before.

I wished the hot water could warm the ice inside my soul, but I hadn’t figured out how to work that magic yet.

If the ministry could see me now.

I had become everything the church had accused me of. I drank. I smoked weed. I had sex out of marriage.

Actually, I had sex while technically still married.

All the things I spent nearly thirty years denying myself from.

I’d be thirty in a few months. April. I’d be officially divorced in a few months, too.

But it was December. 2021 hadn’t arrived yet.

My still-husband was away in France for his studies. I tried not to think about the day when I told him I was divorcing him. I tried to block out the repercussions from my mind.

Instead, I thought about the bonfire I was having with my friends that night in my backyard.

It was all part of my plan to reintroduce myself to the outside world. I had worked as a freelance writer for years, and the need for social interaction while caregiving for my husband had long abated.

But I was gonna do it, damn it. I was going to be a creature with friends.

It was for the benefit of the godfather, too. He needed friends as much as I did. I had recently convinced him to quit his job, selling pallets from home, and start gigging with me. He’d start in January.

The man could play multiple instruments. He was a member of the church I got kicked out of (he left eventually, too) and his talents were wasted working for a pallet distributor.

We’d try out our first open mic in January. He’d start off as my guitarist, but his real passion was for the drums.

And he was damn good.

We’d start a four piece band by the end of 2021. That was the plan.

I turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel. I looked at myself in the mirror.

Dark circles sketched the outline of my dark brown eyes. My wet dark hair hanging limply past my shoulders. 

Shit. I forgot to grab my clothes.

The steam from the shower felt like a sauna as I slowly turned the doorknob and stepped into the bedroom.

The godfather was sitting at the desk, two cups of coffee in front of him.

“I see you’re not dead.” He said, by way of greeting.

“I forgot my clothes.” I walked quickly to the closet and shut the door, turning on the light.

“I made coffee.” The godfather’s voice echoed through the door.

“That’s why you’re the godfather.”

I put on leggings and a loose t-shirt before opening the door again.

“So how was it?”

I paused. “Fine.”

“Wow.”

“It’s a step above mediocre, which is how nights like that usually go.”

I remembered back to the first time I ripped the bandaid off and got on with my life.

He was a friend. We randomly came across each other on Tinder.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Thought you were married?”

“Clearly things have changed.”

“Did you swipe right just to see if I swiped right on you?”

“Does it matter?”

We set up a time to meet.

In the hours before the scheduled time, he tried texting me things to make it not so awkward.

It made it more awkward.

Finally, he just said, “Listen. When you get here, climb up the stairs. My room is right in front of the stairway. Open the door, don’t say anything. Just climb on top of me and start kissing me.”

How romantic.

But that’s what I did.

I blasted metal music on the way to his house on the beach to hype myself up. Then I turned on one of my favorite bands from high school. A Plot to Bomb the Panhandle by A Day to Remember blared through the speakers.

When I arrived back home late that night, the godfather was outside beneath my carport smoking a joint with the hood of his jacket over his eyes.

He didn’t look at me as I sat down on the concrete next to him.

“How’d it go?”

I didn’t speak for a long time. “He wants to see me again.”

He blew out a long stream of smoke. “Do you want to see him again?”

I shrugged.

We sat in silence for a long while. Eventually, I stood up and made my way to the side door of the house.

“You know. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re doing the best you can with a shitty situation.”

He always knew what to say.

I didn’t respond. Just walked into the house and headed straight towards the shower.

I grabbed the coffee from the desk in front of the godfather and took a sip.

“I’m making pancakes, eggs and bacon for everyone. You want me to bring your plate to your room?”

“That’d be great.” The godfather turned to his computer and picked up his gaming controller.

“Don’t forget the bonfire tonight.”

He sighed. “Can’t I sit this out?”

“And stay a depressed hermit forever?” I rolled my eyes. “How’s the dating profile coming along?”

He got out his phone, pulled up the app and handed it to me.

I scrolled through. “Oh my god. This is pathetic.”

“Well, thanks.”

“We’re working on this later.” I turned to enter the squealing frenzy of the four children I loved most in the world. Only my godson was missing.

“Can’t wait.” I heard the godfather say before I shut the door.

I spent the day cooking. First, breakfast for the hungry kid army. And then, dinner for the hungry adult army coming later on.

I gave out my invites selectively, all friends from high school who knew each other. Sierra, my incredible friend who was a local legend tattoo artist building her own shop. Her girlfriend and partner in crime, Lauren. Greg and his girlfriend Michelle. My friend Michael. And then, of course, the godfather.

The festivities would start when the kids were in bed at 8pm.

I made a lot of food, vegetarian options included, keeping it warmed in crockpots.

I took the kids to the park, tiring them out, fed them chicken tenders and mac and cheese for dinner, read them books and put them to bed.

My sister had a date that night.

“You sure you got this?”

“Yep. They’ll all be in bed.”

“Well. Don’t let the party get too crazy.”

“Not with the kids here. Of course not.”

She left and my friends started arriving. The godfather nowhere to be seen, probably smoking some weed to calm his nerves.

Greg and Michelle arrived first.

“Where’s Michael?”

“Ummmm.”

I escorted them to the backyard where the godfather had made a fire and put out chairs around the grate.

He finally made an appearance, his hood over his eyes.

“Greg. Michelle. This is the godfather.”

We sat for a while before I heard a knock at the door. It was Sierra and Lauren.

Everyone grabbed food and we spent the time laughing, talking about old times, sharing where we were in life now.

I watched the godfather come out of his shell a little bit as he drank more beer. There were plans to help Sierra up at the shop.

Good. Get his ass out of this house.

“Michael’s here.” Greg said.

“Oh!” I stood up to let him in the front door.

“No.” He smiled. “I’ll go get him. He’s… in his car.”

“Oh… everything alright?”

Greg made a movement with his hands and acted like he was blowing out smoke.

I laughed. I remembered Michael had social anxiety, like most of my friends did.

“He’ll be alright. I’m just gonna step outside and talk to him.”

Michael eventually came out, his hands in his pockets. He loomed over everyone, well over six feet tall.

I got up and gave him a hug. “Hey!”

“Thanks for inviting me.” He said, returning my hug.

“Of course!”

At that moment, I saw two little faces that looked like me, peeking from the sliding glass door.

I let my breath out in a loud whoosh. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“We want to see the fire!” My son said.

I softly rolled my eyes. “You have twenty minutes. And then your butts are going straight back to bed!”

My friends took quickly to my children, laughing with them. My son especially liked talking to Greg. My daughter staying close to me most of the time, staring into the fire.

The godfather added a log and sparks flew out.

“Fire flurries!” My daughter pointed.

“Those are embers, Lorelai.” My son said.

“I like fire flurries better.” Lorelai stuck her tongue out at her brother, Judah.

I chuckled. “So do I.”

And I thought about the book I wanted to write. “Fire Flurries” would make a damn good title.

“So do I.” I said again.

Change. Change. Change.

My fear likes to settle in my chest. I like to hold my breath in when fear is near.

So I learned to take deep breaths, riding the fear like an ocean wave, a wave that would pull back in soon, a wave that I could float atop.

My fear also likes to sit in my neck, on my shoulders like a devil.

I roll my shoulders to shake it off. Rolling like the waves.

I breathe. In and out. In and out.

I hold my breath and dive down deep into my fear, getting lost in its vastness.

Just like the ocean.

But I know oceans, too.

My grandparents used to visit us one month a year in Florida and we always went to the beach.

My grandpa is a character. He’d take our hands and lead us into the water.

I was small and the waves would toss me to and fro, to and fro.

But he’d grip my hand, his potbelly spilling over his swim trunks. He’d say, “Plant your feet. One foot forward and one back for balance. Let out a yell!”

And I’d do as he said. Planting my feet and setting my face in determination.

That wave wouldn’t knock me down. No current could take me.

And I yelled into the salty air. I yelled with the seagulls and the wind roaring through my ears.

“That’s it.” He’d say seriously. “Let the Gulf know who’s boss!”

Me. I’m the boss.

I make my way to the surface of the ocean of my fear. I take a breath and flip myself over.

Because sometimes, it’s best to float, to ride fear like a wave.

At least until you can plant your feet and let out a mighty roar.

Yes. I know fear. I know its mighty grip. I know its choking hand. I know its weight on my shoulders.

I know the very color of its eyes.

It comes in waves. Waves that thunder. Waves that break. Waves that calm.

Waves that change with the tide, ebbing and flowing in response to the moon and the wind.

But change is coming.

Natural Disasters

“So, how are you?” My therapist asked.

“I’m alright. I can’t help but see the parallels. I’m getting some tension headaches.”

She nodded.

“The whole country is, on a level, going through what I went through in 2018. And I’m watching it happen like a movie.”

“That has to be bringing up some memories.”

“It does. It really does.”

“You’ve gone through a lot in these past few years. It has to be difficult seeing something like it, on that big scale, happening again.”

“I feel well acquainted with grief at this point. You can see it on everyone’s face, you can read it in their Facebook posts, you can watch it all happen on the faces of our government officials. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. I keep watching everyone move through the various stages. So fast. People are hurting like I was hurting.”

“But what about you? How are YOU handling it?”

“The only way I can. I acknowledge that I’m probably going through this process of grief again.”

“And at this point you’ve grieved your town. You’ve grieved your husband.”

“Yes.”

“So what are you doing now? What’s going through your mind?”

I paused. “I think for me, the implications of this virus may feel different.”

“How so?”

“Because once you grieve a few times, so much at once, you get quicker at it or at least more aware of it. You sort of say ‘hello’ to it again and invite it to pull up a chair beside you.”

She smiled. “Sort of like a “hello darkness my old friend” kind of scenario.”

“Exactly. To love, to embrace this world, is to ultimately lose it.”

“So what does that mean for you?”

“I guess it means I’m trying not to fall into cynicism. You know? The past few years have been a pattern of loss. It’s easy to just get used to it and stay in grief because, eventually, I’m definitely going to lose something or someone I love again.”

“Mmmmm.”

“So for me, I’m watching my whole country grieve and I wish I could give them all instructions to feel it. To embrace it. To let it in like a wave so it will eventually pass through. That better times really are ahead. And, yes, there will be bad times again. Everything, everything ends. To love is to lose.”

“You’re still talking about other people.”

“I can’t help it. I better understand myself when I understand others.”

I took a breath.

“I just keep feeling this weight on my shoulders. Like I have to do something to alleviate the suffering. But that’s the trouble with grief. There’s nothing anyone can really do besides sit with you in your pain. Just sit without trying to fix. That’s sort of what we’re all doing across the country. We’re choosing to suffer with one another. Most people, anyway. But I fear for some.”

“Why is that?”

“This whole idea of positivity. Being positive constantly. It’s unsustainable. So many won’t let themselves grieve. But grief has a way of showing up in your body anyway.”

“You said you were getting tension headaches?”

“Yes. Like I did when I was a teenager. All through my shoulders and neck. I have to remind myself several times a day to breathe. Like I’m holding my breath waiting for better days. Like I don’t want to breathe this air.”

I took a deep breath, letting it fill me up.

“But this…. this is reality. I don’t want to waste my life waiting for better times. I’m going to live it right now. Could you imagine if I waited these whole past 18 months after the hurricane, holding my breath for better days?”

I leaned back in my chair.

“I never would have breathed. I would have wasted 18 months of my life. But you have to wake up every day and choose to live. You have to choose life. Or it will pass you by.”

I turned to look out the window, to the summer scene just outside. “You know, I’m grateful. I really am. I’m thankful to be alive. I’m truly, truly grateful.”

“But?”

“But… I really wish I didn’t have to try so hard to be grateful every day. Every single day I choose it.” I shake my head. “I just wish it could be easy. Something I could lean into, not something I fight for and hold on tightly to. Like a lifeline. I make lists in my head. Roof over my head. Food in my children’s bellies. Paper for me to write on.”

I shook my head. “But that’s not always true. I just can’t remember a day right now where I didn’t have to try so hard to hold on to my sense of self. It’s been a long journey these past few years. I keep telling myself if I hang on long enough, there’s a light that’s coming.” I sighed. “But I feel for everyone. I feel for everyone in pain. I truly do.”

Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks.

“But I do wonder.”

“What do you wonder?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “If life is really always like this. Moving from one bad time to the next.”

She smiled. “Not always.”

I nodded. “Not always.”

Sing like you think no one’s listening
I glide through the snow, staring down at my feet. My skis gingerly finding the notches someone before me had put there.

A born and raised Florida girl cross country skiing, what madness is this?

My dad told me what he had planned for me in the morning as we were talking to my baby brother. He just turned 25.

I had flashbacks to when he was a kid. I used to make milkshakes for the friends he brought home. He used to climb into the bed with me when he was little.

Now he’s in the army, stationed in Germany. I saw a picture of him wearing my dad’s old brown bomber jacket. Dad always said one day it would be my brother’s.

“So how are you?” My brother asked me meaningfully.

“I know you’ve been trying to get ahold of me for a couple weeks,” I replied. “I’ve appreciated your texts. I just don’t feel like talking about anything just now. I love you though.” I smiled, looking at his face that looks just like my dad’s. “Happy birthday baby bro.”

My family gets frustrated with me and my lack of communication about my personal life sometimes. I’ve realized it’s because if I talk too much about what I want to do, I talk myself right out of it.

Better to act. Better for it all to be done. I’d explain later.

I slipped and had to catch myself. Though, I was surprised at how easily my body worked through this new challenge. I had been working out consistently, and due to this I hadn’t really needed to stop and catch my breath. So I just kept watching my feet, finding a rhythm.

Up ahead there was a fellow skier coming my way. Oh Lord.

I slowed down and made to move to the side, easier said than done with meter long sticks stuck to the bottom of your feet.

“Hey, thanks.” They said. “Have a good ski.”

I thought about how I always make the first move for getting out of the way. How I always step aside and let others around or through or past. How I always hold open the door.

How I don’t know how to be any other way.

I moved to get back on the path, but caught one of my skis beneath me. I tumbled into a three foot snowbank, with my skis sticking out.

“Ow.” How the hell was I going to get up?

I moved like a baby fawn. First step, straighten out the skis. Second step, try to get up from the side.

I finally stood up, but realized my head felt cold. I looked behind me and there was my hat, covered in powder.

“Ugh,” I exclaimed. I hadn’t mastered moving backwards in skis.

I ended up doing some sort of weird kinda backbend and using a ski pole to lure the black hat to me.

Brushing off the cap, I looked around.

The landscape stretched before me, the snow looked like frosting on trees, like a down comforter on the ground ready to swallow me up and rock me to sleep.

The mountains in Alaska don’t look real. They sit in the background like Mount Olympus. Hermés could be in that wispy cloud atop Mt. Denali, carrying messages to and from the other gods. Zeus could choose his throne in any of these peaks.

I stared in silence at the peaks and blanket white landscape. All I could hear was the soft wind channeling through the mountains.

My mind transports me to the quiet I feel when I’m out on the bay with my kayak. No one’s around. You can scream and no one will hear you, or judge you, or ask you what’s wrong.

Nothing, I just needed to scream.

But the illusion is broken as another skier comes down the path. I step to move to the side again, only to laugh as I look up. She had moved to the side, too.

“Please, come on.” She said with a smile.

I glide past her. “Have a good ski.”

It’s nice and awkward to find people like me.

I move in silence for a while, thinking of the conversation with my brother earlier.

“I’m really happy you’re doing music again.” My brother had said. “How’s that going?”

“Fantastic actually.” And I catch my dad smiling at me. “We had a really big gig on Halloween. We’re gaining momentum.”

At one of my recent gigs a few of my friends, including Sierra and Lauren, surprised me. It was a Halloween 80s bash, so I was dressed as Freddie Mercury at Live Aid,  complete with mustache. A friend from high school, Tyler, whom I hadn’t seen in a decade ended up coming to see me, too. I saw him enter as I was singing and my heart filled with happiness. During my first break I walked purposefully to their table.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Sing to me, Sandi!” He said by way of greeting.

I touched his face and just looked at him fondly for a few seconds, letting the moment sit.

“And just like that it’s like no time has passed.” Tyler said, grabbing my hand.

“I know.”

Our friends at the table smiled at us.

“Now, I want you to guess my most prevalent memory of you.”

I thought for a moment. “It has to be the bomb ass lake party.”

“Yes! But what happened?”

“You gave me my first 30 Seconds to Mars CD.”

He burst out laughing. “Oh my God I did! But that’s not it.”

“What is it then?” I couldn’t come up with the answer.

“You sang for me, a cappella, the song you would do for the talent show.”

I closed my eyes, “Oh my God. Straylight Run. Yes. Sing Like You Think No One’s Listening…. no… that’s not what it was called. It’s called Existentialism on Prom Night!”

“Yes!!!”

Lauren asked, “Wait, you sang at the talent show?”

We then reminisced over our high school days. I looked at my friends, all queer, wonderful people.

I had a memory of when President Obama was elected in 2008 and so many of my friends came out of the closet. They felt safe, they felt like the world might accept them, that it was changing.

I thought about how happy I was to be surrounded by people who wanted to see me do what I love.