JessicaRigby

She sat on the rail, her feet dangling beneath her like those of a child.  The cool night air whipped around her face and her hair became a wild mane of gold.  Something about this whole evening was comical to her, and her laughter errupted from her mouth and shook her entire body.  For a moment, she thought she might fall.  He must have had the same thought, because his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her to him.  Their eyes locked and a knowing smile passed between them.  She stared into his eyes for just a moment too long, and what she saw there made her look away.  The way he held her, that look in his eyes and the way her laughter caused his own, it was all too familiar!  She wanted to run.  It was all she knew to do.  If she did it know, it wouldn’t be too late.  She could go home and sleep.  In the morning she’d look back on this night with the same quiet regret she always felt.  Yes, that’s what she would do.  She would leave him here on the balcony and disappear.  Just like she always did.

But then he kissed her, and she forgot all her plans.  Something inside of her told her that this time, she should stay.  Her fingers found his and intertwined with them.  He asked her a question and she nodded, a smile on her face.  “Ok,” she said.  They laughed again, and the rest is history. 

I stumbled upon my Godbrother’s LiveJournal tonight.  It’s a strange feeling, one I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable with.  It’s been ages since I’ve seen him, and even longer since we’ve spoken more than 10 sentences to one another.  So in a way, I feel voyeuristic.  But mixed with that guilt is a strange feeling of relief.  All my life I’ve wanted to understand him.  When I was a tiny little girl, I’d sit in my little red chair, watching him sketch at night before bed.  With a pensive look off into the distance he’d focus on something there and a moment later it’d be poured out all over the page.  Most of the time he drew simple things: baseball stars, characters from our favorite cartoons.  But sometimes it’d be something more.  Something complex and beautiful and hard to pin down.  And when he was done and it was lying on the table next to me, I’d look at it and want to go to the place where it came from. 

In a lot of ways, he was the closest I’d ever get to having a big brother.  I looked up to him.  I wanted to grow up and be the sort of girl he would be friends with if there weren’t 6 years between us.  It’s almost a disappointment to be 20 years old and discover that we couldn’t be more different.  I thought that if I read a bit of his work, this light would go on in my head and I’d feel like I actually understood someone else for a change.  Not even close!  He writes of philosophy and makes beautiful references to films and authors and people I’ve never heard of.  I’ve stepped into this tiny piece of his mind and found that even if I could have gone to that beautiful place as a 4 year old… the intrecacies there would have only left me lost and disillusioned. 

He’s a screenwriter now.  The summer I was 10 or so, I spent a lot of my time at their house during the day.  He was just starting to get into film making, and he would shoot all these crazy black and white shorts and let me watch them in the living room.  I’d curl up on the couch, my feet tucked up underneath me, with a juice-box in one hand and some fruit snacks in the other.  I looked forward to those days the same way I looked forward to the next chapter in real page-turner.  With only a lens and some quirky indie music, he’d tell me these wonderful stories.  And as the credits rolled, I’d smile to myself and look at him and be amazed.  Ever since he left for film school, I’ve been crossing my fingers that one day something he wrote or filmed or had a hand in will be on TV or in my local cinema.  Now that he’s living in LA, maybe it’ll happen someday.  And maybe I’ll laugh and say to myself, “Now I finally get it!”

The point of all this is… I’ve been reminded of how inspirational his talent was to me.  I was reading his Journal and I found myself thinking, “Where did my voice go?  I want it back!”  I miss writing.  I miss being proud of the words that flew from my fingertips.  When I came down with this nasty case of writer’s block a few years ago, I sort of just gave up.  For years now, I’ve hid behind the excuse “I can only write when I’m angry or heartbroken.”  So tonight I’m making myself a promise.  No more excuses.  If I can’t find inspiration within my own life, I’ll steal it from others.  Who knows, maybe I’ll finally take that shot at fiction I’ve always wondered about. 

Maybe Leon isn’t the only one this “family” has to be proud of.