Parts of Me with You
- Miranda Wylie
- 6 days ago
- 2 min read
July is my birthday month which means I spend the month (and really the month leading up to and after) in reflection. Reflecting on where I was last year and also many years, as in where I was two years, ten years, fifteen years ago. What did I think about then? What did I want then? What do I want now? I find myself scrolling text messages, photo albums, various memorabilia stashes. Parts of me stored, parts of me with others.
Things we can sift through in a box or scroll on a phone or pull up on a hard drive are remnants, evidence, parts, a sense of home and belonging. What does it mean to be me? This beloved thing that I’ve moved around for the past 30 years, this holds a part of me. People hold these parts, too.
In July, I have an annual call with a fellow Cancerian (the astrology sign) and former college roommate turned lover turned distant friend, then twenty years post-collegiate, a kink partner for a period of time. As much as we would love to stay in touch more, it feels true and honest to close our birthday call with “until next year.” In one of these annual calls, recapping the year, we remarked on the death of Sinéad O’Connor. We were late ‘90s women’s studies lesbian feminists, of course her death was on the call agenda.
“I don’t have many regrets in my life, but I regret not seeing Sinéad in concert,” I said.
“You did see her. We saw her together.” they said.
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Audio recording by me. No AI.
