Tuesday, July 17, 2012

On My Last Day in Scotland

On my last day in Scotland, I woke up not quite knowing where I was and then remembering I was in a place where so many of my happiest Scotland memories live: Zaza's flat on Howe Street. 
On my last day in Scotland, I drank Artisan Roast and told Sophie about my brother. 
On the way there, we saw this sign. And I literally had to stop, in the street, and laugh. For a while. 
On my last day in Scotland, for once, it wasn't windy. 

On my last day in Scotland, I sorted through some old clothes while Sophie played me the piano version of Song I Never Wrote For You. When she played it again, this time singing, I started to cry thinking about how much I would miss her, and my life here, and thinking about Fred, who I never met, but felt like I did because of Sophie and her music. 

On my last day in Scotland, there was some business as usual, as I prepare for jobs and work in New York. I paid some bills. I still had to write this blog. But mostly, I am trying to be in this place, one last time for now. Soak up the paintings of tragic queens in galleries and light through the arched museum windows, and my friends, who will always always be a high priority for me. No matter how my priorities change, I think it's safe to say that people always have and always will be my priority.

On my last day in Scotland, we'll have a dinner party at Anna's once more. We'll dance around the living room to Sam Cooke-- or maybe someone will even try to make me ceilidh. I hope not. But I hope that Torcuil winds me up and Taylor calls me Ryann. Ferguson. And Zeph calls me Small American. And we own it. I hope I cry some more and hug people a little too long and laugh too loudly. 

These years have been priceless. I can't believe they happened to me. 

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